The Top (and Bottom) of Geneva

The number one thing I will miss about Geneva: 

The People 

(you know who you are)

The Birkenstocks

My Biking Belgian

Crazy Canadians

Muses in the South of France

The Original Diehards

Canadians--We're Everywhere!

The Geneva Writers' Group and their exceptional leader

My Corsier Family

And the number one thing I won't miss about Geneva: 

The Occasional Public Toilet

And, yes, this is the ladies room.  It's 2009 people!!!

Good-bye, Au Revoir, and See You Soon!!!

The Geneva Top Two

Things I will miss most about Geneva #2: 

The Mountains

Nestled between the Jura and the Alps, Geneva is a short drive from some of the most beautiful places on Earth.

Avoriaz

Andermatt

The Mighty's on the télésiege at Les Gets

Mouse on Top of the World

The Chalet

La campagne near Gruyère

"Allez touriste! Vous n'avez jamais encore vu une vache?"

Things I won't miss #2:

Swiss Medicine

Take a glass of the world's most bitter grapefruit juice, stir in an equal amount of dish soap, then take a sip--that's what medications taste like here. A dear friend once confessed that her child would sooner take a suppository than allow Swiss medicine past her lips.  That's just not right, yet I see her point. Medication does not have to taste like it's going to kill you to be effective!!!

The Geneva Top Three

Things I will miss most about Geneva #3: 

The Lake

Things that I won't miss #3: 

Motorcycles and Scooters

If you share the road, share the rules!  Don't pass on the right. Don't cross a solid white line. Don't park on the sidewalk. And, for God sakes, don't jump a curb to avoid a red light. I can say this with impunity because the Captain ranks among the top offenders, maybe not for the last one, but easily for the others. 

You all are lucky to be alive.  Don't push it.

The Geneva Top Four

Things that I'll miss: The Food

Pizza at da Paolo

Lamb Shanks from Globus

Fresh Garlic from Argeles

Grapes on the Vine in the Geneva Campagne

Saucisse Frites Everywhere

Tuesday's with Monsieur Poulet

The Corsier Friday Marché

Things that I won't miss #4: Parking

Park any more to the right and you'll get a nasty-gram on your windshield by morning. Any more to the left and you'll sleep in your car.

The Geneva Top Five

I can't help but get a touch sentimental at times like this. We're moving in less than a week and heaven knows when we'll make it back.  If there is one thing the last few months have taught me is that the best laid plans can change when you least expect them. In honour of this, for the next few days I will share with you the top five things I will miss about Geneva. To keep things from getting too sappy, I'll share my least favourite things as well--there are a few.  Here goes!

Things I will miss #5:  Travel

Porticos in Bologna, Italy

Beer in Belgium

Walking the Beach in Argeles, France

Champagne in Epernay

Above the clouds in Interlaken

The Market in Barcelona, Spain

View over Lugano, Switzerland

Cinque Terra, Italy

Things I won't miss #5:

Having to go to three different stores for groceries.  Why is it impossible to find Colgate toothpaste, creamy peanut butter, chili powder and beer all at the same store?  Why must I go to France to buy Cheerios and Nateos cereal? Both are packaged by Nestle and last time I checked Nestle was SWISS! Migros and Coop both carry Heinz ketchup but only Coop carries Heinz baked beans. Why? Why? Why?

Who needs chocolate?

Allow me to present Hans, the yodeling marmotte: 

Merci Anne-Valerie et Marie-Claude!

Comme toujours, vous me faites rire.

Sick à la Suisse

Parc de la Grange,  ten minutes before impact.

Our new apartment is a stone's throw from Parc de la Grange, an enormous green space in the Eaux Vives quarter of downtown Geneva. As it happens, it is the girls' preferred outdoor play place and invariably brings back memories of our first weeks in Geneva.  Saturday morning Emma, Mouse, Honey and I headed over for a quick play and romp before setting off for the mountains.  The girls were on the giant climbing structure all of ten minutes when Emma took a tumble, bashing her chin against a metal bar. To say her scream was heart-stopping would be an understatement. By the time I reached her, blood was streaming through her fingers and down her neck as she clutched the injured area for dear life. I pried her hands away to reveal a gaping slit just over a centimeter wide on the underside of her chin.  

