Friday, August 20, 2010
Haunts for Lovers
Europe is romantic, and Suisse Romande is no exception. The summer months of warm evenings and late dinners at outdoor village bistros and side street cafes make for magical nights that stretch out for hours as friends and couples chat and tell stories and remember poignant moments that began romances or defined forever the history of who they were and how they understood each other. When we talk to old couples they almost invariably love to remember to us small events in their past that made clear who they truly were, and who they would be with each other, and in telling us their stories you can see them fall in love again a little bit as they go back into that moment in time. Sometimes as they talk they will hold hands lightly or touch the other's arm or shoulder unconsciously. Of course sometimes these old couples begin reciting a litany of ancient gripes they have against one another in ever increasing volume and we bail out as fast as we can as we feign an inability to understand to French.
A few weeks ago as we spent the afternoon in Geneva's old city browsing art galleries and bookstores, I saw couples here and there, clearly caught in the spell of romance. Strolling along arm in arm, kissing in shop doorways, lounging in the small green parks that are scattered throughout the city, sitting at a cafe table drinking coffees and talking about nothing in particular. And as the spell of romance caught them, they wove a larger spell for others to be drawn into. Couples in love bring a warmth to the world around them, sometimes in the most surprising ways.
I read recently that Geneva and its suburbs are composed of something like forty percent ex-pats, most of whom are here for six month to two year stays. Many of our friends, like us, live in rental houses with a mix of a little rental furniture and a lot of furniture and household goods purchased at.... Ikea. On a recent visit to our friends for dinner, on the way to the patio dining area, they waltzed us past the rest of the house with a dismissive wave saying "There's nothing to see here - everything is from Ikea."
Ikea (pronounced here as "ee Kay uh") is about a half an hour away from Geneva just off the freeway, and it is always packed. You overhear every language - German, Spanish, Arabic - you name it, and see people from every corner of the world. The effect can be surreal as you walk deeper and deeper into the bowels of this super store and hear an incomprehensible babble of mixed tongues murmuring, chatting and debating. At some point you can feel a sense of panic as you realize you've hiked for several minutes into the store and there is no apparent way out, only more sub chambers leading you seemingly deeper into the building. This is where I found myself recently when I discovered something else about the store: here, deep inside Ikea, most of the couples are young Swiss French and French, and amongst them the spell of romance is woven.
Everywhere you look there are young couples holding hands, arm in arm, or arms around each other as they stroll the showrooms, working through their lists or earnestly discussing in quiet voices the future they hope for and the pieces of the life they are building with each other. You see the hope in their eyes, the quiet, subtle thrill, as they discuss and choose the bed they will share, the crib that their child will sleep in, the dining table where they will sit together and discuss the moments of their life and invent dreams that will become their future. You look at the way they stand and talk with each other and see not what we think of as traditional romance, but the other romance - the romance of creating a life together. There is something gentle and sacred about these couples, some of them pushing strollers, some with small children in tow, most often just the two of them.
This is where love is truly made, not happily stumbled upon - In the most modest of beginnings, with little money and great hope and an inspiration to make a life together. This is about the journey forward into time with nothing to see you through other than a commitment to create something new and the excitement at discovering who you and the one you love will become. While images of love are magical and the images of lovers in love are everywhere, here the romance is all but hidden, yet palpable. Who would have imagined? Ikea is for lovers.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Naughty, Naughty! Eating in the land of sausage and duck fat.
You eat things over here you would never even consider putting in your mouth back in the U.S. Take, for instance, saucisson a l'ail - garlic sausage. It has all the pork fat and probably ten times the garlic of anything that ever crossed your lips or your imagination and, good God, it is scrumptious.
As I write these words I have a little platter of goodies to push me along. The chili pepper and garlic olives I bought at the open air market across the border in Divonne a few days ago have bee stung my lips into puffy, chubby senselessness and my tongue looks and feels like a kiwi fruit, but I don't really mind since I'm quaffing an ice cold Tavel Rose (berry flavored and suffused with hints of roses, lemon and fresh cut grasses - so delicious!), I don't have to try to talk, and no one can see me anyway. And the garlic sausage! There is so much garlic in it that the force of the flavor is simply intoxicating. Olives, sausage, rose... add in some slices of eggshell crisp on the outside and silky velvet chewiness on the inside, still warm from the bakery, french baguette and you have a stupefyingly delicious melange of eating going on.
Just the other night at a dinner we were goaded on by our European friends into eating the sauteed in garlic and truffles engorged liver of a poor little force fed duck. The famous here, and infamous in the U.S., foie gras. I will grudgingly concede that that duck, perhaps, did not suffer and die in vain. On odd occasions I catch myself licking my lips and contemplating that satiny buttery explosion of flavor one more time. How did I arrive at this place? I can only fall back on that age old defense - "the devil made me do it!"
And the truffles!... oh dear. We had some potato, sausage and cheese tartiflette (baked bubbling casserole) from the haute savoie that was laced with shallots and covered with shaved truffles, and with the first bite I was transported back to some time in my past when I was two or three years old. I looked around cautiously at other people at the table because I instinctively knew that this was really... naughty! To me truffles taste kind of dirty - as in morally wrong. They are suffused with a hint of nasty dirty that takes up where the stinky cheeses leave off. The flavor comes from somewhere over in the forbidden zone and leaves you with an itch you want to scratch again. I had an overwhelming sense of hedonistic pleasure, and the fearful guilt that this was going to get me in really, really big trouble. I suppose my cardiovascular system was screaming at me but I couldn't really hear it over the animated conversation all around and the gurgling of the wine as our glasses were re-filled.
