How to Keep Your Ex-pat Sanity, Part II

 I promised to answer two more questions for those Trailing Spouses out there that are tearing their hair out.  1)  How does one make friends and 2) How do you force yourself to leave the house when you have absolutely not one thing on your agenda?

Well.  Depending upon which country to which you have been transferred, making native friends will either be a breeze, require a small amount of effort, be a chore, or, in the case of Switzerland, be like doing quadratic equations in your head, i.e. painfully impossible.    Some countries are just friendlier than others.  Take Americans.  Compared to other countries, Americans are extremely friendly, trusting, outgoing people.  Look at Facebook.  Facebook is one of the most popular websites in America, second only to Google.  It is not unheard of for Americans on Facebook to have 800, 900 or upwards of a thousand “friends”.  The average Swiss person on Facebook has eleven.  (Kidding, I really don’t know how many they have.  It might only be like, seven.)

If you have been transferred to Australia or America or another really “smiley” place, you are lucky.  New friends will come to you.  They will arrive on your doorstep with homemade goodies and invite you places and take you to their favorite bars or pubs and this will occur within 48 hours of your arrival.  It’s called being friendly.  Crazy, I know.

So far, I have met one completely Swiss man.  By that I mean, he is actually from here, not just living here.  I have been studying him like he is a lab animal.  I met him through his fiancée, whom I met on englishforum.ch.  She and I started walking in the mornings for exercise but now we meet for coffee, shopping, etc.  Anyway, she is engaged to a Swiss guy whom I find infinitely fascinating.  She is Turkish by heritage, German by birth, but has been living in Amsterdam for many years where she met Swiss Guy.  She is fun and crazy.  He is a whole ‘nother piece of work, buddy.  She likes to host impromptu dinner parties, get a group together on a whim, make new friends at her yoga class, etc.  In other words, she is fun and normal.  Swiss Guy is, um, Swiss.  The first time she wanted to have people over to their apartment for dinner, it was a Wednesday.  Swiss Guy went postal.  No, no, no.  It is unheard of to have people to one’s home during the week.  Not done.  Intrepid Girlfriend was like, well, it’s done now, brothah.  Once the two (2!!) guests arrived, she discovered that Swiss Guy had no corkscrew in the apartment.  Intrepid Girlfriend asked Swiss Guy to go borrow one from the neighbor.  Keep in mind, Swiss Guy has lived in this apartment for three (3!!) years.  And he’s Swiss.  And he speaks French.  No, no, no, I do not know the neighbors and it is just not done to ask for a corkscrew.  Can there be any doubt who went to borrow a corkscrew and who had to use sign language to mime the turning of said corkscrew so that the neighbor would understand.  Here’s a hint.  It was not Swiss Guy.

This past week I have been at Intrepid Girlfriend’s apartment twice because I am getting a week-long Swiss facial treatment, and, no it does not involve sheep’s placentas.  Intrepid Girlfriend has gotten herself involved in a pyramid scheme/makeup conglomerate but I am too nice to tell her that that is what she has gotten herself involved in.  She thinks she is going to make a million dollars.  I am just doing it for the free facial.  (I am going back to the States tomorrow for a very short visit.  If even one person tells me that my face looks better, I am going to buy Intrepid Girlfriends’s entire line.  If no one notices, well, you know.)  Anyway, I have been able to observe Swiss Guy up front and personal.  Of course, both times I have met him I have had had my hair up in a headband with gook slathered all over me, but that is beside the point.  The first time I met him, he came home for lunch.  He comes home for lunch every day.  It is the Swiss way.  So, here I am all greased up like a Thanksgiving turkey and we are shaking hands and “Enchante-ing”, (which means “Enchanted” which is what you say when you meet someone for the first time).  He eats his lunch at the kitchen counter because we three beauty queens have completely appropriated the dining room table with creams and machines and whatnot.  As he’s leaving and the other two are saying “Au Revoire” and “Bonne Journee”, I trill out “Bye, honey, have a good day at work”.  I guess this is a bad thing to say in Switzerland.  Apparently, even Intrepid Girlfriend would never even consider saying that to him.  It is too personal.

