Mafia, legendary pirate invasions, cliffs cascading into the horizon, plates of fresh pasta, Fiats, pottery made from Versuvius's volcanic rock, azure grottos and crazy bus drivers. Yes... we were finally on Italy's Amalfi coast!
Our first introduction to the UNESCO world heritage site and one of the most magnificent coastlines in the world was from the window of our easyJet flight. With Capri on the horizon, and if we overlooked the budget seats and lack of leg room, we could almost imagine being movie stars (I was definitely going to be on the look out for George Clooney). This was, in fact, my easyJet debut, and I had been completely unprepared for the improprietous stampede that followed the exit from the airport bus. Luckily my husband was a semi-experienced easyJetter and made a good job of making it up the stairs and securing us window seats away from the loos while I was still standing near the bottom of the plane wondering what the hell had happened.
Our taxi driver (Giovanni), having grown up in Sorrento, was well practiced in piloting down the winding roads that had been carved into the vertical cliffs, so we took off at an expected breakneck speed with him frequently taking his hands off the steering wheel so that he could wave them around at appropriate intervals while he regaled us with stories about Naples and his native coastline. Napoli is all about the Mafia, Versuvius and Margherita pizza, and we did not, unfortunately, have enough time to check it out or visit Pompeii.
Following some awesome stops at the stunning viewpoints, and a side-trip to taste some homemade strawberry liqueur and limoncello (always good before lunch), we were dispatched with a heartfelt "Grazie, arrivederci" at the bottom of the 414 steps we had to scale to reach our B&B, located in Arienzo, Positano, on a working farm that the family had owned for generations, and just under the famous "Walk of the Gods" (Sentiero degli Dei), where you have to (and we did) climb about 2000 steps to get to the top of the escarpment to look over the stupendous vistas. And, yes, the view was totally worth the cardiac arrhythmias and semi-paralytic gasping attacks we suffered.
The authenticity of the coast, with the little white houses stuck on to the cliffs as if by magic, the little fishing boats bobbing on the wave-less ocean, the little stores selling brightly-painted pottery and the total lack of eyesores (apparently the few large, ugly hotels that were built in the 70s were demolished), makes for a landscape almost too beautiful to be believed. And the best part is that you can feast your eyes and your tummy all at once because they have numerous bistros offering fresh pasta loaded with garlic, olive oil, fresh seafood and the reddest, ripest, most flavour-packed baby tomatoes with just a dusting of Parmesan.... and all washed down with a rich bottle of Chianti... and to end off: tirimisu, pannacotta, gelati, a cheese platter with figs, or a host of other delicious choices that are best complimented with Italian espresso... ...what more could you ever want to eat?
The bus schedule never running to time and us only being able to purchase tickets at random garages and mini-stores anyway, we often just did the suicidal walk along the single-doubling-unconvincingly-as-a-double-lane-road-without-an-emergency-lane "freeway" (both fast and with the drivers taking liberal freedoms with the rules of the road) instead. This seemed stupid, especially at night when one particularly rabid-looking dog seemed to take great joy in chasing us down the road, only re-treating when some mad driver came hurtling around the corner. But the buses seemed even more stupid. Seriously suicidal. The bus drivers seemed to concentrate more on styling their hair in the rear-view mirror than on the road, and were quite happy to negotiate sharp turns and blind corners with just a toot of the hooter, all the while chatting on their mobile phones or with the passengers behind them, hand-jestings and all. It was especially thrilling with a sheer cliff on the one side, which it felt like you were looking straight over when the bus cavorted around the bends, causing the entire carriage of the bus to slide horizontally. The bus ride on Capri was the most death-defying because the tiny orange vehicles that ferry tourists all over the island only have 6 seats in them so most of the time you are left standing, clinging for dear life onto the pole and the people around you and hoping that you weren't making the bus too top heavy as you watch your life continuously flash before you. I will never complain about minibus taxi drivers in South Africa ever again.
We visited the mountaintop villages of Nocelle and Ravello, ate at seaside restaurants with the Mediterranean stretching out luxuriously in front of us, took the funicular up to the top of Capri to gaze down upon the rich and famous and survived the crazy byways. We saw cars parked, impossibly, bumper to bumper and with their hubcaps grazing the barrier. We ate home-made lemon cake and fig jam and bruschetta with tomato and basil and enough pasta to carbo-load for a marathon. We passed through groves of lemon and olive trees and vineyards and tomato fields. We walked the narrow cobbled streets of the adorably authentic alleyways and marveled at the preserved buildings with their almost designer-looking peeling paint and just the right amount of disheveled-ness. Now all I want to know is, when are we going back?
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Always bigger, always better. Gotta love the US of A.
And I do.... I do, I do, I do, I do, I dooooooo.....
On the other hand, my first introduction this late June was not a good one. Having decided to take the "Super Shuttle" from the airport to Silver Spring where my workshop would be held, I finally made it to the National Labour College almost 3 hours later. The grid-locked traffic, mixed with the unfortunate combination of passengers needing to be dropped off across the far corners of Maryland, meant that, as I was last to board, I was also last to get dropped off some 3 hours later to a destination that was usually a 30 minute drive from Washington Dulles. By the end I was intimately associated with the entire state. Note to self: always board a shuttle bus as the first passenger.