And for dessert? Fifty to sixty percent butterfat cheeses, creme brule that is little more than cream, eggs and sugar, or chocolate mousse that is little more than.... cream, eggs, and sugar - and chocolate!
As I contemplate another one of these dinners I already have no willpower to resist. I know I'm going to do the whole thing again with only the slightest encouragement. Am I a bad person? NO! It can't be!
Ok. Maybe the devil really did make me do it.
As I write these words I have a little platter of goodies to push me along. The chili pepper and garlic olives I bought at the open air market across the border in Divonne a few days ago have bee stung my lips into puffy, chubby senselessness and my tongue looks and feels like a kiwi fruit, but I don't really mind since I'm quaffing an ice cold Tavel Rose (berry flavored and suffused with hints of roses, lemon and fresh cut grasses - so delicious!), I don't have to try to talk, and no one can see me anyway. And the garlic sausage! There is so much garlic in it that the force of the flavor is simply intoxicating. Olives, sausage, rose... add in some slices of eggshell crisp on the outside and silky velvet chewiness on the inside, still warm from the bakery, french baguette and you have a stupefyingly delicious melange of eating going on.
Just the other night at a dinner we were goaded on by our European friends into eating the sauteed in garlic and truffles engorged liver of a poor little force fed duck. The famous here, and infamous in the U.S., foie gras. I will grudgingly concede that that duck, perhaps, did not suffer and die in vain. On odd occasions I catch myself licking my lips and contemplating that satiny buttery explosion of flavor one more time. How did I arrive at this place? I can only fall back on that age old defense - "the devil made me do it!"
And the truffles!... oh dear. We had some potato, sausage and cheese tartiflette (baked bubbling casserole) from the haute savoie that was laced with shallots and covered with shaved truffles, and with the first bite I was transported back to some time in my past when I was two or three years old. I looked around cautiously at other people at the table because I instinctively knew that this was really... naughty! To me truffles taste kind of dirty - as in morally wrong. They are suffused with a hint of nasty dirty that takes up where the stinky cheeses leave off. The flavor comes from somewhere over in the forbidden zone and leaves you with an itch you want to scratch again. I had an overwhelming sense of hedonistic pleasure, and the fearful guilt that this was going to get me in really, really big trouble. I suppose my cardiovascular system was screaming at me but I couldn't really hear it over the animated conversation all around and the gurgling of the wine as our glasses were re-filled.
And for dessert? Fifty to sixty percent butterfat cheeses, creme brule that is little more than cream, eggs and sugar, or chocolate mousse that is little more than.... cream, eggs, and sugar - and chocolate!
As I contemplate another one of these dinners I already have no willpower to resist. I know I'm going to do the whole thing again with only the slightest encouragement. Am I a bad person? NO! It can't be!
Ok. Maybe the devil really did make me do it.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
The Cow-Dog days of Summer
Summer has crept into Suisse Romande in the last few weeks arriving on the heels of several days of chilly wind and rain coming late in June. Suddenly we are baking in a steamy souffle of rolling afternoon heat filled with flurries of tiny bugs, rough perfumes of farmland crops and baking woodland forests, and the sounds of neighbors splashing in their pools and watering their lawns and flowerbeds in the late afternoons and into the darkness of the very late nights we keep here. It gets dark around 10:30 and that is when the evening coolness breathes life into the villages and street side cafes and bistros. Man is it hot.
"Switzerland" usually conjures up visions of the snow covered Matterhorn and the Riccola alpine horn players with snow capped alps in the background, but in summer Suisse Romande can be roasting. The temperatures have been in the high eighties the last few weeks, touching ninety in the shade, and the humidity is sticky and unremitting. The afternoons put everyone into a torpor. Yesterday afternoon as I drove through a small farming village nearby I came across several small herds of cattle huddled in the shade, ears flattened down, eyes closed, unmoving. They looked completely gassed. At our house the cats and dogs lay in the coolest part of the house panting faintly. A few days ago I went out and bought an air conditioner for our bedroom in hopes that we could sleep at night.
Although it was the size of a large mini fridge and had an instruction booklet written in fourteen languages it turned out to be a pathetic machine. It blew an anemic stream of tepid air up towards the ceiling and the exhaust, which I vented out the window, felt like the same temperature as the air blowing into our room. Hours after I had turned it on the room felt exactly the same as it had before. The next day I went out and bought an old fashioned fan and we found that much more to our liking as we turned it on us at full power all night and kept the air in the room moving. Even the dogs came up and slept where the fan could blow on them.
Changes in the farmland have suddenly become obvious. The fields of colza have gone caramel colored and the wheat fields are the yellow color of straw with a pale under wash of dark green. Corn fields that were calf high seemingly for weeks are suddenly chest and head high and are visibly growing inches each day. The sunflower fields are just opening into yellow, and the dark green plants are growing thick and burly. The upshot of all this is that the markets are overflowing with gorgeous produce from the surrounding areas.
The apricots and nectarines are dark colored and dead ripe when you buy them in the markets.
They last one day in the fridge, so its best to eat them the same day you buy them. Having lived on the green picked industrial fruit that we mostly get in southern California we find the fruit here is magnificent. The eggplants, beans and peppers are exquisite too. Locally grown produce is a subtle luxury and we are enjoying it immensely. Our backyard is filled with berry bushes and we are picking several pints a week of raspberries, strawberries and red and black currants. Crushing them in your mouth they seemingly explode with tart earthy juices the flavor of summer and happiness.