Of course, the next time I saw him, again sporting a natty headband and no makeup, I asked, “Well, hi there, honey, how was your day?”  They all think I am crazy.

I have made friends.  They just don’t happen to be Swiss.  Make friends with your spouse’s colleagues at work.  Make friends on ex-pat websites in your town.  Join an ex-pat book group or sign up for yoga classes or language courses.  People with children will automatically make friends with other parents through the schools.  If you are planning on staying in your new country indefinitely or forever, you have to go to a much greater effort.  If, like me, you are only here for a specific period of time, you can get by with a much smaller group of friends.

I’m going upstairs to pack for the States.  I am refusing to pack one single scarf, one pair of gloves, one coat or one pair of snow boots, just on principal.  I am bringing a jean jacket and a black sweater.  Those are my only two warm clothing items.  I don’t care if I freeze for the next 8 days.  I have packed a spaghetti strap dress for Valentine’s dinner with a little brown shrug on top which I have every intention of taking off immediately once my ass hits the chair.  OH GLORY!  I am going to a warm place!  Hallelujah!

And, please, everyone back in South Carolina, please let me know what you think of the wrinkle situation.  Intrepid Girlfriends’ month-end numbers may depend on it.

The Honeymoon's Over

Let’s talk a bit about the phase that most Trailing Spouses go through AFTER the Honeymoon stage.  I have previously referred to it as the “Oh, Shit What Have I Done” phase, but it could also be called the “Why is Everything So Difficult Here?” phase or “Please Don’t Make Me Go Out of the House and Deal with THESE PEOPLE Again” phase.  There is actually a psychological condition that can manifest itself at this stage called “Trailing Spouse Syndrome”.  Really.

Here are some tips from someone who has quasi-survived this difficult transition period and is starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel.  I understand that once I am clear of this horrible stage I will be considered “acclimated” to my new culture and everything will be all lollipops and giggles until it time to return home.  Then, apparently, everything happens in reverse, but that is many years in the future so I’m just not going to think about it.  Baby steps, baby steps.

1st Tip:  (Please note, I am going to be brutally honest here with these tips.  Yes, Virginia, it really is THIS bad).

You had better become the kind of person who stops complaining about things that are different and learn to enjoy the differences.  And you had better do this quickly.  Learn the phrase “Get Over It” and make it your mantra.  If you are still bemoaning the ice situation, the sliced bread situation, the nothing’s-open-on-Sunday situation after 9 months to a year in your new place, well, honey, you and your therapist will have a nice, long relationship.

Remember, your spouse is not experiencing this transition phase the same way you are.  He or she is happily going off to work and having lovely, English conversations all day with other adults.  Monday through Friday, your spouse is feeling the culture clash to a much, much lesser degree than you are.  And then, when the weekend comes, he or she will be ready to go exploring your fabulous new country and will totally rely on you to have the itinerary already planned out, (well, honey, really, what else do you have to do ALL WEEK?).  They will look to you to speak to the natives, (because you do this ALL WEEK, sweetie, and your French is so much better than mine), and show them the way on the public transport system, (because you do this ALL WEEK, snookums, and you know I’m used to just driving the car).  If you dwell on this one simple fact too much, you will drive yourself crazy with jealousy.  Concentrate on finding one little thing in YOUR day that YOU accomplished without mishap and take some small pleasure from it.  Spouse is in Amsterdam on business living the dream, probably smoking pot and hiring hookers and ordering from room service all at same time?  Get over it.  YOU managed to get it into your head that 1 kilo of ground beef is the same as 9 McDonald’s Quarter Pounders so all you need to order from the butcher is 200 or 300 grams of meat to make supper.  See?  Wasn’t that fulfilling?  Look at you go, you smart, little cookie!

