Trippin'

The "Bern Bear", canton emblem Rooftop view from the cathedral--doesn't nearly do it justice!
Les filles
Bears in a bear pit

Saturday morning through Sunday night was devoted to travelling and seeing Switzerland. The cities we hit were Bern, the capital, and Luzern, a medieval town in the midst of the mountains and next to a beautiful lake. Words can hardly express the beauty, history and quaintness of everything seen and experienced, though I can recap some of the highlights. For Bern, the weather was warm, crisp and gorgeous, the perfect day for walking and site seeing. The streets were uneven cobble stone, along with the rows of houses and their rooftops which just never quite met at a right angle, yet were orderly in that uniquely (Swiss) German way. An amazing Gothic cathedral dominated the city-scape, with a breathtaking view of the rooftop terraces to reward the 400 plus steps you climbed to reach the top. The clock which supposedly spurred Einstein's development of the theory of relativity was an impressive structure, but wholly anti-climatic in its hourly chime (no cuckoos, booohoo).

More random highlights from Bern included the ascent to the Rosengarten, where we crossed path with thousands of (really cute) goats being led to high pastures, the only caveat being the plethora of tiny piles of goat poo that are surely forever embedded in my shoes. In the rose gardens we were attempting to take a photo of ourselves, when a (cute) guy offered to take it for us. This inital 5 second exchange turned into a half hour conversation with him and his friend, both adorable even if reeking of alcohol and still in their going out clothes from the night before, and ended in plans to meet in Luzern later that night.

Very appropriately, Bern ended with a visit to the bear pits. Exactly as they are described, sunken cement pits where bears roam and are gawked at by tourists. The bears looked so resigned and so tranquil, I pondered aloud," what would happen if you fell into the pits?" Mel, my pink-haired engineer friend replied, "they'd probably play with you!" Au contraire. This morning Julie informed me that last year, a man committed suicide by jumping into the pits and being mauled to his death by the bears. Sidethought: am really thinking of sending a picture of the bear pits, the official emblem of Bern (a bear, of course), and the bear-suicide story to Stehpen Colbert for a nasty Halloween fright. Maybe I'd even get the Swiss capitol relegated to the "wag of the finger" side of wag of the finger/tip of the hat. Just a thought.....

That night we hopped on a train to Luzern, checked into our hostel, and met up with Alex, the guy from the Rose gardens, and his friends. They were all dressed nicely, and probably had been planning on going to a club or bar, but upon first sight our intense backpacker scrubbiness immediately deterred them from attempting t0 go anywhere even semi-classy. So instead we took wine, beer, and of course my pink nalgene bottle filled whiskey and diet coke, and sat on a bench by the lake and talked. We recounted our tales of "au pairing," crazy families, and school aged kids expecting someone to wipe their ass for them. They talked about their perceptions of America and Americans: how friends that have visited say that everyone is so fat, "like over 300 kilos!," of how much they hate "BUUUSH," and asking us to please make sure that he doesn't stay in office any longer. Not a late or crazy night, but the whole experience of meeting random people in a park, then meeting up and drinking with them while learning about a different culture is the epitome of backpacking. Très agréable, in my opinion.

Unfortunately the next morning we woke up to a steady drizzle of rain, and clouds blocking the view of the mountains. But still we forged (dragged) on to see a museum with lots of Picasso's work, a famous bridge with painted panels in the roof (described to us by one of our new friends as, "the one that all the Japanese tourists take pictures of"), 3 gorgeous churches, and the medieval city wall and Ramparts. By 6:55, when the train departed, we were all thoroughly exhausted and content at seeing two amazing cities in 2 days.

On the train ride home, we kicked up our smelly feet for an hour or so, but eventually had to let some people sit down next to us. Luckily they were cool and French speaking, busting out meat, cheese and wine, and evident "joie de vivre." Mel and I are both obsessed with learning/speaking/listening to French as much as possible, so we eavesdropped into their conversation, then decided to join the locals and polish off the rest of our bottle of wine, thus bidding santé (cheers) to well-spent weekend.

