Apr
9
Switzerland is a land of opposites. The world’s best hospitality university; shitty, shitty customer service. Open and modern nation-state allowing four (and an unofficial fifth) recognized languages; an intense resistance to learning/speaking the language of the folks ten minutes down the road. Either one hears about the majestic Alps, the killer snow sports and the hedonistic after-parties in thermal bath stations that are Swiss tourism, or one hears complaints and grumbles about how boring Switzerland is, how banal, slow, clean and strict it is. Now these are great generalities, I’m aware, but they do have some resonance in typical life here. The contrasts of Switzerland even affect my mood, so that I begin to wonder if I might be bi-polar.
Living in a new country and environment often brings out the critic in a person. It is easier to criticize, or note the negatives of a new experience, than it is to note the positives. A travel-log from a vacation would be heavily positive, dotted with small negative side-notes referring to the over-cooked paella or the unannounced closing of the Acropolis for restorations. Living in a place, however, is a challenge and thus in order to rise to that challenge, we usually whine about it.
Having a blog makes whining even easier. 
I try to keep a balanced view, interior to my own balance and moods, and also with my writing. I want to keep myself in check, and avoid the ugly habit of thinking or writing like life is the notation and listing of pros and cons. There are, as in any place, things that irritate me here, and things I love. What life really is here is, well, life. A series of challenges, surprises and pleasures like any life, anywhere, on any level. Even in the direst of human experiences, of which I make no claim to understand, life is to cling to the small pleasures. Yet, even as I love parts of my life here, moments and maturations that occur only because I am here, it remains clear that I do not want to stay here. I imagine my life here as a poor woman with the blessing of clean water, held in two buckets on a pole which I carry on my shoulders, walking down the dusty road to home. Except, one bucket is heavier and troublesome, causing the balance to shift awry, slowing me in my path and leading me into cursing the very blessing I’ve been given. I may stop to drink from one bucket, and recall my good fortune. Savor it immensely. But the disequilibration remains.
It might just be the weather.
And so, trying as I do to keep from bitching too much here, I now direct the spotlight to others - Foreigners, other expats and Swiss themselves - who surprised me with their critical views of Switzerland recently.
One of the complaints that I hear often is Swiss people’s frustration at the inability to make noise in their own homes. Homes being apartments. Neighbors in any apartment are notorious for becoming angry at the smallest noise after nine p.m. In some parts of the country it is not allowed to shower after 10 p.m. still. The three Swiss at our dinner recently exchanged stories like battle tales about run-ins with angry neighbors, and how they now live with a constant bickering, or fear of a letter in the mail from the rental agency. Our friend’s situation seems pretty dire: Her neighbors knock on the door to berate her if she wears high heels in the house. I would almost not believe her, except I know another friend who experiences worse. This woman is actually taking her neighbor to the Rental Agency "court," for being an abusive complainer! The woman has experienced, over a period of some months, threatening and malicious letters from a neighbor, which are posted on the main floor for all renters to read, accusing the woman of disturbing the peace in the building. The problem is, the woman and her husband have tried to appease this woman, have alerted her to any and all dinners taking place, have limited the number of guests they invite over at any one time and still the woman harasses them. When I asked her if other neighbors were being tormented she, who is Armenian with beautiful dark skin and hair said, "All the other couples are Swiss." She only writes these nasty letters about us." So, she is now photographing these letters and taking the woman to court: She’s had enough!
Meanwhile, an American friend recently
enlightened me to the fact that she feels a huge relief in living here,
unencumbered by social expectations and the feeling of judgmental
neighbors "breathing down my neck." She loves living in an apartment because she doesn’t feel the pressures of needing to be in the right neighborhood, or to feel that people are comparing her home with others’. And then there’s me. I simply find it mind-boggling that I can live in a building with six other apartments and never see a single person, child or pet in eight months.
Now, given my Swiss acquaintances plethora of experiences, it’s clear that everyone suffers under the expectation of silence, from the smallest of Swiss-only villages to the largest and most diverse city. However, if you hear enough stories, there is clearly a strain of racism playing part, particularly from the older generation to anyone looking non-Swiss. ( Interestingly, in Switzerland a person is not Swiss, even if born in Switzerland, if their father is not Swiss.) I have my own example: When I once called my old landlord - a woman of 86 who we still keep very much in contact with - I mentioned to her my new neighbor. "I’ve never seen him," I told her, ""But I know he is there because his noisy erratic singing occurs at all times throughout the day." Clearly the noise was an identifying trait to her: "Damn Portugese!" she grumbled.