So, different does not equal “bad”.  In your new world view, different must come to equal “what a fine opportunity for personal growth”.  Snowy day?  Well, strap on some snowshoes, sister, and go for a hike, because a trip to what Europeans euphemistically call a “mall” can maaaaaaybe be stretched out to a 2 hour excursion, if you include lunch.  When you try to describe a typical North American mall to a European, they don’t believe you.  They don’t get the whole “shopping as a leisure activity” thing.  Shopping is shopping and entertainment is entertainment and those two things don’t travel in the same circles.

Can’t find the right ingredients for your recipes?  Get over it.  Try something else that looks close and keep experimenting until it comes out edible.  Let’s face it.  The odds of you finding Kraft sliced singles outside North America are slim to none.  In Europe, there are a million other good cheeses.  Yes, they are different and it is going to make your burger or your fajitas taste different, but that’s OK.   No running lawnmowers or power tools on Sunday, the day of quiet?  Go skiing.  Go hiking.  Go biking.  Enjoy this time in your life where you don’t have to cut the grass on Sunday!  Not only do you not have to cut the grass, it is AGAINST THE LAW to cut the grass!  Free pass from all Do-It-Yourself projects every single Sunday.  What’s not to love about that?

No concept of “lite” foods?  No light dairy products, no light beer, no diet anything in sight?  You won’t need it.  Because you end up walking everywhere and are partaking of all of these outdoor leisure activities, you can eat “real” food and you will still come home at the end of your stint skinnier that when you left.  No joke.  The cream that I put in my coffee every morning is 52% milkfat.  I am addicted to it.  It is called “Crème de Gruyere” and if possible, I would bathe in it.  It is that good.  I eat potatoes, bacon, cheese and bread at least once and sometimes twice a day.  I haven’t put margarine in my mouth for 9 months, it’s all butter all the time.  Yet, I have lost 9 pounds and Mr. Big has lost 12.  And we have done nothing!!  That one fact alone is enough to make you never want to go back.

2nd Tip:  Stop comparing prices to “what you paid in the US”.  This will only make you want to commit hari-kari.  Also, it turns you into a very boring conversationalist because you are so preoccupied with the whole cost of living issue.  Mr. Big has not been able to get beyond the high Swiss prices yet, and it’s all he ever thinks about.  Booooring!  You, Trailing Spouse, must overcome the urge to compare prices between countries or you will never buy anything.  If you want to bargain shop, compare prices within your own new country and look for deals comparing apples to apples.  If you need new boots, and the cheapest ones that you like are 150 euros, DO NOT try to figure out how much they would cost back home or you will be walking around all winter in your old boots.  Physically and mentally stopping yourself from doing this is hard and requires a conscious effort but it can be done.  Well, I say that, but I think this is much harder for really, really thrifty people.  Of which I am not one.  Mr. Big, on the other hand, is a Scrooge by nature, so he is still doing the human calculator thing 24/7.

“Look, Trailing Spouse, just look at the price of this pizza.  50 francs!”

Yes, I see that, Mr. Big, but it is, after all, a family-size pizza, and what are you going to do, just starve yourself?  And, yes, honey, I am aware that eggs are 85 cents each but it is really hard to make an omelette without at least a few of them.  Perhaps we should just dress in flour sacks and live off bread and water?

On second thought, it might be better off for you, fellow Trailing Spouse, if your significant other NEVER gets over this astonishment at price discrepancies.  Because when you travel anywhere else, he/she will think everything is incredibly cheap and you can shop with abandon with no guilt and no hiding of receipts.  Even Paris and London are cheap compared to Zurich and Geneva.  Hmmmmm.  Remind me again why I am encouraging Mr. Big to overcome this bad habit?

Next time, Tips Three and Four. . . Forcing Yourself to Leave the House and How to Make Friends

Family Vacation Part II

 OK, more of you wanted to hear about the further travails of the family ski vacation in Chamonix than about my new camera, so there you have it. 

When renting a chalet or a beach house or whatever for a large group of people of varying ages, it is important to remember a few things if you want to keep your sanity.

