Brokedown palace

Embarrassment is paralyzing. When you live in a country where you only understand one word in twenty--on a good day--shame is omnipresent. Nearly half of Geneva is from a country besides Switzerland. On the tram this morning, I was surrounded by a cacophony of French, English, Italian, German, Russian, and god knows what else. It’s a well-educated bunch, and after the standard cheek kissing--three, not two kisses--the next ritual is to identify a common language. God bless the Europeans, they are usually good for a language or four. The sad assumption is that US citizens only speak ‘Merican with the eloquence of a Dan Quayle. Unfortunately this is usually right. Defensively, I usually feel obliged to mention my fluency in Spanish. Latent patriotism? Quizás.

Despite the prevalence of English speakers here, it’s an unusual English dialect. Exaggerated gestures, staccato speech and monosyllabic words predominate. Incoherency is our national currency.

Tragically, what goes unsaid can be far from benign. Exhibit A: Halloween night, 2010. Marilyn Monroe costume donned, I set out with a friend for a party in town. I happily met him at the train station, Gare Cornavin, and we sallied forth.



After a half-mile or so, I began to regret my insistence on costume authenticity. Sure, the diamonds may have been fake, but my Marilyn wasn’t going to wear cheap shoes. Sacre bleu! Only my finest, ruby red, 4-inch heels would do. Over cobblestone streets we flew; witty banter ensued. Orthopedic injury did not.

The Friend had the decidedly attractive attributes of being possessed with a sense of direction and speaking French.

Blah, blah, blah. Hours passed. Merrily.

Sacre bleu otra vez! The last train was going to leave Geneva alarmingly soon. This was more important for suburban-dwelling Friend than moi, but like Cinderella we hurriedly scampered forth from the Ball.

Or, to be precise, I hobbled forth on blister-laden feet. Friend, damn him, was clad in practical footwear. With every step, my feet cried for an epidural. Piercing, agonizing lightening bolts of pain radiated from my Louboutins to my spleen. My respect for runway models increased exponentially as we ran through the dimly lit, uneven streets.

Three blocks from Gare Cornavin, where the last train for the suburbs soon departed, and a tram awaited moi, Friend abruptly departed. It would be a race to the finish for him to catch his train.

I was alarmed. The train station was not in sight. Beer, pain, and a congenital lack of orientation were conspiring against me.

Three minutes later, I was hopelessly lost, feet throbbing in agony. There is one bad neighborhood in Geneva; it’s called Pâquis. I found it. There amidst the drug deals, prostitution and general chaos, I paused. I couldn’t walk any further; it was physically impossible. As it began to rain, I had a quintessential “Come to Jesus” moment.

Marilyn was highly bedraggled at this point, but still attracting slews of unwanted attention from male passersby. I blamed the blonde curls--it’s a red cape in front of matador perverts here.




I triaged the situation. Lost. Rain. Marilyn Monroe. 3 AM. Pâquis. Surveying the unfamiliar terrain, I swiftly calculated the probability of exotic parasites, discarded needles and broken glass, then contrasted these with the certain pain of continued walking in the high heeled, stylish torture devices. With surgical decision-making the heels were off and, barefoot, I set forth.

Scanning the heavens, I noted the location of Orion, and calculating the hypotenuse to the Big Dipper, I plotted my course.

FINE. I saw a sign for the mall that was by the train station and set my course by that instead. Hopefully headed in the direction of Gare Cornavin, holding my adorable shoes, I was overcome by a horde of zombies. Spirited attempts at conversation ensued, despite the fact that our only common language was Mime.

After years of international travel, and a generally surly disposition, I fancied I had the “leave me the eff alone” façade down, in any language. Allors, no. Apparently Gallic optimism perseveres where Indonesian panhandlers demur.

Les zombies followed me to the train station, onto le tram and to le stop. During this time I ran the spectrum of casually ignoring them to outright hostility. To no avail.

When one of the undead actually grabbed Marilyn’s arm to persuade her to go to le disco, or manger or drink un biere, an understanding was finally reached.