A certain Swiss couple of ours has an actual, I’d say, hatred of the country at times. Actually, they say it. They would like to live in America. "That’s odd," I thought, "since my fiancé would like to live in America too. What’s the connection?" Usually Swiss people are fiercely proud of their country, or at least hometown and most that I know are verbally adamant that they would never leave, and will never leave. (Not unlike Americans I know, for what’s it is worth.) Since we happened to be at dinner with this couple when they said "Ugh, we hate it here, really hate it", I pushed them to explain. The common thread appears to be that they, like Jonathan, find that the Swiss culture is extremely limiting and controlling. Jon feels it in the business atmosphere, where risks are avoided like the plague and different ideas are generally feared and scoffed at. Our friends feel that creativity and entrepreneurship are stymied in this culture, and especially in Geneva. Self-expression is limited. Sure, a creative art exhibit might go up, but try to find any alternative-culture, or different enterprises and you will soon realize that the city-scape is extremely homogeneous.
Always the devil’s advocate, I countered that I know of a very cool, funky café which seems to have great success. "A fluke," they said. I know that Geneva can seem overly rich, overly elegant and utterly overdone, but I just couldn’t go with them on this argument. I did not see that creativity and counter-culture was really discouraged. The only thing I could agree with was that entrepreneurship is highly, highly rare because of the capital it requires to start one’s own business in this country. Any average person will never have the monetary means to bring their creative ideas to fruition on their own. They are forced then, to follow a certain path and to operate in certain working environments. That, yes, is limiting, and this aspect of the conversation gave me a new appreciation for the open entrepreneur spirit of America.
The key word of foundation to this discussion was "Failure;" a word that was never mentioned during this particular conversation; a theme I did not fully appreciate until recently. It took until a trip to England recently for me to learn a fundamental truth about Switzerland: The high standards Switzerland places on its people are hindering the country! Jon had already conveyed to me the depth of his culture’s perfection. He once told me a story of a man who did try to open his own shop, who then failed and who subsequently fled the town forever in shame. No one would hire him where his name was known. He may not even still live in Switzerland. Can you imagine? Well, while sitting in the foyer of an old Victorian home outside London, I was lucky to speak to a couple who are intelligent, British, but have family in Switzerland. We were discussing management styles in general, mostly between British and American styles, and individual personal styles as well. However, what the man said was eerily "spot-on," as they would say, about Switzerland’s whole culture! "If, under management, people are not allowed the ability to make mistakes, they will be incredibly slow." And this is just one of the most perfect things I’ve ever heard to explain Switzerland. The trains run on time, but sometimes it still feels like the dark ages here. "Feudal," is the word the Brits used. Still, I do know a couple who have made it their goal to start their own design business, and who may even quit their day jobs in the process. Heidi.com is already a success story of young entrepreneurship. Younger generations could change things.
I leave you with one last complaint, before I leave for America in the morning, and you know, the grass gets all greener: Last night’s dinner:
I peel back the aluminum lid of my FIFTEEN FRANC Thai Takeout Vegetable Medley to discover that either Jonathan had a rare and inexplicable urge for steamed vegetables that caused him to eat 3/4 of the container while driving home. Or, second option, I’ve been ripped off. Again.
Apr
8
The surprising thing is, I don’t really care if I learn how to make bread or not. Everyone else, or perhaps it is unique to expat American women living in Europe - really wants to learn to make bread. Personally I don’t eat bread very often: It is either an unnecessary additive to the meal, or the meal itself when its a worthy splurge. A splurge does takes place with a chunk of salty cheese and relies on a certain loaf from the supermarket downtown involving walnuts, hazelnuts AND figs. Another time that I might indulge, and nine times out of ten overindulge, is in bread from Jonathan’s parents village. The boulangerie in Bevaix has the best bread I have ever tasted: It’s often sold out by nine a.m. and I have called in advance to reserve a loaf when visitors from America were coming and this loaf of bread was typed into the week’s itenirary. Jon knows that if I buy this bread that I am going to end up on the far side of the table, arm wrapped protectively around my plate and a jar of homemade jam, and that I will bite if he gets too close.
Crackers are far superior. They are practical (nearly no spoilage factor,) crunchy and generally always have the same guaranteed flavor, one after another. Bread gets stale so quickly, or lacks salt or flavor. Or both. It sticks to the insides of my ribs (Okay, that’s just what my father tells me) and makes me feel uncomfortably full during dinner. When I was young I would eat the insides of the bread slices and leave the crunchy exterior rings in the basket, for my father who would shake his head and say "You’ve been raised by wolves," as he bit down into a deflated crust-ring. As with other things - beet, asparagus, sugared cereals - my tastes have changed so much since childhood. Jonathan knows the adult me so well that he will leave a note next to the bread in the morning saying, "Please leave me some crust." I have a steady habit of ripping off the very hard exterior to European bread, and leaving a lump of bread-innard in the sack.