The major challenge now is cold drinks. At bistros and restaurants the beers and sodas are served cool, but not really cold, you know, like ice cold, and with the heat they are soon tepid. We don't really fret over it though. We eat, we talk, we sip our drinks and bask in the ambiance of hot summer nights filled with interesting friends, good conversation, and good food. We are living in the warm, slow lane of Europe's summer, and it is a subtle, languorous pleasure.
"Switzerland" usually conjures up visions of the snow covered Matterhorn and the Riccola alpine horn players with snow capped alps in the background, but in summer Suisse Romande can be roasting. The temperatures have been in the high eighties the last few weeks, touching ninety in the shade, and the humidity is sticky and unremitting. The afternoons put everyone into a torpor. Yesterday afternoon as I drove through a small farming village nearby I came across several small herds of cattle huddled in the shade, ears flattened down, eyes closed, unmoving. They looked completely gassed. At our house the cats and dogs lay in the coolest part of the house panting faintly. A few days ago I went out and bought an air conditioner for our bedroom in hopes that we could sleep at night.
Changes in the farmland have suddenly become obvious. The fields of colza have gone caramel colored and the wheat fields are the yellow color of straw with a pale under wash of dark green. Corn fields that were calf high seemingly for weeks are suddenly chest and head high and are visibly growing inches each day. The sunflower fields are just opening into yellow, and the dark green plants are growing thick and burly. The upshot of all this is that the markets are overflowing with gorgeous produce from the surrounding areas.
The apricots and nectarines are dark colored and dead ripe when you buy them in the markets. 
The major challenge now is cold drinks. At bistros and restaurants the beers and sodas are served cool, but not really cold, you know, like ice cold, and with the heat they are soon tepid. We don't really fret over it though. We eat, we talk, we sip our drinks and bask in the ambiance of hot summer nights filled with interesting friends, good conversation, and good food. We are living in the warm, slow lane of Europe's summer, and it is a subtle, languorous pleasure.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Tiggywinkles, Voyeur Squirrels, and the Things the Cat Drags In
A few weeks ago I was awakened by some fairly loud thumping and bumping in the living room and I got up to investigate. Luckily my wife remained asleep and missed the ensuing festivities.
Those of us who have cats know about those little cat secrets that are rarely talked about. Non-cat owners see the cat food commercials with the beautifully groomed cat all lovey-dovey with the supermodel who gives them pate or tuna filet on a crystal saucer and everything looks grand. What non-cat owners may not know, and even many cat owners with an absence of wildlife around their houses may not know either, is that cats are bona fide enthusiastic sadists and, like children, they like to bring their toys inside to play with. With a cat door downstairs our cats are free to bring most anything they want into the house, and they frequently do.
As the mouse contestant becomes fatigued he finally stops running away due to exhaustion and probably hopelessness. At this point the cat will lean down and deliver a tender and loving bite just hard enough to elicit some squeaks, a burst of adrenaline, and the mouse will make another doomed run for it. Of course, as the mouse becomes more and more exhausted the tender love bites become a little more forceful to elicit the happy response the cat is looking for and... well... you can figure out where that story line ultimately ends. When you find little, dead, wet looking mice lying in the corner or under a coffee table with no apparent injuries you can pretty much deduce what happened to them.
What is surprising is to find out that squirrels are very cat-like. The magnificent red and black squirrels that live in our yard run madly back and forth through the trees and hedges while our dogs run along the ground below them staring up with wild excitement like the beginning of the Superman show. "It's a Bird! No it's a Something! No it's a Squirrel!" The dogs cannot contain their enthusiasm and the squirrels willingly run them back and forth across the yard until the dogs finally lose interest or give up in frustration. Then, in the same way the cats like to extend the torment, the squirrels come down the tree onto the grass and chatter little arrogant taunts at the dogs who race mightily over to the tree to catch the squirrel. Heh, heh. To no avail of course. Cats like to torment mice, squirrels like to torment dogs. I still haven't seen the squirrels and the cats interact. I suspect the cats know they are outclassed and have no intention of being made to look foolish.
It turns out, interestingly, that my wife has a fox-red squirrel who is quite enamored of her. As she was doing her hair and make up the other day he spied her from the tree which is only a few feet from the bathroom window and sat fixated and staring at her for a few minutes. She made eye contact with him and he was very interested indeed. She complimented him on his very owl like large pointed ears and that seemed to please him too. He then disappeared down the tree only to reappear a minute later with some kind of nut or acorn and proceeded to gnaw on it as he watched her get ready for work, much as one might munch popcorn while engrossed in an entertaining show. We hope we see more of him as the summer progresses.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Monsieur!
Early March, 2010
I had to buy an uber vacuum last week. With two huskies and two cats and a wild and semi -jungle yard that sends debris in through the doors and the windows I needed something that could handle the unrelenting stream of hair, leaves, feathers and general dirt pouring into the house.
I went to Manor (think Sears from 40 years ago) and headed to the vacuum section in the House and Home department. There, not far from the vacuums was a man who was idly chatting with a elderly blond lady. As I walked up he turned the full attention of his intent dark eyes on me and raised his eyebrow hopefully. His resemblance to Hercule Poirot was uncanny - he could have been his brother or cousin. His moustaches were less elaborate than Hercule's yet were similar in visual effect. He looked at me questioningly and had a name tag so I was sure he worked in the store, and I zoomed up to him full speed and asked, "which would be your most powerful vacuum?" He paused for a moment, drew himself up, sighted down his nose at me and reprimanded me, "Monsieur!!!!!"