With a loud “Oh, hell no” and a derisive roll of Marilyn’s eyes, les zombies finally slunk away. Head held high, wet hair plastered against my skull, and adorable shoes tucked under my arm, I limped home. Where anger fails, contempt succeeds. Some things translate universally.

Comment allez vous

“Comment allez vous?” I inquired incredulously. I was well aware that asking “How are you?” wasn’t exactly an appropriate rejoinder, but my French is sadly limited. I’d been using “Bonjour” for the last two weeks with a variety of intonations to cover the entire spectrum of human emotion. After my first French lesson this week, I’ve added a few more phrases to my repertoire. When I applied for the post with the WHO in Geneva, I was reassured by all, that not speaking French would pose no problem.

They lied.

Although truth be told, my new friend’s Scottish accent made her English as incomprehensible as her French. I was pretty sure she had just invited me to join a group headed to the Alps in the morning, to witness an annual Swiss tradition. I caught about one word in five. “Des Alpes, blah blah blah, cows, blah blah blah, wine, blah blah blah cheese blah blah blah wine.”

Sounded great. Half the fun of living abroad is the unexpected adventure of normal daily activities. A trip to the grocery store is vastly more exciting when you can’t read the labels, communicate with the clerks, or figure out how to pay for vegetables. It makes me realize the very basic details of life in the United States that I take completely for granted. Such as the dials on a washing machine. I possess two graduate degrees, and I must confess, it still took me over thirty minutes to decipher the obscure hieroglyphics on the Swiss machine.

Early the next morning, I waited at the train station, eager to see exactly what I’d signed up for. A train ride on a beautiful sunny day to a picturesque village in the Alps with cheese and wine, were the details I had understood, and that was more than enough.

As the train wound its way through Geneva towards the mountains, we picked up more and more passengers. At first glance, I wasn’t sure if shoulder pads and epaulettes were still in fashion in Europe, since a disturbing proportion of the travelers sported them. The men wearing black kilts with wooden rods belted to their backsides made me think I was back home in San Francisco, strolling through the Castro.

A more seasoned companion, L., heard our giggles and wild surmises about the
wooden posts (Male chastity belt? Alpine ring toss game?) and explained that they were actually portable milking stools. Des Alpes is an annual affair where the cows are brought down from the higher pastures for the winter. It’s a fashionable affair. The cows are outfitted with garlands, traditional bells, and elaborate hair pieces before being paraded through town. L looked approvingly at my practical boots and skeptically at my Scottish pal’s sandals.

“You’re going to regret wearing those shoes,” she predicted with dire foreboding.
Thirty minutes later we quickly understood why. We’d disembarked in Saint Cergue, a tiny town with narrow cobblestone streets, quaint chalets, soaked in gorgeous fall foliage. With a steaming glass of mulled cider, we wandered the street. The bakeries had special cow cookies and elaborate marzipan creations for the holidays. St Bernard dogs roamed the streets outfitted with Swiss flag memorabilia.

A sullen donkey, sporting sunflowers and a straw hat, halfheartedly pulled a cart of squealing school children.

Then the cows began. Down the trails from up on the mountains, converging onto the central street in town, bevies of bovine beauties trolloped. Some wore bells the size of lampshades around their necks, fixed in position by leather buckles that were elaborately engraved. Others sported garlands of wildflowers. One herd had what appeared to be miniature Christmas trees, complete with ornaments protruding several feet above their heads. All were outfitted in their very best. All also appeared to have eaten some bad Mexican food. Within minutes the streets ran brown, and my sandal-clad- friend was hopping from one foot to the other, as she desperately sought dry pavement.

“This must be just like running with the bulls!” I overheard one tourist comment to another.
I smiled. More like a leisurely promenade with dairy cows.

The Expatriate Files, Episode 1

What with jet lag, broken bones, and medical clearance for work, along with a variety of other regulatory hoops to jump through (who would have thought the WHO would require a mandatory EKG and chest xray prior to my contract? My lawyer friends will be proud to know I successfully argued my way out of that one. I was completely annoying, right, and successful) anyways, the international move has resulted in a loooong gap between updates.

