Fasnacht: Mardi Gras a la Suisse

I’ve been hearing for two years now about the giant party in Basel that lasts 72 hours straight starting in the middle of the night on Shrove Tuesday.  Evidently, the parades, the masks, the costumes, the floats, etc. are just something to behold.  The crowds are reputedly enormous and the people all stay drunk on copious amounts of beer for three days and don’t go to sleep. Here’s the link to the Basler Fasnacht in English:   http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carnival_of_Basel  Intrigued by the possibility of witnessing Swiss People Gone Wild but much too old to party for 72 hours like a twentysomething, I began searching for an alternative.  Fasnacht Lite, if you will.

We don’t have Fasnacht down here in the French-speaking part of Switzerland, so I started looking in the towns and villages along the Rostigraben, the imaginary line that divides the German speakers from the French speakers.  Apparently, these villages stagger their Fasnacht festivals throughout the month of March so that, if one were so inclined, one could pretty much attend a parade every day and night for a whole month.  I was just interested in finding something to do on a Sunday besides watching taped episodes of American Idol with Mr. Big.

All the towns along the Rostigraben have two names—one German and one French, like Basel (German) and Bale (French) or Biel (G)/Bienne (F) or Visp (G)/Vierge (F).  The town that I picked was called Murten/Morat.  Their website promised a parade that was “small but very nice”.  I mean, Murten only has a population of around 6,000 people, so how crazy could it be, right?  It sounded like it was right up two old farts’ alley.  Sorry, Mr. Big, you are going to have to put Ryan Seacrest on pause because we are going out to soak up some Swiss culture.  Get your German on and let’s go.

We have been to Murten before.  It is very charming and medieval.  You can’t go inside the castle but the rest of the village is picture-worthy and you can still walk all along the ramparts of the 13th century castle walls.  The parade was scheduled to start at 15:03.  Not 15:02 or 15:04.  15:03.  We caught the train out of Lausanne around 11:00, giving us plenty of time to have a nice lunch in Murten before the “cortege” or parade started.

About two train stops before we reached Murten, we noticed people boarding the train wearing costumes.  OK, at least I didn’t have the date wrong and there was definitely SOMETHING going on in Murten that day.  While walking the block between the train station and the old village inside the ramparts, we noticed a rather large sign that said “Village Ferme” or Village Closed.  Of course, Mr. Big, who does not trust my French, immediately thinks that I have translated the website wrong and he is ready to turn around and go back to Lausanne.  Dude!  It’s closed for TRAFFIC, not people.  C’mon, it’ll be alright, just follow me.

Right outside the gates there are a number of official-looking people with money boxes.  I thought it was free, but apparently not.  I ask, in my abysmal German, if the parade is free and the guy with the money box says yes and waves us in.  Only later do I find out that they were selling “blaggedde” or pins/badges for 10 franc each.  So, because we are stupid Americans, we go inside Murten with no blaggedde pinned to our jackets.  Here’s a hint Fasnacht Committee:  put up a sign saying “Blaggedde 10 Fr” or something so that complete neophytes like us will not be caught unawares without our blaggedde.

We ate lunch here: http://www.freiburger-falle.ch/Freiburger_Falle_Restaurant_-_Murten,_Morat/Freiburger_Falle_-_Fr_-_HOME.html  This is a fabulous “keller” or cellar or wine cave underground on the main street inside the village.  The proprietors had it all decorated with streamers and clown masks.  Most of the people looked like locals, slurping up their fondue and most were in costume, except for us and this other table that held a Chinese couple.  How do I know they were not locals?  (I mean besides the fact that they were Chinese, duh.)

In the time it took for us to sit down, take off our outerwear and decide on a wine, these two had ordered, received and eaten half of their ONE COURSE meal.  They drank water and ordered no coffee.  They were in and out in about 30 minutes.  Aren’t Mr. Big and I getting quite smug and didn’t we just feel like a normal, Swiss couple compared to those meal-inhaling tourists?  Just wait.  Our big smackdown was coming.

Halfway through lunch, I reach inside my bag for my camera to take pictures of the décor and the restaurant for this blog.  To my horror, my camera battery is dead.  I would now have to rely on pictures for the blog from Mr. Big’s phone.  Aaaak!  Mr. Big is known for his lousy head-chopped-off or, conversely, tops-of-heads-only-the-rest-sky-and-clouds pictures.  I’m panicking at the table and trying to give him Photography 101 tips over the dessert course before we venture out onto the street.  Close-ups, Mr. Big, I need close-ups!   He begins damage control, (also known as CYA—Cover Your Ass) before even taking Picture One by trying to tell me that his phone does not have a zoom.  Liar!  His phone does everything but wipe his butt!  I’m sure there is a zoom function in there somewhere but it is not worth fighting about.  You pick your battles, you know?  So, people, be forewarned, all of the pictures herewith were taken by Mr. Big with his mobile.