Unsure of the issue at hand I looked at him apologetically and inquired, "Oui?"
He looked exasperated with me as though I were a slow witted child. Then he demonstrated: he assumed a pleasant expression, nodded to me agreeably and in a neutral tone announced, "Bonjour Monsieur!"
I looked at him numbly for a few seconds then made the connection. "Ah!" I said. I assumed an equally pleasant expression and said back to him, "Bonjour Monsieur!"
Over the following days I quickly learned that this form of greeting is never neglected, not even in case of fire or heart attack! One must always begin conversations this way. We are, after all, civilized human beings, non?
He gave me a tiny nod of approval at this display of proper etiquette and then asked me "How may I be of service?"
I explained I was looking for his most powerful vacuum - one that could take care of dog and cat hair and dust and ... things. "Of course, Monsieur," he assured me with the absolute confidence of a trained professional. He walked over to the display of vacuums and gestured somewhat grandly to a purple and plastic space-aged looking affair and announced "Le Dyson!" The blond woman he had been talking to tagged along and looked with some surprise and admiration at the vacuum to which we now gave our attention.
I breathed a sigh of relief at the name as we have the same brand back in the states and it is truly an extraordinary machine. "Excellent!" I said. "I'll take it, please."
He asked "Does Monsieur know about the multi layered filtration system?" (way too complicated in French) and I gently explained that that was not necessary as I knew it was excellent. "Would Monsieur like me to explain the various features of the vacuum?" he queried hopefully. The blond woman who had been listening had her eyebrows raised hopefully too as though she were looking forward to his explanation of the machine's capabilities.
"No", I said, "Thank You. I have this brand in my home in the U.S. and am informed of its capabilities. I know it is marvelous machine."
He was clearly deflated by my response, as was the blond woman who had been following along. What, after all, is the point of being a salesman if one does not have the opportunity to present, to explain, to sell?
He regrouped quickly from this small set back and as he drew a large carton off the shelf below inquired if I desired anything else.
"Do you have a special turbo head for carpet that goes with this machine?"
"Monsieur!" He beamed at me approvingly as if I were a star pupil, and led me to a nearby display that featured an amazing looking attachable vacuum head that resembled a tiny F-117.
He pointed out the items as he described them: high speed rubber bristles that would pick up hair and fibers, adjustable wheels for different height carpet, and a tiny important valve that varied the speed of the brush turbine.
"Very good!" I said. "I definitely need that."
"Alas," Hercule informed me, "This is a special order item, although the vendor is here in the Geneva area."
Hiding my impatience I inquired, "Could we not have the item delivered by tomorrow?"
This time he drew the word out in tiny, long syllables, with a sidelong smirking glance, and chided me, "Monsieur!" he said, either teasing me for my naiveté or admiring my droll sense of Gallic irony - I couldn't tell which.
I continued on. "Will it take two or three days? A week?"
He adopted a neutral expression and said matter-of-factly, "Let us find out."
He went to his station and after a minute of searching through numbers made a phone call. After hanging up he turned to inform me that the part would be delivered to the store the day after tomorrow. I was shocked that the transaction would occur so swiftly.
"Excellent!" I enthused. "That is great news."
I paid for my vacuum and special order part and, carton in hand, thanked him for his assistance.
He drew himself up to full height once again and gave me a tiny formal nod as I left, "At your service, Monsieur!"
I had to buy an uber vacuum last week. With two huskies and two cats and a wild and semi -jungle yard that sends debris in through the doors and the windows I needed something that could handle the unrelenting stream of hair, leaves, feathers and general dirt pouring into the house.
I went to Manor (think Sears from 40 years ago) and headed to the vacuum section in the House and Home department. There, not far from the vacuums was a man who was idly chatting with a elderly blond lady. As I walked up he turned the full attention of his intent dark eyes on me and raised his eyebrow hopefully. His resemblance to Hercule Poirot was uncanny - he could have been his brother or cousin. His moustaches were less elaborate than Hercule's yet were similar in visual effect. He looked at me questioningly and had a name tag so I was sure he worked in the store, and I zoomed up to him full speed and asked, "which would be your most powerful vacuum?" He paused for a moment, drew himself up, sighted down his nose at me and reprimanded me, "Monsieur!!!!!"
Unsure of the issue at hand I looked at him apologetically and inquired, "Oui?"
He looked exasperated with me as though I were a slow witted child. Then he demonstrated: he assumed a pleasant expression, nodded to me agreeably and in a neutral tone announced, "Bonjour Monsieur!"
I looked at him numbly for a few seconds then made the connection. "Ah!" I said. I assumed an equally pleasant expression and said back to him, "Bonjour Monsieur!"
Over the following days I quickly learned that this form of greeting is never neglected, not even in case of fire or heart attack! One must always begin conversations this way. We are, after all, civilized human beings, non?
He gave me a tiny nod of approval at this display of proper etiquette and then asked me "How may I be of service?"
I explained I was looking for his most powerful vacuum - one that could take care of dog and cat hair and dust and ... things. "Of course, Monsieur," he assured me with the absolute confidence of a trained professional. He walked over to the display of vacuums and gestured somewhat grandly to a purple and plastic space-aged looking affair and announced "Le Dyson!" The blond woman he had been talking to tagged along and looked with some surprise and admiration at the vacuum to which we now gave our attention.