While the annoyance of typing on a Euro keyboard is part of the problem (where the hell do they hide the question mark,quotations and dash symbols) mainly I've been suffering from severe writer's block. There's been no shortage of material from my failed quest to buy vegetables in Geneva, to vending machines selling pregnancy tests, to Euro fashion commentary, the broken bones,sight seeing, my embarassing encounter with a modern day Hercule Poirot*,the travails with European electricity, well, there's plenty to say.

Uncharacteristically however, I just havent felt like saying it. I blame the mix of "French" (a somewhat optimistic description of the sounds that I emit),Spanish, Italian and English that I am speaking these days. It's hard to think straight, let alone write. The smallest tasks take five times as long, whether it's figuring out the recycling, paying a bill online or trying to use assorted kitchen appliances. It has really made me realize the very basic structure of so many different parts of life in the US that I've taken for granted. A lot of it probably has to do with the fact that I am relying on Google translation for deciphering the French or German instructions, while I try to puzzle through the Italian with my Spanish. I am incredibly grateful for Google translation, gratis, but I must say they translate with the eloquence of an five year old who accidentally ate some of Papi's "special" cookies.

Those that have traveled with me on a road trip, will not be suprised to learn that my first European blog is on Swiss "bathrooms" or la toliete, as they prefer to eschew the euphemistic term bathroom here. I mean the public restrooms.

Aiding a friend in search of the perfect cafe au lait and an inability to read tram instructions led us to arriving at the main train station, with one urgent goal. La toliette, sil vous plais! We followed the universal signpostings of male and female stick figures to a far corner of the train station. A stately corridor appeared to our left. Tasteful sconces illuminated the placard that read "Mc Clean's!" Intrigued we headed down the corridor. Reverential Muzak played. There was no graffiti, spare changing or muggings. At the end of the hallway, a shellacked blonde with a rayon uniform and starched hair piece waited. A basket of perfumed,fluffy tissue was at her side.

Between us and our destination? An evil troll who required we answer a riddle. Well, kind of. A bewildering assortment of automated machines and lines, carefully delineated with electronic gates. Between myself and my two intrepid companions, we deciphered the French hieroglypics. One was a machine to make change. The other was a machine to buy an assortment of bathroom accoutrements. Following these, the genders were sharply divided. Men to the left, women to the right. Yet another sign proclaimed the cost of each line.

I was irritated to see it would cost my male friend .20 francs less to use la toliette than me. Did you know that women only got the federal vote in Switzerland in the 1970's? Holy guacamole. No, I didnt type that wrong. The discerning K then pointed out that the lines for men had a different price. While it was true that it costs men less than women for a "Number 1"; men have to publicly proclaim their purpose for the facilities. A male number one will only cost you .8 Swiss francs. A male number 2? Be prepared to shamefully wait in that shorter line for a cost of 1.8 Swiss francs. Women have to pay 2 Swiss francs, but get to avoid announcing their intent for the faciilities. That's actually worth more than .20 CHF to me, so I am not complaining!

Upon successfully navigating the lines, you arrive at a discreet, internal shrine. There is a coat check, perfumed lotions, and yet another attendant. Each stall is larger than my San Francisco studio.

The toilets of course, work just the same.

*Hercule Poirot is, of course, Agatha Christie's celebrated Belgian detective. A petite geriatrician with an egg shaped head, an exuberant handlebar mustache, and a dapper dresser.

Ode to Running Water and Hepatocytes

Sparks Malt Liquour Beverage
The Steel Brewing Co.
Milwaukee, WI


Attention Mr. Sparks and associated administrative minions,

Recently I had occasion to run across your “premium malt beverage” in the aisles of my local liquor store. I was entrusted with the grave task of purchasing alcohol for a annual family reunion. Relatives in various stages of cirrhosis convened from all over the state to camp, catch up and challenge hardened arteries to do their worst.