Shalom Shabbat

Flora and I in the midst of Hurricane Challah

Shalom shabbat, means "peace be with you for the day of rest," although my part in the staging of it was anything but peaceful! Friday afternoon I took on the role of Jewish housewife, and spent the better part of my afternoon making challah, the sweet bread for the start of shabbat. My first attempt ever at making bread was, of course, not without debacle. For starters, I freaked out because I couldn't find enoug yeast, called Michelle at work, and felt like an idiot when she guided me to its location, literally right under my nose. After soaking the new-found yeast in water, adding egg, sugar, butter and over a kilo of flour, the dough tasted good, but was incredibly sticky due to the olive oil, used out of necessity since we (of course) were out of what it called for (vegetable oil). I stuck my hands into the bowl, "punched" it down as the recipe called for, and got ready to braid it into the traditional three strands.....but removed my hands with nearly all the dough clinging to my digits!! I was thanking god at this point when Flora walked up, and was able to help me add flour to the dough to render it less gooey, something I am pretty sure Benji or Toby wouldn't have been able to do (they lost interest after they got to lick the bowl). It was a huge flour-y, doughy mess in the kitchen, but we emergedvicrotious over the tenaciously sticky Challah. Into the oven and half an hour later I hear Flora scram, "Maggy-eee, come see the challah!" Flashbacks of putting the wrong soap in the dishwasher and the subsequent foam party in my kitchen sent a knot to my stomach, as I imagined the horrified look on Michelle's face if she came home to over-yeasted dough emanating from her oven. I sprinted to look.....but alas, SUCCESS! The challah was a lovely golden brown color, hollow when tapped, and had filled the room with a sweet, pungent odor. Perfect, the only caveat being that it was monstrouslyovergown, 4x the size of a normal loaf!

Toby goes to an intensely Jewish school (which Marc and Michelle chose for its proximity to the house, not religiosity), and is obsessed with all things Jewish. So for him, Marc and Michelle try to do as many traditions of Shabbat that a "real" Jewish family would, even if we were are having daire and meat on the same plate. The children and the mother lit a candle together, the boys and men all work yarmulkes, and the kiddush, a decorative narrow metal cup was passed around for everyone at the table to drink from. We dug into the delicious challah, and I thought about how cool it was to be fulfilling my secret childhood wish to be Jewish (even if it was only for an hour). I wanted to stand out, be different......plus, I had watched the Rugrats Passover special about a hundred times, and was obsessed with "Molly's Pilgrim," an afterschool special about a 10 yr. old Jewish Russian immigrant who showed up all the snobby girls by being awesome at gymnastics (to my 8 yr. old eyes, the absolute epitome of cool). For me the shabbat dinner was more than just interesting and scrumptious, it appeased and evoked the desire of my curious school-aged self to stand out from the crowd, and to learn ways of life much different from my own.

Sitting at the table after dinner, full and happy from some amazing red wine, Michelle proclaimed, "this was great. The homemade challah was sooo much nicer than the (of course bio) store bought kind. We should do this every friday." Surely she only made this satement not having seen the state of trauma her kitchen had endured mere hours earlier, not knowing how much challah dough her children had greedily consumed.

The only fitting way to end this story, and to express my opinion on any future challah making endeavors....OY!

Mixed mushroom risotto

Not to be pathetic, but sometimes my main motivation to get through the day is knowing what's planned for the nights dinner. Sure, I can throw together a mean tuna sandwich and spinach salad, but knowing that come 7:00 pm I will get to sit down to an amazingly delicious hot meal can really motivate me to get that run in, or to not lock myself in my room during the all too common temper tantrum.

So I'm sure you can understand why come Friday night, I was half devastated when Marc called to say that him and the boys would be leaving for Chamonix immediately when he got home, and could I please tell Flora (their housekeeper) that she wouldn't need to make dinner.

