“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.
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