Number One.  Make sure you are the first one in the front door so you can quickly scope out the bedrooms and snag the best one for yourself, narrowly beating out Small Son who is onto your tactics and actually tried to claim the master bedroom.  Oh, no, no, no, Small Son.  I do believe those are my gloves lying on the bed that I just sailed over your head to mark my territory.  Possession is 9/10ths of the law and all that.

Number Two.  If traveling with small children, make sure there are approximately 81 liters of apple juice and 32 boxes of cereal stocked in the cabinets at all times.  Apparently, Mr. Big did not get this memo, because he was forever going to the grocery store to buy yet even more juice.  This is Europe, remember, and drinks come in teeny, tiny packaging.  Because they have teeny, tiny refrigerators.  I mean, where would they put an American gallon of apple juice?  Out on the deck?

One day he came home with white grape juice.  Can you say Calamity?  Mr. Big’s life is a Catch-22.  He loves, loves, loves going to Swiss or French grocery stores.  Seriously.  Loves it.  But, he speaks no French.  So, it’s a crap shoot what comes home in his grocery bags.  It’s an adventure.  Because he guesses.  This is why he ate horse once at work in the cafeteria.  Anyway.

So, he knows that “Jus” means juice.  Plus he can look at the container and be, like, “OK, juice”.    But the remainder of the words are a mystery to Mr. Big.   In Mr. Big’s world, Jus de Pomme is basically the same thing as Jus de Blanche Raisin, right?  Um, no.  The 4-year old Instant Grand spotted Mr. Big for the poseur that he is in one sip.  “This is not my juice.”

Ooops.  That container of juice came home with us to Lausanne, where, I believe, it is still residing in the door compartment of my teeny, tiny fridge.

The third thing to remember for a harmonious family vacation is that YOU, oh paying parent in your late forties, early fifties and beyond, were once twentysomething, too.  People who are twentysomething want to go out when you are going to bed.  They will arrive back home when you are having coffee and reading the paper.  This is even more magnified because they are ON HOLIDAY.  

After a lovely dinner out in Chamonix on New Year’s Eve, we went outside into the town square, as one does, to watch the fireworks.  It is ubiquitous in Europe, the fireworks/New Year thing, even in the smallest of villages.  By the way, for those of you reading this from around here, the Chamonix fireworks sucked.   Go to Kufstein, Austria.  Best concert/fireworks for New Year’s ever.  Believe me.  I’ve been to many.

I digress.  Chamonix was typical.  People drinking champagne right out of the bottle.  Setting off their own personal fireworks in the midst of a large crowd.  Wearing costumes, etc.  We once saw a Dad in Bled, Slovenia holding out his hand, setting off Roman candles, with a baby in a backpack strapped onto him.  Weird.  OSHA would go crazy.  Hello, sir, you have a baby on your back and you are lighting off large, incendiary devices.  Doesn’t phase them, they just have another Vin Chaud.  Bonne Annee!

New Year’s rolls around.  My kids are passing around Mr. Big’s cell phone to call all of their friends back home to brag that they are having New Year’s six hours ahead of time.  The Instant Grands are tooting on the horns I got them and screaming “Bonne Annee!” in southern accents, turning the phrase into something containing approximately 8 syllables.  So, then we walk back to the chalet and the “big” kids want to go out.  Fine!  Mr. Big and I are certainly not going anywhere.  It is 1:30 in the morning!   We are old and we are tired.  Go, have fun!  Leave the babies, we got their backs!  See ya!

Of course, when we wake up the next day and get enough caffeine in our system to become fully functional, we realize that they are not home.  Mr. Big goes ballistic.  I’m like, been there, done that.  The first time this happened was in Ruka, Finland, when Domestic Son led Charming Daughter astray on New Year’s.  They showed up in a cab at 8 a.m., well after we had already called the Finnish police to report them missing and had been out checking dumpsters for Charming Daughter’s dead body.