GIANT DIFFERENCES BETWEEN A PARADE IN SWITZERLAND AND A PARADE IN THE US:

1.        The babies wear Bose headphones.  OK, when we saw the first one, I thought it was an anomaly.  Oh, how cute, I thought, that little guy is rockin’ out, doin’ his own thing.  No.  It appears that there is a certain lime green brand of headphone here emblazoned with the word “kidz” which is plunked on all the heads of the littlest Swiss to SAVE THEIR HEARING.  Remember, this is the land of quiet.  A parade, by definition, is noisy.  It’s those piercing drums and fifes, you know.  So, the mamas pop these lime green headphones on the little ones’ ears so THEY WILL NOT BE SUBJECTED TO TOO MANY DECIBELS.  Swear to God.  I saw one mama, apparently a Forgetful Mama, who, realizing she did not have her “kidz” headphones, HELD HER HANDS OVER HER BABY’S EARS whenever a band went by.  I am not kidding.

2.        There are NO cartoon character children’s costumes, save, inexplicably, Spiderman.  First of all, understand that 99% of the children in the crowd, including teenagers, are dressed up.  There are princesses, but no Disney princesses.  No Transformers.  No Power Rangers.  No Sponge Bob.  Sooooo disconcerting.  Instead, there are generic witches, pirates and, incredibly, an inordinate amount of American cowboys and Indians.  Outfits that American children would sneer at are a hot ticket item here.  Go, Geronimo!  Go, Johnny Cash!  I saw a teenager dressed as a Secret Service man doing crowd control.  He had on a suit, tie, ear plug and a gun (no kidding) on his hip.  He was workin’ it, too!  He was walking up and down the line of spectators, talking into his shirt cuff.  There was another teenager, with a fake mustache, dressed as the President of UBS (a big Swiss bank), wearing a suit and tie and looking smug.  ONLY in Switzerland do the teenagers dress up like their favorite bankers.  Mind boggling.

3.       The floats are, literally, inches away from the spectators.  This goes back to the issue of personal responsibility, i.e. if you are so stupid that you can’t get out of the way of a towering, two-story structure which was built in 48 hours by a bunch of drunk people that is balanced precariously on top of a John Deere tractor, well, then, you probably are too stupid to live.  Or, you need to move back to Eastern Europe or Northern Africa or wherever you snuck in from.  Period.  Believe me, there is no such thing here as Political Correctness.  You people just need to go.  Now.  Unless you are rich.  Then, we will make an exception.  ANYWAY, the floats are directly next to the crowd.

Which brings me to my final observation.  It is from these floats that confetti is thrown.  No, wait.  Thrown is not the right word.  Projected.  Hurled with abandon.  Copious amounts.  Directed at, you guessed it, people who are not wearing a blaggedde.  Y’ALL!!!  When we were on the train platform leaving to go home, Mr. Big and I had to give each other a rub down to get the bulk of it off.  It was ridiculous!  It was impacted in Mr. Big’s ears!

We were annihilated by billions of tons of small paper bits.  By the end of the parade, I was like, ENOUGH!  Enough, already!.  Point your high-design Swiss airhose at someone else!  Surely, Mr. Big and I cannot be the only two people in the crowd who are not wearing a stupid pin!  Where is that lovely Chinese couple from the restaurant?  Surely they don’t have a pin!  Go get ‘em!

It is now Tuesday and I have vacuumed our apartment twice.  There is so much confetti everywhere, you would think the parade was inside our apartment.  Days later, it keeps coming out of every orifice.  It was inside my bra.  It was inside my socks.  Don’t even talk about the confetti still embedded in my hair that is laughing at my feeble shampoo regimen.   Lesson learned, Swiss Fasnachters!  Bring on Basel, we are ready!

Sewing Machines—2, Trailing Spouse—0

 am destined to be without a sewing machine on my ex-pat adventure.  I have killed another one.  You will remember that I blew up the first one that I sent over with all of my other stuff on the shipping container.  One day, I forgot to plug it into the transformer before plugging it into the adapter before plugging it into the wall.  Apparently that was just one too many electrical gizmos for my brain to remember that morning.  TRANSFORMER, ADAPTER, WALL.  I bypassed transformer altogether.  KABOOM!

Any sane person would have then gone out to the local Swiss sewing machine store and bought a Swiss machine with a Swiss plug and Swiss innards and called it a day.  That would be what any filthy rich, sane person would do.  Being neither filthy rich nor entirely sane, I opted to try and save Mr. Big a couple of thousand dollars by waiting and just buying a new machine in the US the next time we went back, just because I am a nice, thrifty person like that.  Ahem.

So, you will remember, last November when we were in the US for Thanksgiving, I bought a beautiful, new Husqvarna sewing machine and schlepped it all the way back home as a carry-on item.  This was not a cheap machine, y’all.  It was a lovely, heavy duty machine that would have risen to the challenge of all of my lovely, heavy duty upholstery projects.

The mayhem that is the holidays kept me from using my new machine, but a few weeks ago things finally slowed down and I trotted out the new machine in all its’ splendiferousness to reupholster a leather chair cushion.  I was OH SO CAREFUL to get all my electrical ducks in a row.  Transformer, adapter, wall.  Check.  Begin sewing.

ME:  Mr. Big, can you come here for a minute?  There’s something wrong with this machine.

MR. BIG:  Huh?

ME:  Listen.  It doesn’t sound right.

MR. BIG:  (after listening for about 8 nanoseconds) It sounds fine to me.

ME:  No, really.  I’ve been sewing for 30 years and I’m telling you, it sounds funny.

MR. BIG:  You’re just paranoid because you blew up the last one.  It sounds--   

(Machine dies as he is speaking.)

MR.  BIG:  %#&^!!!!   @&^*(%#@!!!!!  You have done it again!!!