Our plans had just changed. 

I searched my pockets for something to place over the cut. Nothing. I whipped off my coat, then my shirt, bundling the bright red jersey under her jaw. Luckily--or perhaps not so--there were no close spectators, save Mouse who thought I had lost my mind. Once I had my coat on again we headed back home where I called the hospital.  They said to come right away and thanked me for calling first.  Before leaving the apartment I checked that I had my proof-of-insurance letter, also known as an attestation, a picture book, and some North American pain reliever. (Emma can't handle the bloody awful Swiss stuff and I can't say I blame her.)  Two hours later we were home again with a pair of stitches and instructions to see our family doctor in five days to have them removed.  A bill will come in the mail at the end of the month.  

I have always been impressed by the quality and timeliness of the medical care we've received in Switzerland.  Doctors are punctual and thorough. They never appear rushed. Even emergency rooms have an air of tranquility that simply no longer exists in Canada, if it ever did. Of course, we're insured. If I hadn't been, what then? 

I will be interested to see how the American health care system has evolved since I worked there ten years ago.  When I left, insurance companies were attempting to dictate what was appropriate care. Two physiotherapy visits for this diagnosis;  three for that.  It was insulting and, at times, downright scary. Vigilance was required to ensure you received the appropriate care and not just what the insurance company would pay for. I expect not much has changed.  We'll see.  In any case, it's been a grand experience in Switzerland. 

Bravo la Suisse!

(Photos courtesy of my iPhone.  Not bad, eh?)

Ewe did what?

My Belgian friend and I cycle together. We've done so once per week for the past year and a half and invariably come home with a story. Our very first ride resulted in a near-miss encounter with a neighbourhood bull.  Typically I return home both physically and mentally exhausted. French is hard enough on its own, let alone at 20kph.   Yesterday's experience, however, was exhilarating and one I won't soon forget.  

We'd noticed the pasture on the outward journey: two dozen sheep, both white and brown, and a dozen or so lambs, sprinting from one end of the field to the other.  Truly the picture of spring, not late February. We commented on how cute they looked, but rode on. It was on the trip home that we paused. A ewe stood apart from the others beneath a lonesome oak. She scratched the earth with her front hooves, then bore down, her sides tensing, her breath held. Again and again, both standing and on her side, she worked until her baby appeared: a puddle of white, slick and still. We watched, waiting. It was born breach and placenta first. After an eternity it moved, just it's head, but it moved. The lamb was alive. Amazing.

Valentine's Day à la Suisse

Valentine's Day is a decidedly grown-up celebration in Switzerland. Pink and red, heart-felt greetings are reserved for the over-twelve crowd. When I told my Swiss friends of the Canadian tradition of kids exchanging cards with their classmates, they thought it was a tad bizarre. Tant pis! (Oh, well.) Some traditions just don't translate. 

Our family celebrates Valentine's Day with chocolate fondue. Served up with heaps of cut bananas and strawberries, not only is it tasty, but it also doesn't earn any raised eyebrows. It's one tradition we'll carry on no matter where we're living. 

Bon appétit! 

Breaking the News

We'd just finished supper, but the plates still littered the table.

"We have some news, girls.  We're going to move to the United States." 

Emma's eyes puddled with tears. "I don't want to move. Sylvie is too precious. "  Sylvie, the best friend.  Mouse frowned furiously, trying her best to mimic Emma's desperate sincerity, but missing the mark. She was excited.

Emma moved to my lap and Mouse, to the Captains. We listened to their fears of leaving their friends, their teachers, their home. We reminded them of people they knew who had moved to the same place--too many. We told them things they might see as the upside of the coming change: they could go to school in English every day; they would see their Canadian family more often; and, where we were headed, there were no twisty roads.  None.  Emma would not be consoled. Mouse brightened. 

I shared my own experience of moving from Canada to the United States when I was seven. "The other kids thought, because I came from Canada, that I had lived in an igloo.  I didn't correct them--at least not at first." Mouse giggled. Emma smiled, her body still rigid in my arms.  