Calm down, Mr. Big.  They are fine.  They are enjoying their little moment of après ski.  Surely, at some point, Ms. Fiancee will sober up enough to remember that she has two children, um, someplace, and she will make the move toward the house.  Which, of course, she did and they did and all was well.  Well, maybe, not so much.  I later spotted pictures of Small Son dancing in a nightclub in Chamonix, sans shirt, on Facebook.  But I have not shown those to Mr. Big.

Family Vacation Woes

Bonne Annee!  Happy New Year, everybody!  Well, we had quite a time over the holidays with all three children, one new fiancée and her two children incorporated into the mix.  Trying to get eight people up, motivated and all moving in the same general direction was a challenge every day but we somehow managed to do a little skiing, a little sightseeing and a lot of eating.  Isn’t that the definition of a great European vacation—the time spent between meals?

It is always fun to watch Euro Newbies react to stuff that we don’t think twice about anymore.  Ms. Fiancee and The Instant Grands have rarely travelled outside of South Carolina, let alone across the pond.  There were some quizzical looks as to why we were traveling in two cars.  We had rented the biggest bus available for rent to a non-commercial entity for our group but it still wasn’t big enough to fit all of us, our skis and our luggage.  A “big” vehicle in Europe is not the same thing as a “big” vehicle in America.  I know Ms. Fiancee was thinking, um, why didn’t you just rent a bigger bus?  She is, however, a polite and sweet girl and she refrained from pointing out the obvious.

So, I had to drive our regular car from Switzerland to France following the Griswold-mobile. 

Except Mr. Big was driving so slow!  Why are you driving so slow, Mr. Big?  This was my first time driving over here and I was worried about the roundabouts.  Ha!  I should have been worried about the speed limits!  I estimate that I will be receiving 6 tickets in the mail in about five weeks from my one little driving adventure.  Apparently, my kids were having quite a time watching speed cameras flash on and off all around me and I was just tooling along worrying about the stupid roundabouts.  They said it was like watching a disco lightshow, driving behind me.  Whatever.  I prefer the US system where there is an actual cop with an actual radar gun that you can actually see and try to elude.  These anonymous speed cameras over here are just way too devious.  Hopefully, most of my speeding was in France where they won’t deport me for too many tickets, like they will in Switzerland.

The next day was a major disaster and it was all my fault. 

I take full responsibility.  Thinking that we would start off with an easy day and let them get over their jet lag, I make the decision to forego skiing and just take a ride up the gondola to the top of the Aiguille du Midi, take some pictures of Mont Blanc, have some lunch and let them soak in the views from the top of Alps. 

Oh my Lord.  Everyone was fine at the midpoint waystation at 7600 feet.  Clouds started rolling in just as we boarded the second gondola to take us up to the summit at 12,600 feet.  Well, at about 10,000 feet, they started dropping like flies.  The Telecabine was rocking in the wind, we’re swaying over blue glaciers, the Instant Grands are starting to pass out from altitude sickness, Charming Daughter is having a panic attack thinking we are all going down and Ms. Fiancee is looking daggers at me like I have deliberately planned this Evil Torture Ride from Hell as a special welcome to the family. 

And me?  I’m blithely taking pictures with my new camera, oohing and aahing over the ice caves!  When it got really windy, I had checked the Telecabine operator’s face and he wasn’t at all concerned, so neither was I.  I didn’t really become aware that half of my family was swooning until Charming Daughter actually hit the floor. 

Even after disembarking when I should have immediately sent them all back down on the next gondola, I was convinced a little snack and a hot chocolate would perk them right up and they would all be fine!  So, I herd them into the cafeteria and put Mr. Big into line to get snacks and off I go to get more photos.  Sometimes I amaze myself with my own idiocy.

Luckily, Small Son was unaffected by the altitude and set me straight.  He put his two hands on my shoulders and looked me directly in the eyes.  “Mom.  This.  Is.  A.  Very.  Bad.  Idea.”  By this time, the little 4 year old was practically comatose. 