ME:  WAAAH!  I want my mother!!!!

Y’all!  It was so not my fault!  It turns out it was HIS stupid transformer that screwed up my beautiful new toy.  Ergo, I made him carry the broken, dead carcass all the way back across the ocean because he is under the misguided impression that the store where we bought it in the US is going to give him a new one.  Really?  I was just going to put it in the bottom of the closet with the other one as part of my new collection:  THINGS I HAVE RUINED IN SWITZERLAND THAT I CAN’T AFFORD TO REPLACE.

Mr. Big seems pretty confident that INADVERTENT FRYING will be covered under the warranty.  I’m pretty sure it says somewhere down in the fine print of that warranty that if a purchaser uses a piece-o-shit-made-in-China transformer and fries their own machine. . .well, let’s just say I’m not holding my breath in anticipation of Mr. Big coming out of Joanne’s Fabrics with a shiny, new Husqvarna any time soon.

I have to tell you, I did try to get it fixed in Switzerland at the Husqvarna dealer.  That didn’t go so well.  First of all, I had to study all morning to find out how to say “transformer”, “slow, painful death” and “it was not my fault” in French before I could go to the store and make myself understood.  

I know this woman in the store wasn’t actually laughing at me because the Swiss don’t laugh, as a general rule.  But it was darn close.  Her lips were quivering and it was warm in her store.  Basically, I had Mr. Big on my right spouting English at me, me and the broken machine in the middle trying to translate, and this poor Swiss-woman-Husqvarna-dealer on my left who thought we were raging maniacs.  She was a hair’s breadth away from running for her bomb shelter.

It is really hard for me to speak French when I have a crazy husband yelling in my ear.  TELL HER ABOUT THE ELECTRICITY ISSUE!  ASK HER IF SHE CAN FIX IT!  ASK HER HOW MUCH MONEY IT WILL COST!  ASK HER IF SHE HAS A SCREWDRIVER AND I WILL SHOW HER THE PART TO ORDER!  Wait.  Screwdriver?  I don’t know the word for screwdriver, AND WILL YOU PLEASE SHUT UP FOR ONE MINUTE so I can speak to this woman?

It was not pretty.  Needless to say, she called three days later and told us to come pick up our still-very-much-dead machine and never, ever darken her doorstep again.

This whole ordeal has just been too much stress for Mr. Big and so I think I am going to get a new Swiss sewing machine.  O Happy Day!  Unfortunately, because it will cost about as much as a CAR, the whole Swiss watch purchase that I had been toying with in the back of my brain where women toy with these ideas has been tabled.  For now.  Although the July sales are just around the bend. . .

Shopping “The Sales” in Europe

Gosh, I am having a really hard time writing this one.  This is my fifth draft, no lie!  Every time I start, it always comes out like I am America-bashing, so I start over.  Let’s see if the 5th time is the charm.

As I have told you, America and Europe are much more different than people initially assume.  Nowhere is this more apparent than their approach to clothes shopping.  As a matter of fact, there is not even a word in French for clothes shopping.  They have a phrase for the act of shopping, it is “faire du course”.  But, in  translation, this really refers to the daily chore of “doing the circuit”, i.e. the daily chore of going into town to buy, mainly, food and/or various other sundries on your To Do list.  So, the French-speakers say one of two things if they are going ONLY clothes shopping:  1) They “faire du course des vetements” which is a mouthful which means to go shopping for clothes, or 2) They steal our word and say “shopping”, which is understood to mean American-style shopping.

What, pray tell, is American-style shopping?  Well, duh, it means going to the mall.  All day.  It means comparing prices, looking for bargains and trying to get exactly what you want for the lowest possible price.  It means picking and choosing between all of the thousands and thousands of choices that you have.   You see why they don’t have a word for it?  Europeans don’t have thousands and thousands of choices of anything.  They have, like, six.  And none are on sale.

In the French language, there is no word for mall.  There is “Centre Commerciale”, which can mean anything from a grocery store surrounded by a few smaller barnacle-type hangers-on, to a quasi-strip shopping center consisting of maybe 6 medium-sized shops to a European “mall” which is like, 15 stores.  Or, it can just be one big ol’ IKEA sitting there on the side of the motorway.


OK, I’ll grant you, the bigger cities try.  When anyone, other than an American, walks into a big city European “mall”, they are like, WOW (in whatever language they speak).  An American walks in and says “Um, good try.  It’s close.  Sort of.”

Here’s the problem.  When Europeans visit America, they all go to the same place—New York City.  Is there a mall in Manhattan?  No.  Are there any Europeans booking tickets to King of Prussia, Pennsylvania or South Park Mall in Charlotte?  No.  When they visit LA, do they venture down the highway to South Coast Plaza in Ocean County?  No, they go to Rodeo Drive in Hollywood.  Have they ever even seen the glory that is a Restoration Hardware located directly adjacent to a Cheesecake Factory nestled right up against an Anthropologie?  No.  If they only knew.

Instead, they stick to Fifth Avenue in NYC and Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills.  And they are secretly appalled.  Appalled because they were led to believe that everything in America is cheap and they thought they were going to go back home with a Cartier watch and a Burberry trench coat for pennies on the dollar.  For whatever reason, they were under the impression that they would waltz into the Ralph Lauren flagship store in Manhattan and scoop up a bunch of polo shirts for like, 10.99 US each.  What?