I breathed a sigh of relief at the name as we have the same brand back in the states and it is truly an extraordinary machine. "Excellent!" I said. "I'll take it, please."
He asked "Does Monsieur know about the multi layered filtration system?" (way too complicated in French) and I gently explained that that was not necessary as I knew it was excellent. "Would Monsieur like me to explain the various features of the vacuum?" he queried hopefully. The blond woman who had been listening had her eyebrows raised hopefully too as though she were looking forward to his explanation of the machine's capabilities.
"No", I said, "Thank You. I have this brand in my home in the U.S. and am informed of its capabilities. I know it is marvelous machine."
He was clearly deflated by my response, as was the blond woman who had been following along. What, after all, is the point of being a salesman if one does not have the opportunity to present, to explain, to sell?
He regrouped quickly from this small set back and as he drew a large carton off the shelf below inquired if I desired anything else.
"Do you have a special turbo head for carpet that goes with this machine?"
"Monsieur!" He beamed at me approvingly as if I were a star pupil, and led me to a nearby display that featured an amazing looking attachable vacuum head that resembled a tiny F-117.
He pointed out the items as he described them: high speed rubber bristles that would pick up hair and fibers, adjustable wheels for different height carpet, and a tiny important valve that varied the speed of the brush turbine.
"Very good!" I said. "I definitely need that."
"Alas," Hercule informed me, "This is a special order item, although the vendor is here in the Geneva area."
Hiding my impatience I inquired, "Could we not have the item delivered by tomorrow?"
This time he drew the word out in tiny, long syllables, with a sidelong smirking glance, and chided me, "Monsieur!" he said, either teasing me for my naiveté or admiring my droll sense of Gallic irony - I couldn't tell which.
I continued on. "Will it take two or three days? A week?"
He adopted a neutral expression and said matter-of-factly, "Let us find out."
He went to his station and after a minute of searching through numbers made a phone call. After hanging up he turned to inform me that the part would be delivered to the store the day after tomorrow. I was shocked that the transaction would occur so swiftly.
"Excellent!" I enthused. "That is great news."
I paid for my vacuum and special order part and, carton in hand, thanked him for his assistance.
He drew himself up to full height once again and gave me a tiny formal nod as I left, "At your service, Monsieur!"
Friday, May 28, 2010
PeePee and Thunder (It's Not What You Think)
It rains a lot here in Suisse Romande and there is often thunder and lighting that goes with it. This turn of events has revealed to us heretofore unknown character traits in our two Siberian huskies, Moose and Tasha.
They are beautiful dogs - blond coats with big white plumed tails. Magnificent specimens that do justice to their wolf heritage. Here in Commugny they are greeted on the streets with unrestrained enthusiasm: Manifiques! Belles Betes! The french love their dogs, so much so that we have been invited by restaurant owners to bring them in to dinner with us - a very common practice over here. But that has nothing to do with the rain and thunder that have posed such intriguing problems for us.
The first good thunderstorm freaked Moose and Tasha out so much (they were both outside when the evening storm started) that Tasha managed to crawl into the house through a cat door barely big enough to squeeze a bread loaf through, and Moose pushed through some wire fencing and jumped off a seven foot high ledge so he could beg to get in at the front door.
Once they were in Moose proceeded to stand next to the bed on my wife's side and try to persuade her to let him crawl under the covers with her. He kept trying to nose his way in the bed. That's cute when the cat does it but a seventy pound drooly, dog-breathy, panting, wet, muddy husky is no bedroom charmer, and we had to sternly order him to lie down, which he finally did. Over the next hour he managed to worm his head underneath the six inch space beneath our bed and lay huddled there all night.
Tasha, we discovered, just finds it too wet to go tinkle outside and waits, for hours if needs be, until our attention is diverted and then sneaks into some hidden corner of the house to go pee pee. When we stand at the door and order to go outside she sits forlornly at the door, ears flattened against her head which is bowed down against her poor little chest, tail tucked under her hunched behind looking utterly miserable as if to say "please don't make me go out there! It's wet! It's cold! I don't want to get my bottom wet!" When she does go out she slinks around in pathetic misery without going until we relent and let her back inside. This is a cousin of the wild wolves that once ruled the forests of North America as well as Northern Europe? Of course if she and Moose escape from our yard on a rainy day (without thunder) they will stay out for hours and get soaking wet and mud covered without giving it a second thought.
Luckily we have a service room in the back of the house with a concrete floor where we have put the pee pee papers for her and she happily sneaks in there thinking, I imagine, that we don't know what she is up to. Fair enough. At least she isn't ruining our carpet.
So this morning, after another thunderstorm last night, Moose lay with his head jammed under the bed and Tasha lay smugly in the corner, having sneaked into the furnace room in the early hours of the morning. We got up and I called them by their new nicknames: "Hey PeePee, hey Thunder!" They looked up at me happily, a little wag to their tails. Time for breakfast. Life is good!
They are beautiful dogs - blond coats with big white plumed tails. Magnificent specimens that do justice to their wolf heritage. Here in Commugny they are greeted on the streets with unrestrained enthusiasm: Manifiques! Belles Betes! The french love their dogs, so much so that we have been invited by restaurant owners to bring them in to dinner with us - a very common practice over here. But that has nothing to do with the rain and thunder that have posed such intriguing problems for us.