Right, gotcha.  Down we went in The Telecabine O’Death once again.  At about 5,000 feet, they started to come around and by the time we reached solid ground, everyone was back to normal, except Ms. Fiancee who I think was convinced that I was trying to kill her children.

NOTE TO SELF:  Do not bring people who live at or below sea level to the top of the Alps on the very first day of their visit.  It might result in a very short visit.

I did not let them know until after the vacation was over that 50 people actually had to be extracted via helicopter harness from the gondola in Zermatt two days after our own misadventure.  That would have just been the icing on the cake.  I’d never see Domestic Son and his entourage ever again.

Do you want to hear more about the Griswold’s family vacation or do you want to hear about how the world’s most electronically challenged person attempts to use a fancy, digital camera?  Let me know!

Brrr! Living in a Cold Climate

 

Well.  It’s here.  Winter.  This is one of the things I have really been dreading.  Unrelenting cold weather.  It is no secret to my friends and family that I truly abhor cold weather.  I had to live in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania for 17 months approximately 20 years ago and I still go on and on and on about how dark, dank and dismal it was.  If Mr. Big were peering over my shoulder right now, he would be saying, “Enough already about Pittsburgh!  There’s not a person left breathing on the planet who is not aware of your issues with Pittsburgh!”

Sometimes I am a trial to Mr. Big.

For the last 20 years, I lived in Southern California and South Carolina.  I have thin, wimpy blood.  The only time I am ever in cold weather is when our family goes on its’ annual ski trip to Europe.  I am one of those people who wears “Hot Hands” and “Toastie Toes” inside my gloves and boots and sits in the lodge drinking Bailey’s and Coffee between runs.  OK, I am the first to admit it, I become a miserable, whiny, (that’s whingy? whingey? for all you Brits) grousing brat when I get cold.

And then I learned two key things.  A)  It’s all about layers, and B)  Your coat IS your outfit.

I swear, I spend half my time here in Switzerland checking out what people are wearing.  It’s because I can’t seem to get it just quite right.  Their scarves always looks incredibly, casually cool and mine look like they are trying to asphyxiate me.  They walk effortlessly on these friggin’ cobblestone streets in boots with spike heels which,  when I try to mimic, just looks like I’ve had too much to drink.  Which I probably have had, but that’s pretty crass of you to point that out.

So, unlike in warmer climes, when planning a winter outfit for the day,  you start with the coat first and work your way IN, all of the time attempting not to look like the Michelin Man.  These are the questions you must ask yourself before you even take off your towel, post-shower:

1.        Long coat below the knee, medium, which covers the hips or short, which only goes to the waist?
2.       Wool, leather, twill, down, or other waterproof?
3.       Dressy or casual?

This is just for the coat, mind you.  Next, boots:

1.       Above the knee, to the knee, half-calf or shoe-bootie?
2.       Leather, waterproof, Ugg or fur?
3.        Black or brown (Note, must match coat).  (Also note, no other color choices acceptable).

Now, if you are just going into town shopping and have no plans for eating out or stopping for coffee,  THE REST DOES NOT MATTER.  You could wear a gunny sack or footie pajamas or a goriilla costume.  It will never be seen by the general population.  If your coat is long enough to reach the top of your boots, you could even be naked for the rest of the day.  You would be cold, but you could be naked.

Me, I’m freezing.  Plus, I do tend to indulge in the random wine or coffee bar, (where one is expected to shed all outer layers),  on my excursions out on the town, so my outfit planning must go on to include the following:

1.       Camisole
2.       Long sleeve tee
3.       Tights
4.       Sweater
5.       Pants (or skirt if I am shopping in Geneva where one “dresses” to buy loo rolls)
6.       Scarf, casually wrapped 2.5 times around neck
7.       Stylish hat
8.       Polar-tec gloves

By now, it is approaching 11:30 a.m. and I haven’t even left the house.  But, I am dressed!  This dressing warm stuff is still a learning experience for me so I am sure that I will touch upon it in future blogs.   I am aware that all of you out there who are well-used to cold weather are laughing at me, rather than with me.  That’s OK.  I hope your thick-blooded selves get transferred to Macon, Georgia someday.  Then we will see who is laughing at whom!