No, Mr. and Mrs. Europe.  You are in tourist Mecca.  No AMERICANS actually go shopping on Fifth Avenue.  Those stores are strictly for tourists and the Sex and the City Girls.  Not real people.   You want some bargains?  You need to hop on a bus and get yourself across the bridge to New Jersey and go to a mall.

Here is where I have been running into trouble in my four previous drafts.  I am going to describe shopping for clothes, shoes and handbags in Europe, WITHOUT making it seem like Americans are a bunch of penny-pinching, discount-loving, perfectly-happy-with-fake-Chinese-crap, people.  Wish me luck.

Take, for example, my town.  Lausanne, Switzerland.  Population 126K people.  By any definition, that is little more than a large village.  By comparison, it has the same population as Waco, Texas; Coral Springs, Florida or Bellevue, Washington.

In my town, we have, ALL FREESTANDING, a Hermes store, a Louis Vuitton store, a Bally, a Cartier and a Maserati dealer.  On one street.  Do you think they have a Hermes store in Coral Springs, Florida?  Of course not.  I googled it.  They have a Gap and an Old Navy, as well they should.  Herein lies the problem.  In Europe, you have high-end designer stuff.  Then, you have the crappy stuff, like H & M and C & A.  The low-end stuff here is like the equivalent of Sears or JCPenney. . .or worse.  THERE IS NO IN BETWEEN.  No equivalent of Talbots or J. Crew or Banana Republic or whatever.  For example, Tommy Hilfiger (who, inexplicably, is all the rage here) is considered high design a la Michael Kors.  I needed a new white button-down shirt.  Nothing fancy, just basic.  The plain white button-down Tommy Hilfiger shirts were 210 USD.  Really.  

So, when your only choices are really good stuff that will last for years and years and, what I call throw-away clothes, i.e. clothes that will last through only two or three wash cycles before they 1) fall apart or 2)shrink/stretch out of shape, what do you choose?  Let me give you another piece of information to help you decide.  Those clothes in H & M?  Those down-market clothes?  A t-shirt, A T-SHIRT!!, cannot be had for less than 39.90.  Seriously.  You think I’m kidding.  I’m not.  Yesterday, to research this, I went shopping IN THE GROCERY STORE at the Coop for a tan sweater.

I actually need a tan sweater to go with a skirt that I have.  Now, Coop is a generic, run of the mill, one-in-every-town kind of store, equivalent to Target in America.  Smaller than Target, but similar.  Coop has groceries, toiletries, clothes, jammies, etc.  I find a tan sweater.  Plain, v-neck, long-sleeve tan sweater.  Y’all.  149.90.  IN THE GROCERY STORE.  What is a European girl to do?  Save her centimes and wait until she can afford the nice wool peacoat that costs 600 dollars from the designer?  Or, buy the piece-‘o-crap one in the grocery store that costs 300 dollars?  You see?  You see the problem?

Fast forward to the real topic of this blog post.  The sales.  Twice a year, the stores have sales to unload the end-of-the-season merchandise that did not sell.  This is really excellent stuff that is marked down 50-60%.  Everybody, and I mean everybody, goes shopping during these three weeks in January and July.  (Not in Switzerland.  Switzerland doesn’t get it.  The stores here have like one little measly rack marked down 30%.  Hello, Switzerland, that is not a sale.  That is just a tease.)

BUT!  France, Spain, Italy.  No joke, the sales are awesome on high-end designer stuff.  This year, Mr. Big and I hit the sales in Lyon and Paris.  I was prepared.  I knew my “retail prices”.  I was ready.  I GOT MY BURBERRY TRENCH PEOPLE and it is friggin’ marvelous.  Mr. Big got two pairs of dress shoes.  (Please note that Mr. Big has been, before this, completely allergic to paying Euro-prices).   Y’all just don’t realize what it feels like to get a bargain over here.  You know how good it feels in the US to find something on sale for a really cheap price and you find yourself skipping around for the rest of the day on a shopping high?  Well, multiply that by seven million and you will know how much I love January and July.

This was really hard to write and, it turns out, it’s not very funny, either.  Sorry.  It needed to be said, if for no other reason than to lift the veil over shopping on either side of the pond.  A lot of misconceptions out there.  Next time, I’ll go back to crazy food or arcane Swiss rules.

Chalet Hunt Continues

I’ve decided that I’m going to apply to Fodor’s travel guide company as the expert on Obscure Alpine Villages.  In the past few months, Mr. Big and I have explored every valley in the French-speaking Alps in our quest for the perfect chalet.  He has only acquired one new speeding ticket on these junkets, to the tune of only 45 euros, so that is a good thing.  Go ahead.  Ask me anything.  What is the population of Zinal, Switzerland?  477.  What is the altitude of Sixt Fer-a-Cheval, France?    760 meters above sea level.

Why are the old barns in the canton of Valais perched on stone columns and discs?  Well, they are known as “mazots” and that is how the villagers keep the mice out of their foodstuffs.  Mr. Big pointed out that it might be just a hair less labor intensive to invest in a few good mousetraps rather than elevate a whole building, but the Swiss are an industrious and hearty group and, if it keeps them busy, well, why not?

What are those cute little sheds out in the yards of some of the older chalets that look like kid’s play houses?  Well, those are called “carnozets” and that is where the locals eat their fondue and raclette so it doesn’t make the rest of the house smell like ass.