Thus, given my antipathy towards bread in general, it was very odd that last Friday I hosted a bread-making class at my apartment. The class took place there only because the teacher, my friend Rosa, has a very narrow kitchen, and I have a completely open one with more lighting than an Ikea storeroom. Rosa is a master-chef who specializes in down home country American cooking, even though she’s never tasted it herself. I hope someday that will change. In fact, I hope one day to see her on the food network. I think she and Paula Dean could be BFF. I asked Rosa to teach me because I thought that she could teach me to make bagels. Jon and I were recently treated to a Rosa-made dinner, which consisted of, among many other things, the most fascinating dip of Yugoslavian base that I have ever tasted, a row of unbelievably perfectly formed square beet nibblets, and the coup d’etat: Homemade bagels, our choice of poppy-seed or normal, and we had one of each thank-you-very-much, smothered in capers, cream cheese and smoked salmon. Jon went home in a stupefied daze, much like the one after intercourse, and I figured it I don’t want to loose my husband before I’ve even married him, I’d better learn how to make those damned things!
Alas, other women caught wind of the bread-baking idea and the logistics of bagels had them thrown out for an easier "Basic" bread recipe to start with.
Rosa taught four of us, in teams of two, how to make a traditional Plait. Her secret ingredient was a drop of Kirsch, which is actually the real recipe, but something that bakeries probably don’t even include anymore.
There was much mixing, setting, kneading, laughing, poking, basting, laughing and then there was a special course of Lemon-Ricotta Pesto and Spaghetti that we made, then dined on while the dough rose for an hour or so.
My plait was lumpy and misshapen because my three rolls were not uniform. Rosa’s was perfect, which is to be expected since she makes bread once or twice a week (You should see her biceps!), and just because she’s Rosa. However, there is nothing more annoying that a person who makes a perfect plait the first time trying.
Here is Stephanie, making a perfect plait her first time trying.
Here is Rosa’s, or it could be any of the other womens’ just not mine, loaf, under wraps in a cool, dry place.
Et, voila! The final product (Don’t worry, I didn’t let him get any closer!) Actually, at the end of the day - and it was a "day," this bread took us five hours including all the pauses for explanation and pauses for tangent-stories that females are apt to toss out - I had a fabulous time making bread. Jon says that I will fail the next three times that I make it. "That’s bread," he said. "It only worked because there was an expert in the kitchen. You’ll have to fail many times before you learn."
Maybe I’ll just stick to my Wasa crackers.
Apr
3
The woes of the US Economy don’t just hit the banks and big-shots here in Europe, they also hit the lowly bride-to-be. There’s no way that I could have anticipated the turning of economic events that have taken place this year when Jonathan and I chose the wedding date last summer. Now it seems it is the worst timing.
The disappointing aspect to the situation is that nearly no Americans are coming to the wedding. I am not angry, and as the string of No’s flooded into my inbox or to my mother’s telephone last month I only felt fear and worry. I am fearful for my family, and for everyone suffering as all must be through this low point, and also worried at the prospect of moving to America next year, when this thing might not be over. Certainly I am disappointed. Up until last month 3/4 of those Americans I’d invited has already said no for various reasons - though mostly for money. I was already lamenting the fact that we’d chosen PEAK season for airfare in the worst kind of virgin-tourist decision style. I reminded myself that this was to allow the most important persons to be with me (Interestingly, almost ALL the most importants are involved in school and dictated by summer breaks) and this soothed me some. From then on a group of ten or so Texans were leaning towards coming, and sending promising signs.
A month ago the economy tumbled, and they decided to stay home. I believe the reason I did not cry, or get upset, is because I know they want to be here and it’s out of there hands. It’s really just bad timing for a wedding.
The irritating aspect is that my parents are paying the majority of the wedding bills and as the dollar continues to fall, so does the reach that their dollars have here. Which in turn means that as the dollar falls, the amount that Jon and I need to come up with on our end, in Francs, rises.