Dressing for hot/humid weather is an art form, as well.  A jean jacket suffices as a winter coat.  You might as well just pre-admit yourself to the hospital for heatstroke if you are foolish enough to wear panty hose or tights in any month that does not start with Jan- or Feb-.  There are legions of adolescent boys who do not even own a pair of long pants except for their “church pants”.  The concept of the “summer weight” scarf is beyond comprehension.  People from the Southern Hemisphere know that they don’t even need to exercise in the summer.  They can just walk to the mailbox and back and lose 5 lbs. of water weight.

I promise, I am not complaining.  Even when the mercury never rises above 20 degrees Fahrenheit here, it is still breathtakingly beautiful.  Literally.  Ha!

Christmas Shopping a la Suisse

 The Christmas Market is a charming European tradition that I have embraced with abandon not only because these markets are just so impossibly cute but mostly because every other booth, or mini-chalet, is serving Vin Chaud (or Gluhwein in the German-speaking areas) which is a delicious hot, mulled wine.  It’s quite proper, even expected, to have a Vin Chaud at, say, 11 a.m. and continue throughout the day into the evening.  One must love a tradition that combines drinking and shopping.

The markets have a variety of offerings by local artists, winegrowers, cheesemakers, toymakers, bakers, chocolate-makers, etc.  They are usually outdoors and set in the old parts of the towns beginning in one of the main squares and meandering along the pedestrian-only cobblestone streets.  It turns the hassle of Christmas shopping into an enjoyable experience.  A chilly experience, but enjoyable.  (The Vin Chaud helps here as well!)

However, my chauffeur to these events, Mr. Big, is really not much of a strolling, shopping, meandering kind of guy.  He is a Point A to Point B kind of guy.  So, we have worked out a system that keeps his antsy self busy while I am shopping.  He is in charge of the camera.  If I see something picture-worthy, I point it out and he shoots.  The rest of the pictures are up to him and I must say the man has a thing for clocktowers.  A high percentage of the pictures are of the back of my head or me turning around, cup of Vin Chaud in hand, because he has called my name.

His other job is planning out the walking route to insure that I don’t miss anything.  This is not an easy task because no streets in Europe are straight.  They are bendy and twisty and involve bridges, alleys and little tunnelish passageways.  He really gets excited when there are booths on both sides of the street—his planning becomes much more intricate.  He also sets a goal for himself that we are not “allowed” to double-back and see the same thing twice.  Consequently, he never actually “sees” anything in any of the booths because he is too preoccupied with where we are headed and not where we are now.  It’s not like he really cares, either.  His feedback is usually limited to “Uhuh, that’s nice” or “Whatever, Trailing Spouse, just buy it” or “Do you need more Vin Chaud?”

Using this system, we have set a personal best of three Marches des Noel in one day in two different countries.  For those of you reading this from the local area, here’s my synopsis of the ones we have been to so far:

Switzerland
Lausanne:           Don’t bother, only about 25 booths.  Vin Chaud, delicious.
Geneva:               Don’t bother, way too many vendors of cheap, crap Indonesian stuff.
Montreaux:        Cute, crowded and very photogenic.
Bremgarten:      Mr. Big gave a big thumbs-up to their Park-N-Ride system.  Gluhwein, excellent.  Large, 190 vendors.  Also, Christmas tree farm 2km outside of town where you can cut your own tree.
Morges:       Covered market inside hall of the train station, big plus.  High percentage of artists, good gift ideas.