Why do the French pronounce the “x” on the end of words and the Swiss don’t?  No answer.  It is what it is.  The town of Bex in Switzerland is pronounced “Bay”.  If you moved it 10 miles away across the border, it would be called “Bex” rhyming with Tex-Mex.  It is enough to make you slap yourself upside the head.

Mr. Big and I are having some issues with this househunt.   I prefer the little, authentic villages where no tourists go.  He prefers bigger ski stations where he can ski his old butt directly out onto the slopes.  As he is highly allergic to public transportation, he doesn’t want to have to board any ski busses to get to the chairlifts.  Personally, I think he is just terrified to land in a village where no one speaks English.   He is more than willing to give up charm and character for infrastructure and ease-of-use and an abundance of Anglo-speaking tourists hanging around.  Last Saturday, we almost came to blows.

I had found, on the internet, a brand new listing for a chalet in a place called Mase (population 235, altitude 1620m) in Switzerland.  Y’all.  This was the cutest village, ever.  EVER.  I would post the link to this house, but this is Switzerland, so by the time I saw it on the net, drove to the village and found it, (a grand total of about 13 hours), it was sold.  It is no longer available, either on the net or in real life.  As a matter of fact, when we were walking around the village, there were FOUR other people standing out in front of it taking pictures.

I was like, MR.BIG!!  THOSE BASTARDS ARE LOOKING AT MY HOUSE!!  He said, no way, calm down, Trailing Spouse.  So, I took pictures of the house and barn and pretended to myself that all was well.  Really, the whole time, I KNEW, I just KNEW, that somebody else had already bought it.  This is where we almost came to fisticuffs.  Mr. Big said he was “not impressed”.  Dude!  Are you kidding me?  It is perfect!  What’s your problem?  Well, honey, you have to get on a BUS and travel approximately 1.5 MILES to the ski lift.  Mr. Big, you are driving me crazy.  This is the coolest house ever and if we don’t buy it in the next 8 nanoseconds, one of these other gawkers is going to snag it up.

Of course, I was right.  It had already sold earlier that day.  Ah, me.  Trying to buy/rent property in Switzerland is like California, circa 1992, when everyone was flush with money, there were bidding wars everywhere and houses sold in 36 seconds.

This is what I have learned and, also, the reason that Fodor’s should hire me:  TROTW (The Rest of The World) only knows of the “famous” ski stations like Verbier, Zermatt, St. Moritz, Chamonix, Crans-Montana, etc.  TROTW is missing out on the best places.  Consequently, there are fabulously underrated ski stations sprinkled throughout the Alps where only the Swiss and the French and a few in-the-know Austrians dare to tread.

Case in point.  Arolla, Switzerland.  Now, most of you skiers are saying “HAH.  Typo.  She means Arosa.”  No, I do not.  There is a ski village called Arolla at the very end of a valley called Val d’Herens in Switzerland with the most jaw-dropping views I’ve ever seen and I’ve seen a lot, thank you, ma’am.  The village sits at 2000 meters.  The views are beyond breathtaking.  There is a hotel there called Hotel Kurhaus where I would like my ashes spread when I am dead.

I think we might have found a winner in the village of La Clusaz, France.  It is a large resort, which Mr. Big likes, yet it also has some charm and character, an old church and some old buildings and farms, which I like.  Now, we just have to find a house that we can agree on.  This will probably get ugly.  Mr. Big SAYS he is open to buying an old one and renovating it, but when push comes to shove, I think he is going to balk and go for something new.  We’ll see.

In the meantime, did I tell you that a huge, wild boar ran in front of our car last weekend in the mountains?  Y’all!  It was durned near as big as our Audi and it was all hairy and lumbering across the road like a rhino or something.  I’m screaming  WHAT THE HELL IS THAT, MR. BIG?  I believe that is a wild boar, Dear.  WELL, STOP THE CAR SO I CAN TAKE A PICTURE,  FURGODSSAKE!  He wouldn’t stop, the old poop, so I have no pictures of my Close Encounter of the Swine Kind.  Are there a lot of those in the woods, does anyone know?  And do they eat people?  Here I thought I only had to worry about the Yeti and now I also have to worry about giant pigs.  I bet those suckers are the real reason the barns are lifted up on rocks, not a few, measly little mice!

Ex-Pat’s Dirty Little Secret: Hoarding

Awright other ex-pats, ‘fess up, I know you do this, too!  Hoard your own, personal, can’t-do-without, hygiene accoutrements.  This phenomenon is pretty much universal, so I’m just going to put it right on out there for everyone to read.  When you are first told that you are moving to another country, you start to immediately make a mental list of things that YOU ABSOLUTELY NEED to bring from home because you are convinced that your new country will not have THE EXACT SAME ITEM.  9 times out of 10, this is a perfectly legitimate assumption.

After you arrive and, as you acclimate, you discover that your new country will have something pretty close.  It may not be exact, but it will work.  After a few YEARS, you find yourself just using the new country’s stuff and you get over it.  Except.  Except for those few things that you discover, yes, it is true, you might perish if you have to go without them.