The first good thunderstorm freaked Moose and Tasha out so much (they were both outside when the evening storm started) that Tasha managed to crawl into the house through a cat door barely big enough to squeeze a bread loaf through, and Moose pushed through some wire fencing and jumped off a seven foot high ledge so he could beg to get in at the front door.
Once they were in Moose proceeded to stand next to the bed on my wife's side and try to persuade her to let him crawl under the covers with her. He kept trying to nose his way in the bed. That's cute when the cat does it but a seventy pound drooly, dog-breathy, panting, wet, muddy husky is no bedroom charmer, and we had to sternly order him to lie down, which he finally did. Over the next hour he managed to worm his head underneath the six inch space beneath our bed and lay huddled there all night.
Tasha, we discovered, just finds it too wet to go tinkle outside and waits, for hours if needs be, until our attention is diverted and then sneaks into some hidden corner of the house to go pee pee. When we stand at the door and order to go outside she sits forlornly at the door, ears flattened against her head which is bowed down against her poor little chest, tail tucked under her hunched behind looking utterly miserable as if to say "please don't make me go out there! It's wet! It's cold! I don't want to get my bottom wet!" When she does go out she slinks around in pathetic misery without going until we relent and let her back inside. This is a cousin of the wild wolves that once ruled the forests of North America as well as Northern Europe? Of course if she and Moose escape from our yard on a rainy day (without thunder) they will stay out for hours and get soaking wet and mud covered without giving it a second thought.
Luckily we have a service room in the back of the house with a concrete floor where we have put the pee pee papers for her and she happily sneaks in there thinking, I imagine, that we don't know what she is up to. Fair enough. At least she isn't ruining our carpet.
So this morning, after another thunderstorm last night, Moose lay with his head jammed under the bed and Tasha lay smugly in the corner, having sneaked into the furnace room in the early hours of the morning. We got up and I called them by their new nicknames: "Hey PeePee, hey Thunder!" They looked up at me happily, a little wag to their tails. Time for breakfast. Life is good!
Eet Eez Nut Posseeble!
End of February 2010
Well, hell... This didn't turn out at all like I expected. I came over here a month ahead of time and secured a house, scheduled the rental furniture delivery, all of the utilites were set up, and rental cars were lined up. I envisioned myself like Napolean - hammering Wellington in an overwhelming frontal assault and then, in a dashing pirouette, turning and dispatching Blucher. We would move in the first week and take care of the basics and then seamlessly resume work and begin living the European lifestyle the following week. Upon my arrival, however, my glorious dash out onto the battlefield instead amounted to little more than a lurch out of the gate into hip deep mud, fog and cheese.
Even though I lived here for a 12 month stint many years ago I had forgotten how much the French love to say Non! They love the way the word feels in their mouth and on their lips. They positively revel in the way the sound vibrates in their nose. Non! It is simultaneosly a glorious musical trumpeting of the exercise of power, and a satisfying abdication of responsibility in matters of any effort. I am sure it is the underlying basis to the myth of Sisyphis - struggle mightily against mindless bureacracy and at the end of each success be rewarded with yet another gauntlet of entanglements.
We arrrived Tuesday and planned to stay in a hotel for two days. Our household goods and belongings that had been shipped over by plane a week ahead of us could not be delivered on Wednesday because "it had arrived too late!" (?) Then we were told "eet eez nut posseeble" on Thursday because there were important forms and paperwork that must be completed first. Next it was not possible on Friday because there had been unforseen delays. The weekend was flat out because, alors, almost no one works on Saturday and absolutely no one works on Sunday. Monday??? May Non! "I am sorry but eet eez nut posseeble!" Why? Because, well, it was complicated. We rolled into the second week still living out of our carry ons with only two changes of clothes. As the delays mounted, with no apparent resolution in sight, I had a flash of inspiration. I would tap our French connection in order to clear up the problem. We had a French administrator on our company team, Francois, most certainly skilled in bureaucratic skirmishing, who said to call if there were any problems.
I gave him a ring and heard in his voice the thrill of the bureacratic challenge. Who was the obstructing party? They had failed to deliver since when?!? He would look into the matter toute de suite! The tone in his voice was exciting - after being stonewalled for a week we were now going to kick some derriere!
Amazingly I received a call a few hours later from the delivery agency. Would we be available early that afternoon to take delivery of our shipment? Heh heh! That's right buddy! Surprise! We brought in some local heat. It turns out that the word here for getting things done, and also, not surprisingly, a synonym for fighting, is debrouiller - literally to cut through the fog - and there seems to be no end to it: arranging to take posession of the rental cars, the heater that doesn't work, getting a television/stereo and interfacing it with the cable and computer service carrier. Sigh. I need to take our French connection out and pick his brain.
What exactly did he say to the delivery agency to make them jump? I suspect that he is able to mock his fellow Gauls inability to master their work challenges and thus poke them in their inflated yet tender organ of their Vanity and Pride. My attempts to mock them would probably do nothing save make them deliriously smug. In the meantime I need to resign myself to the fact that this is going to take a good long while to sort things out. So while we wait we'll sit back and drink wine and eat cheese - French, of course!