France:
Besancon:           Just OK, not worth a special trip
Montbeliard:     Fabulous in every way.  My favorite.  The lightshow is super.  Here’s the link, sorry it’s only in French but the pictures are worth a click.
http://www.lumieres-de-noel.fr/

It is not even 8 a.m. here but today is Sunday so I am already Google Mapping trying to outline our plan of attack for today.  Mr. Big is still lying innocently asleep upstairs, completely unaware that he has yet another day in store stomping around outside in the cold drinking Vin Chaud.  Bless his heart!

Returning "Home"?

For ex-pats on temporary assignment, the word “home” can be confusing.  Is home your new country or is it the place you will return to someday?  For people who have kept a home in their country of origin, it’s even more muddled because they technically have homes in two places.  I have found my answer just listening to the running commentary inside my own head.  Right now I’m packing to return to Switzerland after a Thanksgiving stay in the US.  As I’m packing, I’m going through my mental checklist:

“Don’t forget to bring home more banana peppers.”

“I can’t wait to go to the Colmar Christmas Market when we get home.”

“I wonder if it snowed while we were away?”

See?  Home has subconsciously become Switzerland and away is now what used to be home.  It’s like an Abbott and Costello movie.  Just because you know I like to play “What’s in Your Suitcase?”, I will let you look inside the empty one I brought with me from home to fill up with stuff while I was away.  (If you followed that you are really paying attention!)

2 bed pillows

2 twin sheet sets

5 jars of banana peppers

All of the silver and gold Xmas balls and garland from the attic

A box of brown sugar

A box of Arm & Hammer baking soda

A bottle of Vanilla Extract

The couch cushion cover that got red wine spilled all over it during Thanksgiving

Why, you ask, is she bringing part of her couch?  Because her sewing machine is in Switzerland, of course!  It makes perfect sense to me to tote a stained couch cover 8,000 miles only to use it as a pattern and then throw it away.  Perfect sense.  Although, with the strict recycling laws in Switzerland, I will probably not be able to throw it away at all and will have to bring it back with me next time I return to the US. 

I had to write up a chart to help me throw away my trash without receiving a fine.  There are certain assigned days of the week for yard waste, glass, paper, plastic, etc.  If you dare attempt to dispose of anything on the wrong day, you will be reported to the Trash Police by a “helpful” neighbor.  And, God help you if you attempt to throw away your glass bottles on a Sunday, the National Day of peace and quiet.  Glass bottles make noise, you see.  They clink.  You can receive an actual fine for clanking on a Sunday.  I’m pretty sure you can be deported if you’re stupid enough to fire up a lawn mower on a Sunday.  Here’s a word of warning to any army out there that might be considering attacking Switzerland.  Do not attack on a Sunday.  We will be able to hear you coming while you are still in Austria.  It’s that quiet on Sundays. 

My Trash Chart also tells me the one day per quarter that it is OK to throw away something bigger than our regulation-size trash bags.  Which encompasses pretty much everything and will definitely pertain to the couch cover.  So, if I miss the next Oversized Trash Pickup Day, I will have to “store” it for another 3 months.  Where, I don’t know.  I’m thinking under the bed.

One last word on Swiss trash.  No, not Roman Polanski, the other Swiss trash.  I am only allowed to throw away my “ordures”, aka my non-recyclable trash,  in a regulation-size bag.  All of Switzerland uses the same trash bag.  All.  Of.  Switzerland.  So, Mr. Big, who is not very good with rules, needs to be monitored.  He is forever trying to use yard waste bags as trash bags.  I have explained nicely and also, not so nicely. 

“Mr. Big.  If you put that whomping huge trash bag out on Monday with everyone else’s teeny Swiss-sized bags, you are going to make us the laughing stock of the neighborhood and possibly get us deported.”

“Well, Trailing Spouse, then just put the big bag out on Tuesday with everyone else’s big bags and no one will know and we will live to see another week.”

“But, Mr. Big.”  (Gnashing of teeth).  “Ours will be so much heavier than theirs.  Theirs are filled with leaves.  Ours is filled with coffee grinds, potato peels and a random couch cover that I snuck in there.”

Ahhh! Can’t wait to get home!