The menu for the night was cauliflower soup, and mixed mushroom risotto. Already having bought over 15 francs of dried and fresh mushrooms for the recipe, I decided to ignore my almost complete lack of cooking skill and attack the mushroom risotto, head on. I asked Flora if it was difficult, and she said, in her cute Filipino accent "no, this one, it is easy!" I read it through and had a few questions, (how the hell do you peel a leek??) and Flora asked if I would like her to stay and teach me to cook. I told her, "no, I'll be fine on my own," but as I attempted to soak the dried mushrooms, turned my back for one second and had porcini mushroom water all over the stove, it became apparent her assistance would be needed. I think she took me on as a bit of a charity case, her traditional views rendering the situation a dire one....... "MaggYEE, you need to learn to cook, because one day when you will be having a husband, you will need to know!"

For the next hour, we peeled leeks (it's really not that hard, and they are delicious!), sauteed garlic and chopped mushrooms. I also learned about her children, her life, and as Bill Clinton would say "her story." She worked for 2 years in Kuwait for a royal Sheik's family, with 7 (!!) other Filipinas who were on their staff. 7 in the morning until 7 at night, they worked cleaning the house/palace, and "caring"for the children....which included being blackmailed by them to cover up their forbidden trysts. Until one time when they went on holiday to France, and she was able to run away in the night! She has been in Geneva for 7 years, taking care of children and working for different families, most of them crazy (one woman who would follow her around, dragging her index finger on every surface she had just cleaned, searching for any last traces of dust). Three of her children still live in the Philippines, and one in the U.S. Her daughter who lives in the U.S. met her husband through the internet...they emailed, he came to the Philippines once, and decided he would marry her. She still supports her 3 children (who all have their own children) her niece, her nephew, and her alcoholic husband who just had to have liver surgery. I was sitting in aww at how someone, who probably doesn't make very much money in the first place, could support 6 adults as well as herself. She told me, "MaggYEE, it is hard. When I want to buy something nice for myself I hold it up and think, will my grandchildren get enough to eat??"

This to me is unthinkable. I looked at the steaming pot of nearly-ready mixed mushroom risotto and thought about the incredibly elaborate nutrition it contained. I thought about the Paris Hiltons of the world, and how one could spend $100,000 on a single shopping spree, when people are going hungry, and much worse. I thought about my own situation living abroad, being teased by my family about how I would surely end up squashing grapes in a basement, à la Bart in the Simpsons. I thought about how I laughed it off, because I knew that if things got really bad, I could hop a plane and be home to comfort, luxury and love in the morning.

Hearing Flora's story, having to escape from a horrible working situation to find another that would be only slightly better, made me take an internal inventory and realize just how lucky I am. Hearing how the other half lives, having a house, a yard, 3 cars, a hot tub, a pool and a dog makes me seem like a Sheik (or the female equivalent) in my own right. Lucky too, in getting to meet someone raised literally in a different world. Knowing women will voluntarily go as "mail order brides" to try and better their lives is a good reminder to not get too comfortable or wrapped up in my own life, and lose sight that people are suffering, everywhere and everyday.

My first attempt at "real" cooking turned out pretty damn good. The rice was al dente (ok that's italian but it still gets italics), the mushrooms were juicy, and the garlic flavor was perfectly balanced, not too strong but still pungent. But I know it only turned out so highly delicious bbecause of the gracious help of someone who has made a job of cooking others' meals since she was 16 yrs old.

Part of me feels blessed that I am lucky enough to be 22 years old, and still such a bad cook.

Toby

Toby, the boy in the box.