I have learned to live without every single personal hygiene item that, two years ago, I was convinced was irreplaceable.  Except.  Except for Pantene Smooth and Straight Shampoo and Conditioner.  I am still transporting this particular hair care product over in bulk from the US.  I have really, really curly hair and this shampoo tames it into something manageable.  It does not exist in Switzerland.  All of the Pantene shampoos here add body.  I promise you, if I added body to my hair, you could house a Haitian refugee family on my head and no one would be the wiser.

C’mon, you all do this, I know.  A certain soap.  A certain tampon.  A certain shaving cream.  I know.  I understand.  Your body just does not feel right, your hair just does not look right, your teeth just do not sparkle, etc. without PRODUCT X, right?  I know.  I can relate.  But there is someone who can relate more than me.  Yes, Mr. Big.

Mr. Big has not even tried to acclimate.  In fact, I don’t think I’ve yet to see Mr. Big step one foot inside a Swiss pharmacy.  Oh, wait.  I take that back.  Two weeks ago, he was sniffling and sneezing and trying to cough up a lung.  I DRAGGED his reluctant ass into a pharmacy and told the pharmacist that my husband had a cold and could he recommend some medicine.  Mr. Big was soooo desperate for relief, he actually used the Swiss pharmaceuticals.  Lo and behold, he felt better.  Amazing, I know.

But other than that one instance,  he brings everything over in bulk from the US.  Y’ALL!!  Q-TIPS!!  I’m like, um, Mr. Big, they have Q-tips in Switzerland.  Deodorant.  Please, Mr. Big, they have deodorant in Switzerland.  (Switzerland, yes, France, no).  Just kidding, French people!  BUT IT”S NOT MY KIND, TRAILING SPOUSE!!   

Right now, I’m going to sneak upstairs and take a picture of Mr. Big’s giant stash of hygiene products.  It’s unbelievable!  I’m going to go count his hair gel products alone.  I’ll bet he has enough to last until 2018.   Be right back.  OK.   25 tubes of hair gel.  He has more tubes of hair gel than he has hairs on his head!!!

He has eleven deodorants.  ELEVEN!!  How much deodorant do you need, stinky man?  His hoarding psychoses even extend to me.  He has started amassing travel-size Pantene hair products for me.  Mind you, I do not need these.  I buy and import the ginormous size.  And I buy one.  ONE.  One at a time.

However, should I ever run out, apparently, Mr. Big has got me covered, because, in a corner of the bathroom cupboard, I spy a bag of tiny Pantene shampoo and conditioners.  SEVENTEEN bottles.  Of a product I do not need or want!!  Some women get jewelry.  I get sample-sized hair supplies.

As long as we are airing our dirty laundry, I might as well confess that I have a cupboard here in Switzerland full of . . . Newport cigarettes.  Yes, in addition to my many, many other bad habits, I am an uninhibited, out-of-the-closet, unashamed smoker.  Shoot me.  Anyway, I have been smoking the same kind of cigarettes since I was 13 and my BFF’s big sister, Janet, taught me and my little pal how to smoke.  Thanks, Janet!  You have destined me to a life of ridicule and standing outside on frozen balconies indulging in my disgusting habit!  As soon as I am finished here, I am looking you up on Facebook and see if you have as many smoking-induced wrinkles on your dried-out-little-prune-of-a-face as I do.

Sorry, lost my head there for a moment.  So, to indulge my habit I have to have everyone who comes to visit me from America bring me two cartons of Newports.  In a box, not a soft-pack.  Not the long ones, the short ones.  Not only am I an evil smoker, I am a picky, evil smoker!  My friends and family know that it is the price they have to pay to have a Swiss vacation.  Two cartons of Newports.  Each.  No exceptions.  I live in fear for the day when I run out and have to start smoking the only menthol cigarette available in Europe, the dreaded Marlboro Greens.  That will be the day I quit.  It will also be the day I start to gain 50 pounds and become 3,000 times more nasty than I already am.  This is not a day Mr. Big looks forward to, so he enables me.  He sends money to the children before they come to visit to go and buy my cigs and schlep them over here.  The thought has also crossed my mind that he may be enabling my bad habit  with the secret hope that I kick the bucket early and he can trade me in for Elin Nordgren, who is available and at large over here in our neck of the woods, (no pun intended).

So, we are closet hoarders.  I feel much better now that I have exposed this neurotic tendency.  The rest of you can now feel free to chime in with a story of your own personal stash.  And, if any of you has a closet full of regular bleach that you are hoarding, I will pay good money for that shit.

New Year’s Eve with a Baguette and a Lamp

So, this year we rented a ski chalet in a town called Chatel, just over the Swiss border, in France.  I confess.  I had an ulterior motive.  This is one of the places that Mr. Big and I are considering for The Great Chalet Purchase.  Why, you ask?

1.        It’s about ¼ of the price of a chalet in Switzerland.
2.       It’s a family-friendly ski resort and, as you know, I have a growing family.
3.       The food in the Haute Savoie (pronounced Oat Sahv-wah, not Sav-oye) is incredibly fattening and delicious.  It consists entirely of pork, cream, potatoes and cheese prepared in a million ways.  Occasionally, they throw in a duck liver for fun and so you will have something to spread on your cracker.
4.       It is part of the ginormous ski area called the Portes du Soleil which includes Avoriaz and Morzine, but not so crowded as those two villages.