Well, hell... This didn't turn out at all like I expected. I came over here a month ahead of time and secured a house, scheduled the rental furniture delivery, all of the utilites were set up, and rental cars were lined up. I envisioned myself like Napolean - hammering Wellington in an overwhelming frontal assault and then, in a dashing pirouette, turning and dispatching Blucher. We would move in the first week and take care of the basics and then seamlessly resume work and begin living the European lifestyle the following week. Upon my arrival, however, my glorious dash out onto the battlefield instead amounted to little more than a lurch out of the gate into hip deep mud, fog and cheese.
Even though I lived here for a 12 month stint many years ago I had forgotten how much the French love to say Non! They love the way the word feels in their mouth and on their lips. They positively revel in the way the sound vibrates in their nose. Non! It is simultaneosly a glorious musical trumpeting of the exercise of power, and a satisfying abdication of responsibility in matters of any effort. I am sure it is the underlying basis to the myth of Sisyphis - struggle mightily against mindless bureacracy and at the end of each success be rewarded with yet another gauntlet of entanglements.
We arrrived Tuesday and planned to stay in a hotel for two days. Our household goods and belongings that had been shipped over by plane a week ahead of us could not be delivered on Wednesday because "it had arrived too late!" (?) Then we were told "eet eez nut posseeble" on Thursday because there were important forms and paperwork that must be completed first. Next it was not possible on Friday because there had been unforseen delays. The weekend was flat out because, alors, almost no one works on Saturday and absolutely no one works on Sunday. Monday??? May Non! "I am sorry but eet eez nut posseeble!" Why? Because, well, it was complicated. We rolled into the second week still living out of our carry ons with only two changes of clothes. As the delays mounted, with no apparent resolution in sight, I had a flash of inspiration. I would tap our French connection in order to clear up the problem. We had a French administrator on our company team, Francois, most certainly skilled in bureaucratic skirmishing, who said to call if there were any problems.
I gave him a ring and heard in his voice the thrill of the bureacratic challenge. Who was the obstructing party? They had failed to deliver since when?!? He would look into the matter toute de suite! The tone in his voice was exciting - after being stonewalled for a week we were now going to kick some derriere!
Amazingly I received a call a few hours later from the delivery agency. Would we be available early that afternoon to take delivery of our shipment? Heh heh! That's right buddy! Surprise! We brought in some local heat. It turns out that the word here for getting things done, and also, not surprisingly, a synonym for fighting, is debrouiller - literally to cut through the fog - and there seems to be no end to it: arranging to take posession of the rental cars, the heater that doesn't work, getting a television/stereo and interfacing it with the cable and computer service carrier. Sigh. I need to take our French connection out and pick his brain.
What exactly did he say to the delivery agency to make them jump? I suspect that he is able to mock his fellow Gauls inability to master their work challenges and thus poke them in their inflated yet tender organ of their Vanity and Pride. My attempts to mock them would probably do nothing save make them deliriously smug. In the meantime I need to resign myself to the fact that this is going to take a good long while to sort things out. So while we wait we'll sit back and drink wine and eat cheese - French, of course!
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
It's a small, small world
We like things small here in French Switzerland (Suisse Romande): small cars, small restaurant portions, small bathing suits on both women and men (that's right - we're talkin' speedos on middle aged men as well as old geezers) , and really, really small washing machines. As in microwave sized. The first time you see one of these washer dryer combos you think "huh?"
You can wash, say, 3 pair of underwear and a couple pairs of socks at a time, or a sheet and a pillow case, or maybe two towels. Oh yeah, and the machine washes your laundry for about 4 hours at water temperatures of about 300 degrees, just to make sure your clothes get really, really clean since, because it's such an ordeal to wash them, you wear them until they can stand up in the corner by themselves and talk french back to you.
I haven't figured out the virtues of this aspect of Swiss life. Our Swiss friends gripe about the tiny washers and dryers, too. You have to wash laundry every day to keep on top of things or revert to clothes wearing strategies from your days of living in a college dorm - recycling the least offending articles available until finally strangers and even friends begin to look at you suspiciously and you have no option but to wash your laundry. This helps explain the certain robustness in clothing and body odor that one often notices over here.
On this same note regarding puzzling Swiss technology I have to mention a shopping expedition from a few days ago. I went out looking for mosquito preventatives the other day since we have mobs of mosquitoes in our rain soaked backyard which is bordered by our picturesque and slow flowing neigborhood stream. They try and come in and join us for meals and sleep any time the windows and doors are open.
Besides citronella candles and torches our neighborhood Jumbo (think Home Depot) offered a wide array of ultrasonic mosquito repellers. I asked the salesman if the ultrasonics were any good and his eyes darted all over the place as he explained it was a matter of personal preference what one used to keep mosquitoes away. Having never heard of such a thing I went home and researched this technology on the web. Numerous research articles concluded that ultrasonics are, at best, useless for repelling mosquitoes, and are more than likely to increase the frequency of their biting!
You can wash, say, 3 pair of underwear and a couple pairs of socks at a time, or a sheet and a pillow case, or maybe two towels. Oh yeah, and the machine washes your laundry for about 4 hours at water temperatures of about 300 degrees, just to make sure your clothes get really, really clean since, because it's such an ordeal to wash them, you wear them until they can stand up in the corner by themselves and talk french back to you.
I haven't figured out the virtues of this aspect of Swiss life. Our Swiss friends gripe about the tiny washers and dryers, too. You have to wash laundry every day to keep on top of things or revert to clothes wearing strategies from your days of living in a college dorm - recycling the least offending articles available until finally strangers and even friends begin to look at you suspiciously and you have no option but to wash your laundry. This helps explain the certain robustness in clothing and body odor that one often notices over here.