So many words to describe him, the most accurate that come to mind being delightful and maddening, lovable and exasperating, all at the same time. When I arrived he was curious but ambivalent about me, mostly copying his brother and telling me about their toys, and singing their favorite chanson, "One little caca, floating in the water.....Two little cacas, floating in the water... " (you get the idea, they're going through a poop phase). But after the novelty of my presence in his house both wore off and sank in, that I actually was, in fact, staying, he was progressively more ornery and resistant to me and anything I asked him to say or do. Unbeknowst to me before my arrival, Toby had been cared for by Flora, the family's housekeeper, ever since the day he was born. Kids are incredibly perceptive, and Toby picked up on the "transition" from Flora to me as their primary caretaker, and became ever more difficult. For the entire time that I've been here, Toby has been obsessed with "collecting newspapers for Flora" everytime we go on the tram. At first this completely puzzled me, until one day I saw Flora looking at the newspaper classifieds saying, "Oh lala, I need to find work, it is so hard in Geneva to find work." Obviously, Toby got the message, and wanted/s to do everything he can to aid his beloved Flora. Unfortunatly, that has has put me in the unfavorable position of evil usurper in his wide eyes...needless to say not the greatest way to start off in a new family.

Little by little, things have gotten easier. But it has been a slow process, and I know he still hasn't fully warmed up to me. My asking him to put his pyjamas on, or telling him that he can't have "toast bread" (as Flora and therefore the kids call it) for breakfast will usually no longer result in a full-fledged screaming tantrum, but with Toby you can never be sure. He can be mean and vicious to, and his "best of" reel includes: "I will cut off all your hair and put you in the sea," "I will take you back to the aeroport," "Je vais te tuer" (I'm going to kill you) and the most recent "I will send you to go back where you came from, I'll send you back to Michigan!!" When he starts with his threats, I am struggling between laughing and feeling like a faux-pair. But at least I don't get his worst threat, which he reserves for Michelle: "I'm going to throw you in the sea and the piranhas will eat you all up!"

And then are the (more rare) times when he is an adorable little koala bear, shimmying up the "trunk" to give big bear hugs and bisous. So lovable and happy, his body limp like a little rag doll flopping in your lap, I feel loved and lucky that I get to be part of such an amazing little kids life. So much energy, so much creativity, so genuine and innately happy. It's contagious, and being around Toby when he's noe un petit monstre is an uplifting elixir to the soul.

Watching him on my floor play with a box for the entire duration of this post, happily chatting and curiously asking questions (always to be followed with a "why," and then anothe), fill me with fondness, warmth and memories of my own childhood, and remind me of how much I was (and still am) loved and missed.

I don't think I'll ever find amusement out of scooting around in a box again, but watching Toby play, and delightfully proclaim "Look Meggie I have a new bottom!!" makes me happy to think that once upon a time I was small and full of wonderment, squealing with joy in a new found square derrière.

Spanning cultures with a can

Getting out the dessert plates for our fruit salad last night, Michelle said, "Right, I think we definitely need some whipped cream." My eyes glimmered. Anyone who knows me will know why, and if you don't then let's just say I never exactly grew out of my childhood can-to-mouth whipped cream spraying phase, and could devour a can toute seule (by myself), and still go back for more.

But my hope faded when she didn't open the fridge and search the upper shelves for that magical metal can. Instead she asked me to run downstairs for the real variety....she actually consumed whipped cream as it's description implies: cream that is whipped, not the gas propelled chemical variety that I know and love.

As the food processor was whirring, I told her about the Redi-whip American variety, and how someday we'll have to have it so she can try what I know and love as "whipped cream." She gave me a quizzical look and replied, "I know that, we have it here too. It's just that if we are going to have it, we have to plan ahead."

Utter confusion on my part, yet she continued.

"We have to have it on a night where we all eat together, and preferable have guests. That way there won't be any leftover to tempt us. I could easily eat the whole can by myself."

No wonder me and Michelle get along so well, we both have the "whipped cream binge" gene. I burst out laughing, telling her that I am exactly the same way. I feel relieved that other women, especially successful, smart, professional women, have also finished an entire can in one sitting (or standing). I think to the time when I went for a bike ride, with the sole purpose of stopping at Krogers to buy my favorite brand, and promptly returning to reward my exercise with some fluffy goodnes. I feel like less of a freak knowing there are other women (probably from every continent) who have in some way or another engaged in exactly the same behavior.