Actually, when I first booked the vacation spot, I didn’t even know it was considered a “family-friendly” village.  I did notice a bunch of rug rats on the baby slopes, but that is normal.  It wasn’t until we inquired at the tourist information office about the scheduled New Year’s festivities that I learned just how much Chatel catered to families.

The fireworks began at 7 p.m.  On New Year’s.  Really, I think that’s cheating.  7 p.m. is barely New Year’s Dusk, let alone New Year’s Eve.  I hadn’t even planned on waking up from my pre-New Year’s nap by 7 p.m., never mind being out and about at that hour.

Here is a play-by-play to New Year’s Eve in Chatel, France:

5:00 p.m.  The DJ in the main place begins playing the ALWAYS WEIRD song selections that Europeans love.  No one is there to hear him except families with small children.  The FREE vin chaud and hot chocolate kiosk is running about 85% hot chocolate to 15% vin chaud.

6:30 p.m.  The ski school instructors ski down the mountain directly behind the village with torches, single file.  Really cool.  By now, other people have shown up and the ratio of  vin chaud to hot chocolate is improving.  This is when we arrive.  We are prepared.  We have festive, sparkly hats and multiple bottles of champagne in our bookbags.

7:00 p.m.  The DJ announces the beginning of the Feu D’artifices or Artificial Fire, aka fireworks.  By now, in this family-friendly village, my children in their sparkly hats with their plastic champagne flutes are attracting attention.  This village was not Chamonix, folks.  There were no costumes, wigs, men in kilts, people slugging magnums in the street, etc.   My kids really wowed the crowd when they whipped out their sparklers at this point.  Not one child was looking at the fireworks.  They were all coveting my kids’ sparklers.  Too bad, little five year old!  Get your own sparkler!  Come prepared next time, little dude!

7:05 p.m.  I notice a random Dad dancing in the crowd, holding a baguette.  Of course, I snap his photo.  Only in France do people stop on the way home from the bakery to catch a quick dance to “Ba-Ba-Ba-Ba-La-Bamba”.

7:08 p.m.  We all notice a middle-aged woman carrying a bedside table lamp.  And it is lit.  I do not understand how or why.  Is it battery operated?  Why does she have it in the first place?  Then, she spies our party with our champagne and our sparkly hats and she makes her way over to us AND ASKS US FOR SOME CHAMPAGNE! 

I’m like, lady, if you will let me take your picture with that crazy lamp, I will give you a glass of champagne.  And so she did and so I did.  You cannot pay for this kind of entertainment.

7:10 p.m.  All of the families depart for dinner, either at their own homes or for the early seating at the restaurants.  The rest of us depart back to our chalets to take showers and get ready for the “real” New Year.

9:00 p.m.  We arrive at the restaurant for the second seating at dinner.  The restaurant is mayhem.  The first seating people have not yet left and the management is tearing their hair out by the roots.  We don’t care.  We are already tipsy.

9:30  We begin our lovely 5-course meal which Mr. Big and I especially enjoy because it is only costing us a fraction of the price that we would be paying in Switzerland.  We’re like, “have whatever you want, kids!  Caviar, no problem!  Escargot with shaved black truffles?  Dig in!”  We feel like we are eating in the Dollar Store, compared to La Suisse.

11:53  The hostess passes out goodie bags to all the restaurant patrons.  OK.  We look inside.  Streamers.  Noisemakers.  And something that looks suspiciously like a pea shooter.  Upon closer inspection, it appears to be a tube through which one blows small, Styrofoam balls.  Ummm, OK.

11:56  The man at the table behind us casually drapes his linen napkin over the back of his head.  Why?  I have no idea.

12:00  The French people go berserk.  Quickly, the foreigners follow their lead.  Forget the streamers and the noisemakers.  Those are for amateurs.  It is a freakin’ war between the tables with the blow guns.  C’est incroyable!!!!  Everyone is shooting little balls at everyone else and ducking under the tables and standing up for a better position, etc.  Little kids FROM ANOTHER DINING ROOM ALTOGETHER were running into our room to massacre us.  So, so, so, so much unexpected fun.  Really.  In Europe.  Imagine.

12:05 a.m.  The men and the young people are scooping up discarded balls to restock their ammunition.  The moms are taking photos.

12:10  a.m. Small Son remembers that he was never served his cheese course.  Forget it, Small Son.  You are never going to see that cheese course.  The waiters, waitresses, chefs and owners are all having too much fun.  Look, there is one now under our table.  Well, hello, server!  Can I offer you a Styrofoam ball refill?

12:30 a.m.  We pay the hostess and thank her for a wonderful time.  We send Small Son, Ms. Yankee and Charming Daughter out into the no-longer-family-friendly village and its’ bars and wish them well.  My last words were “No French Police, do you understand me?”  Another twentysomething girl overheard me and started cracking up.   Apparently, parent-speak is universal.

4:30 a.m.  The children come home.  Mr. Big and I stir but do not rise.

12:00 noon on the 1st:  We wake up the children with much gusto just because we are evil that way.  “HEY, DO YOU WANT TO GO SKIING?  C’MON, C’MON, LET’S GO SKIING!!!”  No takers.   When they did finally awaken from their comas, they told us that everyone, to a man, tried to steal their sparkly hats all night long.

I am predicting that you see a lot more costumes and sparklers in Chatel ringing in 2012.