I told them about moving back to Canada when I was thirteen and how I didn't want to go. "My best friend Jessica and I wrote letters to each other for years after that. Sometimes we sent each other pictures and stickers. And did you know, she came to Daddy's and my wedding?  Just because you live far apart doesn't mean you can't be friends." Evidently this story struck home because Emma relaxed into my shoulder, letting me rest my cheek on the top of her head. She loves mail.

Finally came a legitimate question. "When?" 

"March." We couldn't be more specific. At least, not yet.

The girls went to bed late that night. Excited, sad, and everything in between. It went as well as could be expected.

For expert advice on how to support your child when moving between cultures, listen to this fabulous podcast by child and adolescent psychotherapist Rachel Melville-Thomas of World Radio Switzerland. 

Puddle Jumping

It's official: the Mighty's are moving to the USA.  

To be perfectly honest, I'm nervous, but not terrified. Having survived the transition from Canada to Switzerland with a pre-schooler and toddler in tow, not much can phase me. What troubles me is not so much the unknowns but rather losing what we've worked so hard to achieve. Switzerland has afforded our family the opportunity to live bilingually, perhaps more so than our native Canada. Both my girls speak French like little Genevoises. Emma the Brave even boasts a smattering of Swiss German. Mouse can sing Happy Birthday in four languages, though she can't tell me what the fourth one is. It's only natural that these assets will fade. Like a hole in the sand, our new life will fill in the gaps left by the old.  It's just that there is too much I don't want to forget. It was so hard, so worth it. 

Onward, ho!

Season's Greetings à la Suisse

Vacance de Noel is finally here and not a moment too soon. I had only just put my novel's latest draft to bed when the call came: one of the teaching assistants at the school was sick, could I come in? Eager to put my shiny new work permit to the test, I was quick to accept. I would have to do lunch duty a few times, would that be a problem? Pshaw! I thought. Bring it on.

I have since come to the conclusion that there is a special place in heaven for lunch ladies. Strive as I might, I cannot recall the faces let alone the names of the martyrs who, year after year, paced the cafeterias of my youth. Of course, back then, I'm fairly certain none of my buddies carried anaphylactic shock kits with them, or if they did, they kept their secret well hidden.

I had just finished passing out the hot lunch plates--hamburgers on sesame seed buns--when a young girl ran up to me. She had swallowed a sesame seed that her table mate had flicked in her direction. Already her lips were tingling and turning red. She guided me to the box where her anti-histamines were kept. I watched as she counted eight drops from the bottle onto a spoon, then swallowed them. I hovered, waiting for them to kick in, all the while declaring an official cease fire in the battle of the buns. In the end, all went well. The drops had done their job and an all-out hamburger war had been averted. Day one of lunch duty was over. Two weeks later it's safe to say I may never enjoy this aspect of the job. There was bound to be one.

The girls are beside themselves with anticipation: euphoric one minute and miserable the next. I've had to wake them for school every day for the past three weeks. Given their normal tendency to wake earlier than your average rooster, this behavioural shift is indeed remarkable. Emma the Brave charges down each morning to devour her advent chocolate. Mouse is, for the most part, saving her chocolate squares for Christmas morning. Emma's warned her that eating that much chocolate at once will amount to a big tummy ache. Mouse is not concerned.

Geneva is poised on the brink of yet another Christmas. Lights, however understated, are strung up. Restaurants are serving vin chaud and small wooden shacks have sprouted on street corners selling roasted chestnuts or marrons. The grocery stores are stocked with mounds of shellfish and are accepting orders for Christmas turkeys--fresh never frozen. There are sweet potatoes and cranberries for us North Americans who can't go without. Platters of dried fruit sit wrapped and ready for giving. In the midst of all this hoopla it's easy to forget what this celebration is about: a long time ago there lived a man who dreamed of peace.

Wishing a happy, healthy holiday season to you and yours!

May peace be with you,

Mighty Mom

Santa à la Suisse

Santa and star ornament made by Mighty Mouse

Santa and star ornament made by Emma the Brave

Halloween à la Suisse

Halloween is not officially celebrated in Switzerland, though it's presence has certainly become more evident over the past five years. The grocery stores now carry a limited selection of spooky costumes and the odd family will throw a party. Door-to-door grovelling for sweets has not yet reached our end of the pasture, but it's only a matter of time. As much as one might object to the sinister undertones of this the spookiest of holidays, its kid appeal is hard to beat.