Purchasing the liquor for this sacred event was no light task; I took the responsibility seriously. Given the unfortunate events that transpired last year with Jim Beam’s Black Cherry Whiskey, Uncle Greg and the errant cow, I was in search of a stimulating malt beverage that would soothe family tensions, stimulate adrenaline and satisfy a pedestrian palate.

The resplendent packing caught my eye and I lingered there in the florescent aisles, my eyes caressing the sleek silver packaging, as I eagerly absorbed your company’s promises that I would finally “show the night who’s boss” and “Get in!” Did this beverage finally hold the sweet promise of beating my erstwhile uncles at beer pong? Would I finally have the energy to endure a vigorous game of horseshoes after eating cholesterol laden tidbits and lounging in my camp chair (beer cooler in arm rest) all day?

Again, the sweet promise, nay claim of your premium malt beverage “show the night who’s boss” caught my eye. The decision was made. Here was my diuretic nirvana- caffeine and malt liquor in one recyclable can! Emboldened, I purchased several cases and merrily packed the truck with the booze, the tent, and sundry junk food.

To strike directly to the heart of my litigious rage, miles were driven, camp was made, and cans of Sparks were rapidly consumed, comforted by the knowledge that soon, I would finally “be in” and “Show the night who’s boss.”

Sir, I spent the rest of the afternoon, evening, and entire night face down in an inner tube shaped like a rubber duckie while the rest of the family roasted marshmallows over my comatose ass. I am told that I remained in this position for the remainder of the weekend. Alas, I have no memory of events subsequent to popping the top on a can of “Sparks Lemon Stinger”, although the Facebook photos posted do provide an overwhelming sense of shame and regret, without reconstituting any actual memories. I am highly aggrieved that not just the night, but the afternoon as well, were not shown “who’s boss.”

Be advised that this constitutes a breach of contract. I am requesting a full refund of my wasted funds(including sales tax), postage, and compensation for my lost time, pain and suffering. J

Yours in outrage,
A Concerned Consumer

When in Cuba...

Your favorite intrepid gynecologist recently had an opportunity to travel to Havana, Cuba on an officially sanctioned medical research trip. From the time spent learning about the public health system, to family planning access to medical education to various cultural investigations, it was a highly educational week.



While I have the pictures to substantiate the educational claim, there are 24 hours in a day, and I made sure to use every last one of them.

A girl friend of mine, the lovely Miss B. happened to also be in Cuba at the same time, and we met up for mojitos and debriefing at the end of the week in Havana. Cubans are a highly friendly, chatty, caffeinated sort, so despite limited Spanish vocabulary, Miss B. had an excellent adventure to the eastern part of the country while I explored Havana.

Miss B and I have a habit of meeting up in random places and trading tales, many of which seem to involve public transportation and men. The last time we met for martinis, was in Washington DC, and the stories were in no short supply. We swapped the best lines we'd heard, and while Miss B always wins this competition, I try to keep up,just to keep her stories going.

Here's a brief sampling, just to set the tone. These all originate from the U.S

"Girl, you lookin' tastier than a bucket of some KFC!" High praise indeed, coming from a marginally housed individual.
Hollered from passing car, "I am Cuban! I have car!"
And to be fair, after seeing Cuban men, I can attest, you don't really need to know more than that.
"Don't forget-I'm bi, not gay!" Sure, sure you are.

Anyways, those who know the glamorous Miss B will not be suprised to hear that many of her self appointed Cuban tour guides were male. As we traded tales from the week, we agreed on one thing. Maybe it's the hourly espresso, or the intoxicatingly smooth, carmelly anejo rum, but Cubans are shockingly direct. For those cultural anthropologists among you, here's a comparison.

"Papi wants to take you to love motel." Wow. That skips right past Hello, what's your name, what do you do, and gets right to the point.

In the embarassing but true category, it took Miss B to explain to me that the pssssssssst-seeet-pssst noises, were not men calling for lost kitties in the streets of Havana, but that they were in fact trying to attract another type of "cat" their way. That really works? I guess it must.


