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.