And being reassured of that simple knowledge is more comforting than 10 cans could ever be, knowing no matter where you are or what you do, you're not alone.

Heidi for a day

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiicola!

It's great...to be...a Michigan Wolverine! (errrrrrr...cow)

Bar-in-a-dog....WOOF!

Mel, Julie and me


After staying up late on friday night, watching Eurotrip while gorgin on Italian coco puffs dipped in Nutella, we (myself, Julie from U of M, and Mel the pink haired engineer from Colorado) woke up at the butt-crack of dawn to go into the mountains, and watch the festival of Desalpe. It takes place in the mountain village of St. Cergue, and is the day when farmers move their cows from the summer high paturages, to lower ones for the winter.

We boarded the train with another sprinting finish, after unsuccessful attempts to navigate Geneva public transportation in the wee hours (buses just don't show up! I wonder if the driver slept through his alarm....). We changed trains in Nyon, another city on the lake, and then took a little red train up the mountain. Sitting on that train, you could definitely tell its destination was a tourist attraction: out of 50 or so people in our car, the only language I heard being spoken was English!

Arriving in St. Cergue, we walked the main street and checked out the vendors (mainly cheese, baked goods, and handicrafts), wondering what time the parade would start. We ventured down a hill and tasted absinthe cookies (YUCK!), and saw a whole cow being roasted on a spit! (But really, what better way to celebrate les vaches then to slaughter, roast and eat one while its brothers and sisters are walking past....MOOOOOO?!?)

Suddenly, we heard commotion from up the hill on the main street...the cows were coming! We took off sprinting, fishing through purses to assume camera ready position at the top. We reached the main street just in time to get a couple charming shots of cow ass, completely missing out on their flower crowns, elaborate bells and adorable faces. At this point I was thinking, "god this is like the tour de France, everyone makes a huge deal over it and it passes before you can blink or get a photo!" Needless to say, I was starting to get a little pissed that I'd forfeited one half of my precious sleeping in days.....

Thankfully several more herds of cattle descended through the streets. They were really cute, *almost* enough to offset the noxious smell permeating the fresh mountain air. My favorite was the one with the maize and blue couronne (I definitely had the urge to run out and play the "da da da, da da da da da da, da da da da da ...GO BLUE cheer on a REAL cow bell, but I was able to restrain myself), and the one named Kristoph (shout out to KC, love ya cuz'!), which was beautifully embroidered into his bell collar. The other highlight was that the "Friends of Bernese Mountain dogs" club was there, and no less than 20 beautiful black, white and borown pups that reminded me so much of my little Kodi baby. One group had even decorated their dogs with flowers, and had them pulling carts with little kids in the back through the village streets (SO adorable!). There was also a St. Bernard that made Kodi (120 lb. Newfoundland) look like one of Paris Hilton's lap dogs, with a traditional wooden water barrel around its neck. When I went to pet it, I heard its owner telling someone that "c'est l'alcool dedans.... (there's alcohol inside), and that they were handing out to the farmers as they walked their cows down the mountain!

At this point the streets were "toutes mouillées" (all wet) and practically covered in muddy cow pie. Julie and me both got hit with "souvenirs" from our bovine friends, mine splattered right across my Michigan sweatshirt (maybe the cow crap gave them a little extra oomph to beat the golden gophers??) Oh well, at least I only had jeans and a hoodie on.....a wave of perverse pleasure washed over me in seeing a woman who tried to make bermuda shorts with heels work at the cow festival, and had splatterings of cow dung all over the bottom half of her legs, not to mention little piles stuck in cocentric circles around the point of her heel.

The rest of the day was for napping and bumming around, since the family went to Chamonix for the weekend. I spent some time looking for flights home over Christmas, and actually found one at a decent price, which means I now have a tough decision to make, and quick. I need to make a list of all the pros and cons, and start deciding STAT. But today is a cloudy, rainy day...and some thé, le canapé, and the Fountainhead are calling my name. Important decisions to be made plus tard.