Loud, wet, kissing noises also followed both of us through the streets, along with a guttural,but heartfelt "Ruuuuuubiaaaa." (translation- "Blooooondie!") This was almost as integral a part of the Cuban soundtrack as covers of the Buena Vista Social club's hit "Camaguey."

My personal favorite however, was the old men with nose hair, wider than they were tall, who would block our passage in the street, throw their arms open wide, give a big nasally "WOW, WOW, WOW" while undulating their beer bellies and giving the once over. Better than a Hallmark card.

On my last day there, I made a quick run to buy matching guayaberas for my brother and nephew. One of the med students, a cool girl from Philly accompanied me. After four years in Havana she's seen it all. She's sassy, cute and has a slightly sour sense of humor, so I liked her immediately.

As we wandered through the scorching streets, whistles and a particular word kept following in our sweaty, frizzy but apparently still lust inducing wake. "Cabeeellllllooooon!"
Hmm. My Spanish is really good, but I didnt know that one. Sort of sounds like head, horse and hair.

I asked A. who was rolling her eyes to explain.
"Oh, yeah. That's a popular one. It means "broodmare." Just a big ol' horse they want a ride on I guess."

I think I could have lived with that remaining lost in translation- I can't imagine many, if any, Americanas finding that flattering, but it certainly put a swing in the Cubanas walk.

Geriatric throwdown

The strange world of men...

Today while waiting in a long line for my morning bolus of caffeine, I witnessed a geriatric throwdown of epic proportions. Indeed. A long line of sleepy San Franciscans waited in a coffee shop off Divisadero. Yoga mats were slung over shoulders, unfortunate natural fiber outfits with quirky hats were interspersed with scrub attire and business suits. Sunshine streamed in the window. The effeminate barista peppered the crowd with cheery greetings lisped with great enthusiasm.

The door blew open and in walked a grumpy man in his sixties; corpulent, walrus mustache, thick glasses and mousy wife. The Walrus surveyed the packed room and barked at the Mouse, "Go get us that table! Go! Sit!"

Meekly she obeyed. I yawned and smugly contemplated spinisterhood. The line inched forward. By the coffee bar, a well dressed gentleman, tan, fit, white hair, late 50's? Talked with a blonde woman. At her side were two adorable dwarves. About seven years old, the girls had curls, matching dresses and sweet smiles.

"Daddy! Look! A fire truck!" one of the dwarves trilled to the Fit Geriatrician. The dwarves traipsed to the window for a better look. They passed the table at which the Mouse sat. Nary a breeze from their passing disturbed a shellacked hair on her head.

Nonetheless, "HEY!" bellowed Walrus.

Eh? I whipped my head up and around.

"Get control of your kids! They're bothering my wife! She don't need that! GET control of your kids NOw!" hollered Walrus.

Fit Geriatrician and Blonde looked shocked, then bemused. Replied Fit Geriatrician, "They're not bothering anyone. They just walked past your wife."

"I heard them! They said "Let's go bother that lady!" " galumphed the Walrus.

"No Daddy, we didnt!" Dwarf One protested while Dwarf 2 looked scared.

"That didnt happen" retorted Fit Geriatrian. "My daughters are good kids, they didnt bother her."

"Well you'd better get control of yer kids, or you and me are going to have a conversation outside!" bellowed the Walrus, as he shifted his impressive belly forward, and surveyed the large crowd with gathering pride.

"Ok," said Fit Geriatrician, "Let's go, right now." He angrily tossed off his beret and muscled through the line to the Walrus. There they stood, glaring, flexing aged muscles and emitting testosterone.

I was stunned. I kept waiting for a crowd to circle around them and begin the time honored chant of "Fight, Fight!"

Just then the slight Barista threw down his dishrag and in a throaty baritone projected, "HEY! You two! This is ridiculous and immature! Cut it out now!"

Fit Geriatrician bounced his aged pectorals one last time against the sagging chest of Walrus before walking away, menacingly.

Fit Geriatrician puffed out his chest. Walrus bowed his pendulous chins. The Barista went back to greeting his customers with high soprano cliches.

Every woman in the cafe looked at each other, and rolled their eyes.