Taking all this into account, it is not surprising that I did nothing at all for the wedding during the month of March. I don’t have trial hairstyles to do here, or makeup runs, or dress fittings here. It’s been incredibly stress-free (so far) and to be honest, I forgot it was going on for a few weeks last month. When I did, I felt down that I was not in America where I could be having these appointments, get-togethers, maybe even a bridal shower. I’d be spending evenings browsing magazines over coffee with my friend in Barnes and Nobles, and weekend days in Michaels with my mom, finding craft materials. Here, I tried once to wait for Martha Stewart Weddings incredibly cumbersome site to load, gave up after fifteen minutes and never visited again.
One day, Jon even asked me if I was still happy to have chosen to have the wedding here.
Well, I could answer him honestly yes at the time - when I was probably at my lowest about this thing - and so I know that it was the right choice. I live here; we live here. I am a very DIY, hands-on kind of planner. I could not enjoy something that I had to plan blindly. Besides, Switzerland is, ah-hem, a tad bit prettier than Indiana. I feel absolutely no real connection to Indiana and would have insisted upon a destination wedding somewhere in America we’d never been. I.E. This shin-dig would’ve become very expensive.
Now that it is April things are picking up speed. I suppose the debut of spring has a profound effect on my mood as well, and I’m more motivated to tackle this list of things to do. And what a list it is. What was I thinking not doing anything in March?!? Oh yeah, I work better under pressure…
I am happy to have the wedding here. I am thankful that my close and truly intimate family is coming. My oldest friend is flying in for 36 hours in total. My other best friend is coming for a whole week. Jonathan is currently trying to coax me down from my soap-box about Geneva’s prices and indulge on a manicure here with her. Good thing he started early. My mother, brother, father and mother’s two best friends are coming. These two women are incredibly goofy and lovable and will bring a presence to the wedding that is truly unique. In fact, there is a part of me that really connects with them, and really only comes out when they are around. They take care of my mom too. So, they’re presence is a blessing.
Additionally, and this may sound crass but I’m a pragmatist, the small number of travelers means much less logistical work for me. I can actually visualize all of their flights, train rides, and the weekend flowing. (I do visualize it. I don’t sleep much.) I only get hung up about getting them to the wedding. Details! Seriously, I really just need one person to rent a car, or for Jon’s Aunt to be generous enough to help chauffeur, and to be honest, with the economic situation as it is, I am not inclined to ask travelers to rent a car. This detail I KNOW will work out, so I am not worried.
Finally, as the realization that very few Americans were coming has hit home, I have found myself scratching things off my list of to-do’s. I very much wanted to go the extra mile in crafty projects for this wedding. My mom constantly warns me not to overload myself, and I remind her that as I am not having a Bridal Shower, Bachelorette Party, or Rehearsal Dinner, I really can stand to make a newsletter for the reception toilets. I’ve got the time. Yet, now that it’s just the small group coming I’ve scratched that off the list.
If I sit down and think about the depth of this action, well, I get really confused. This post could get long as I attempt to explain to you, and to myself, where my motivation came from to do all these little crafty touches/matching color schemes (marketing, expectation, pride, the desire to impress?) and where they’ve gone now as a result of not having the audience I anticipated. Why don’t I still want to do these things for the few who come? Why don’t I want to do them for all the Swiss (whom I know nearly all of) coming? I still want to find sexy teal shoes (to no luck), but I’m knocking off the Bathroom Newsletter and a few other things.
I think Switzerland has a lot to do with this. Living here has given me perspective and intimate knowledge of a balanced life. I’ve also discovered the ability to enjoy, without guilt, the pleasures I find in life. Therefore I can actually look at a list of potential wedding crafts, calculate how many weeks are left, and weigh that against my desire to get the camera back out, get out for long walks as spring commences, to make collages, to relearn Italian, to go hiking in Italy, to make actual meals instead of dumping tuna and crackers in a bowl as I narrow my "list" down, and to clean the apartment at a consistent rate. When I do this weighing exercise, life wins out. Imagine that. I don’t think that I would have the same answer in America, at least not me, prior to this experience.
In face of my disappointment about bad-timing, and my subtle irritation about people who do not write me back, and dresses that have not been ordered, I am able to pinpoint with clarity the things that matter. A single card, out of the blue, from a friend in Neuchâtel who I see often enough, showed up in the snail mail to wish us Congratulations. My Dad is learning French. He would never tell me, but his girlfriend does, and he’s even ordered CDs! My mother is reading a self-written poem (hmm, Dad might too, but two poets reading is likely as smart an idea as having two chefs make the meal) and she is currently also taking French class and practicing the poem in French with a tutor. My best friend is learning a special blessing dance to perform for our guests. My other friend is flying here for 36 hours, did I mention? Last but not least, there’s Jon, which is all there really needs to be.
(A clear sky wouldn’t hurt either.)