A long-standing tradition in our household is to listen to Saint-Saëns's Danse Macabre on the days leading up to the big night. I was thirteen years old when I performed Danse Macabre with my town's youth symphony and the piece has stuck with me ever since. It opens to the sound of a single violin plucking the stroke of twelve. It's midnight on Halloween. Death appears with his fiddle and calls forth the dead from their graves to dance. One by one, they rise from their earthly beds, old and young, rich and poor, to dance together as equals in the darkness. Bones rattle as wind whips through the trees, sending leaves swirling, until, suddenly, there is the faintest hint of light. Death is first sorrowful, then defiant, leading the dead into another frenzied burst of dance. Only when the cock crows, signaling the break of dawn, do the dead finally scury back to their tombs, bringing the festivities to a close for yet another year.

Click below if you wish to give it a listen:

The Vultures Are Circling

This picture I caught of a bearded vulture feels rather fitting at the moment...

Panique pas!

Two weeks ago I came home to two men sitting at my kitchen table. One was my landlord, the other, a real estate agent.

"Paniques pas," said my ever-charming proprietaire. He assured me he was only thinking about selling the house. Thinking about it? There was a realtor sitting in Emma's chair with official looking forms sprawled where she normally eats her cereal. Don't panic? Too late.

A week later two workmen arrived to repair the roof. Today painters are erecting their scaffolding outside my kitchen window. As the place has been left virtually untouched since the mid '70's, this does not bode well. It's one thing to move because you want to; it's quite another to be evicted. While I've been assured that the local laws favour us locateurs, I can't help but be worried. It may not be our house, but it's our home.

Queen of All She Surveys

Honey tends to believe that all she sees from our garden belongs to her. This amounts to a great deal of senseless barking at perfectly respectable farm vehicles. All I can say is that it's a good thing we don't live up here!

Photo taken from the top of the Schilthorn in the the Bernese Oberland.

The Life of Mighty Mom in the style of Julia Donaldson

There was a young woman with a husband and pup
who had almost no time to do all she thought up.

A wise old man heard her grumble and gripe,
"There's not enough time in my life.
Wise old man, would you help me please?
My life is a squash and a squeeze."

"Have a child," he said, "maybe two, if you can."

"Have a child? Or two? What a curious plan."

So they first had a girl, then a second soon after,
and, surely enough, time began to move faster.

The young lady cried, "Oh, what shall I do?
One baby takes time. It's double with two!
I hardly have time to properly sneeze.
My life is a squash and a squeeze."
She said, "Wise old man, would you help me please?
My life is a squash and a squeeze."

"Move house," said the man, "to Europe, if you can."

"Move house? To Europe? What a curious plan."

So move house they did, to Europe, no less.
Brushing up on her French brought her no end of stress.

The young woman cried as she slumped on a bench,
"Things were harder in English, but horrid in French!
The baby is sick. The toddler won't eat.
To make matters worse, they barely will sleep.
Wise old man, would you help me please?
My life is a squash and a squeeze."

"Go back to school," said the wise old man.

"Go back to school? What a curious plan."

So she signed up online and studied at night.
and, surely enough, it was sleep she would fight.
The woman, she cried, "What's with this old man?
Is he trying to kill with these curious plans?"

In a sleep-deprived moment, as she lay on the floor,
against her best judgment, she called out once more:
"Wise old man, would you help me please?
My life is a squash and a squeeze."

He said, "Join a committee and start up a blog,
volunteer at a school and make time to jog.
Edit a novel and write one yourself,
but do not forget to take care of your health."

"And when, may I ask, can I throw them all out?"

"Whenever you want, though I do have my doubts."

I thought for a spell.
He knew me too well.

"My life is a squash and a squeeze, old man,
full of frolicks and fun and fiddle-dee-dees,
a perfect squash and a squeeze."

Hungry?

Here are a few tasty images from this year's Fete de la Courge in Corsier:

Chicken Wings

Paella

Gateau Bordelais

You can appreciate why I'm beginning to regret my saucisse and bread...

Le Meteo

There be snow in them thar hills! Yippee!