“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.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Sunday, September 12, 2010
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.
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.
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