Holidays in Switzerland, Part II

So, last night, we had a random camel sighting.  Mr. Big and I were wandering the streets in downtown Lausanne doing some last minute stocking-stuffer Christmas shopping and, lo and behold, what do we see out of one of the store windows overlooking the square?  A live, theatrical reenactment of the Nativity.  Cool, I said.  Look, there’s Joseph and Mary in the manger.  Now, remember, we can’t hear any of the dialogue because we are looking at this performance from two floors up through a window.  (Like hearing it in French would help us follow along.  No.  But I live in hope.)

Me:  Dude, are they doing what I think they are doing?

Mr. Big:  Yes.  I believe that we have stumbled upon the Virgin Mary actually giving birth.

Me:  Are his hands really under her garment?

Mr.  Big:  Yes.  I believe Joseph is catching the King of Kings.  Who cuts the cord, I wonder?

Me:  Maybe that little angel girl waiting in the wings over there?

Y’all!  They acted out an actual vaginal NOT VIRGINAL birth on stage surrounded by a whole flock of Swiss sheep!  I mean, she, MARY, had her hands on her knees and her face was all screwed up and she was pushing!  Then, as if it wasn’t funny enough, “Joseph”, a.k.a. The Baby Daddy, pulls, from underneath the skirt of the Virgin Mary, this baby doll and holds it aloft and all of the Swiss people were clapping.  I’m like, Swiss people!  Clap for Susan Boyle, clap for Manchester United, but is it really appropriate to clap for the successful birth of the Sweet Lil’ Baby Jesus?

Of course, you know me, I told Mr. Big we had to leave the store immediately and get down there to check out the action in person.  Off we swoosh, but, remember, this is an old European city.  Just to get to the Place where this was going on required one alleyway, three sidestreets and crossing a small bridge.  We made it just in time for the 3 Wise Men to show up on camels.

Real camels with two humps.  There’s a word for that kind of camel but I forget what it is.  Dromedary, maybe?  I said, Mr. Big, these folks take this shit seriously.  Those are really big, hairy camels.  I mean, these camels had to have handlers to make sure that the Wise Men did not get smooshed or fall off or whatever.  So, that was all really interesting and quite the learning experience.

The center of town was lovely last night.  There were carolers and musicians on every corner and in every Place.  It was all very festive and the lights, the decorated store windows and the rich-Swiss-people-watching was at its’ finest.  Love, love, love.  But it will be a very, very long time before I forget the scrunched up face of the Virgin Mary pushing out the Baby Jesus.  I think I am scarred for life.

OK, I promised to tell you about buying a Christmas tree here.  Last year, our first year, we stumbled upon a cut-it-yourself Christmas tree farm up in the German-speaking part of Switzerland while we were at Christmas market in Bremgarten.  AT THAT TIME, I had no idea that a Christmas Tree Stand was a difficult item to find here.  After we cut our tree last year, we stopped at a hardware store on the way home and bought a stand.  At that time, I did not know that I was experiencing a RARE OCCURRENCE .  This year, we were looking around here for trees in the nurseries and we noticed that every tree came with this weird, triangular, wooden stand on the bottom which held the tree up.

Fine.  But where do you put the water?  The man at the nursery looked at me like I had two heads.  (Ex-Pats get used to this look.  This is a completely normal, everyday thing.  We have two heads.  We are used to it.)  L’eau?  Like, who WATERS their Christmas tree?  Apparently, only Americans.  We tell the nursery man that we will take the tree, but will he kindly take off that stupid wooden frame and cut about 4 inches, oh, excuse me, 10 centimeters, off the bottom so our tree will drink?  That poor guy had no idea what we were going to do with this poor, chopped-off tree once we got home, but he took off the frame, cut off the bottom and sent us on our way, 80 franc poorer.

Here’s the deal.  The stand we found last year in a Swiss-German Mom and Pop kind of hardware store out in the middle of Jabip was, apparently, a complete anomaly.  But y’all!  It is the coolest, most highly designed Christmas tree stand Mr. Big has ever seen.  I will attach a picture of the box.  (I can’t attach a picture of the actual stand because our tree is occupying it right now!)

What is all of this leading up to, you may ask?  Nothing, really.  I’m just killing time until Charming Daughter arrives tomorrow afternoon and our REAL Christmas begins.  As we do every year, we have rented a ski chalet for the week between Christmas and New Year’s.  I know you enjoyed last year’s account of that week in Chamonix with Domestic Son and his entourage.  Unfortunately, he and his new wife and Grands 1 and 2 are not coming this year.  But Small Son is bringing New Girlfriend and we have Dear Friends coming as well, so the chalet will be full and, I’m sure, the stories will be plentiful.  Actually, I’m going to have to think of a different name for New Girlfriend because she has been around for awhile now and she is not so New anymore.  Seeing as she hails from one of the frozen, northern states, I think I will christen her Ms. Yankee.

Anyway, the shopping is complete, the fixin’s for the Christmas dinner are purchased, the gifts are wrapped and ready under the tree and Mr. Big and I are just sitting around staring at each other, twiddling our thumbs.  I do have to go out later and buy the Buches de Noel for dessert on Christmas day.  Perhaps we will stumble upon yet another odd Christmas spectacle while we are in town, but I really don’t think they are going to be able to ever top that birth thing.  Happy Holidays to all of you from all of us!  Safe travels, Domestic Son and Family, drive carefully, and don’t forget to Skype us on the 25th!