On this same note regarding puzzling Swiss technology I have to mention a shopping expedition from a few days ago. I went out looking for mosquito preventatives the other day since we have mobs of mosquitoes in our rain soaked backyard which is bordered by our picturesque and slow flowing neigborhood stream. They try and come in and join us for meals and sleep any time the windows and doors are open.
Besides citronella candles and torches our neighborhood Jumbo (think Home Depot) offered a wide array of ultrasonic mosquito repellers. I asked the salesman if the ultrasonics were any good and his eyes darted all over the place as he explained it was a matter of personal preference what one used to keep mosquitoes away. Having never heard of such a thing I went home and researched this technology on the web. Numerous research articles concluded that ultrasonics are, at best, useless for repelling mosquitoes, and are more than likely to increase the frequency of their biting!
Just shows you even in super sophisticated Swiss Romande there are corporate marketing cons and lots of hapless consumer suckers. Somehow that feels reassuring to my American sensibility. We aren’t the only poor schmucks in the world who are at the mercy of consumer marketing.
Friday, April 16, 2010
The Mean Streets of Commugny April 16, 2010
It is not all chocolate and foie gras here in our pastoral little neighborhood 15 minutes outside of Geneva. Oh no. There is a dark, mean side to our bucolic neighborhood situated amongst the farmland along Lac Lehman.
Our street and yard are surrounded by huge lacy trees with ivy climbing up the trunks and now, in mid April, the branches are tufted with the new green shoots of emerging leaves while the lawns are studded with clutches of daffodils, wild primrose and waves of exquisite violet tinged tiny daisies that open during the day and close back up at dusk and then resemble carpets of clover. Forsythia shrubs are scattered through all the yards and along the streets and they are plumed in garish canary yellow now - lovely. But evil lurks here nonetheless. Well, evil for our cars any way.
Oddly enough, even though it snows and rains here frequently and there is plenty of road mud, and debris falling from the trees - seedpods, pollen, any manner of leaves and mosses - the Swiss are not particularly big on garages. Many houses, including ours, have only open driveways or perhaps a halfhearted minimalist car park that barely covers one car while the second, alas, is left to the mercy of the elements, as well as the aforementioned evil. It is an evil that dwells amongst the lovely trees that surround us. The name of that evil is, specifically, Pigeons.
We're not talking run of the mill city pigeons here. Oh no. These are some kind of genetic throwback retro pigeons that harken back to their dinosaur ancestors and drop huge, golf ball sized turds on our defenseless cars with unrelenting and truly hair-raising accuracy. They have begun to inspire real dread in me, as well as real respect. Each day I come out to find they have hit the hood, windshield and driver side door handle yet again. A quick examination of the surrounding driveway shows no signs of collateral damage or errant drops. They hit the cars with pinpoint accuracy and no wasted shots. I must admit I grudgingly admire the bizarre intelligence at work in these strange creatures that attack from the sky, even though the purpose of their actions utterly escapes me. I am reminded continually of the Gary Larson cartoon where the bird sits above the car being washed below and thinks to itself "you are mine! All mine!"
The one thing I am thankful for is that they have not yet, at least so far, taken aim at any of us humans who are occasionally in their target zone. Thus I have, in a strange way, reconnected to our earlier ancestors, at least the ones in B rated caveman horror flicks. I now look to the sky with a touch of fear each time I venture out and wonder what danger lurks in the skies above.
Our street and yard are surrounded by huge lacy trees with ivy climbing up the trunks and now, in mid April, the branches are tufted with the new green shoots of emerging leaves while the lawns are studded with clutches of daffodils, wild primrose and waves of exquisite violet tinged tiny daisies that open during the day and close back up at dusk and then resemble carpets of clover. Forsythia shrubs are scattered through all the yards and along the streets and they are plumed in garish canary yellow now - lovely. But evil lurks here nonetheless. Well, evil for our cars any way.
Oddly enough, even though it snows and rains here frequently and there is plenty of road mud, and debris falling from the trees - seedpods, pollen, any manner of leaves and mosses - the Swiss are not particularly big on garages. Many houses, including ours, have only open driveways or perhaps a halfhearted minimalist car park that barely covers one car while the second, alas, is left to the mercy of the elements, as well as the aforementioned evil. It is an evil that dwells amongst the lovely trees that surround us. The name of that evil is, specifically, Pigeons.
We're not talking run of the mill city pigeons here. Oh no. These are some kind of genetic throwback retro pigeons that harken back to their dinosaur ancestors and drop huge, golf ball sized turds on our defenseless cars with unrelenting and truly hair-raising accuracy. They have begun to inspire real dread in me, as well as real respect. Each day I come out to find they have hit the hood, windshield and driver side door handle yet again. A quick examination of the surrounding driveway shows no signs of collateral damage or errant drops. They hit the cars with pinpoint accuracy and no wasted shots. I must admit I grudgingly admire the bizarre intelligence at work in these strange creatures that attack from the sky, even though the purpose of their actions utterly escapes me. I am reminded continually of the Gary Larson cartoon where the bird sits above the car being washed below and thinks to itself "you are mine! All mine!"
The one thing I am thankful for is that they have not yet, at least so far, taken aim at any of us humans who are occasionally in their target zone. Thus I have, in a strange way, reconnected to our earlier ancestors, at least the ones in B rated caveman horror flicks. I now look to the sky with a touch of fear each time I venture out and wonder what danger lurks in the skies above.
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