The conference center and hotel were located on sprawling beautiful and verdant grounds, just outside of Silver Spring, and my hotel room was the size of my apartment back in Switzerland, with the bathroom being 3 times as big. This contrasted with the sad little town of Silver Spring, which seemed to be frozen in the worst fashions of the 70s. It consisted of rows of ugly, grey concrete bunker-style buildings with a few swirly blue signs that looked like they should be advertising a water park rather than the home of the FDA.
If I thought my hotel room was generous then it was only out-competed by the variety and portion sizes of food available at the dining hall. Full disclosure: I love the food in the States! Coming from Europe, with their reputation for fine cuisine, you probably think that I'm a philistine, but I have been more than pleasantly surprised by the food quality and variety in the States. Although they are more well known for their none too healthy junk food (and, let me tell you, they make the meanest, juiciest burgers in the world), their healthier and more gourmet-type food is just as good. Moreover, and unlike stingy Switzerland, it is well-priced and available in generous portions. And again, unlike Switzerland where the stores are only open during business hours, in the States you can stock up on a mind-boggling variety of groceries any time of day, on the weekends, and well into the evenings. Americans have choice and convenience up the wazoo. As an amusing but rather sad example, an Aussie friend of mine in Switzerland just wrote a food blog entitled: "When lamb is expensive, go legumes". We both come from sheep-farming countries and this is what the Swiss have reduced us to.
The first evening of the workshop, I was invited out to dinner by Alere, a medium-sized diagnostics company that seemed to be rapidly accumulating any smaller company that looked like a good investment. The two gentlemen who were representing the company at the workshop had hired a spacious American car and proceeded to try to find an Italian restaurant on the complementary GPS. Having located one with suitable reviews, we jetted off down the hi-way in the thick of a thunderstorm. I began getting suspicious after we had flown past the signs for Silver Spring and seemed to be heading for Washington D.C., so, mindful of the fact that guys are quite sensitive about these things, I asked ever so tentatively whether we were, in fact, headed for said Italian restaurant. We eventually discovered that there were 2 Italian restaurants of the same name - one in Silver Spring and one in Arlington, Virginia, and we were clearly headed for the wrong one. After a rather lengthy and scenic drive back to Silver Spring we finally found our intended restaurant 1 hour later. At least the storm had past by then.
Following my culinary journey at the conference (yes, I did some work too), I was taken to my brother-in-law's place in Gaithursburg in his Plymouth Nyon - a car in desperate need of replacement and with brakes so dodgy you were obliged to avoid downhill drives. It was in this vehicle then that my husband, his brother, and I headed off to the Appalachian mountains - a visual spectacular of rolling peaks covered in forests and cut my magnificent gorges. The USA makes Switzerland seem puny. Like a toy country. Lichtenstein must feel like a pimple by comparison.
Virginia is an American cliche. It is dotted with wooden farm houses with big trucks parked out front and restaurants offering barbeque and all you can eat buffets. It makes you want to sing songs like: "Take me home! Country Road! To the place.... I belong! West Virginia!". Of course we had to stop off at a "Chinese" hi-way diner called Jumbo Buffet. If you think it was bad, it was. I declined to partake in the pink, sticky and deep-fried food but the guys got stuck in, trying to wash down the taste with bad American beer, and seriously regretting their culinary choice later on.
My husband, who had let his hair grow long in Switzerland, too appalled by the prices of Swiss hair-dressers, and with definitely no permission from his family to shave it off like he had done earlier in the year (clearly the Nazi look is both unfashionable and inappropriate), had booked a visit to the "Hair Cuttery" as soon as he was off the plane and was therefore no longer looking as though he was growing a mullet, although he would have fitted into Virginia quite well if he had!
We eventually reached the majestic Shenandoah park and took a leisurely drive through the forested, mountainous reserve, stopping at the various look-out points. I spotted a couple of hiking paths and suggested we do a walk to stretch our legs, so we decided to stop at the next trail entrance. Just then we saw a black head pop up through the undergrowth. A black bear! And then two little cubs scrambled up the tree right in front of us! We watched them play until they scampered off into the undergrowth. A wonderful sighting but hiking was definitely out! Mama bear looked way too scary!
Our drive home was exciting to say the least. We happened to hit the longest mountain pass ever. Downhill. It was not long before we started to smell burning breaks. Lovely. Fearing for our lives, we decided to pull off to the side of the road intermittently to let the break pads cool down and were very relieved to finally reach the bottom. Alive. Thinking that a root beer float might calm my nerves, we stopped at a roadside farm stall. It was deliciousness in a polystyrene cup.
Next day we decided that a braai (barbeque) would be in order so we headed to Wholefoods to stock up on their marinated kabobs (kebabs) and sausages. We even bought Swiss cheese and crackers (for less than we would have paid in Switzerland). Being able to shop on a Sunday: priceless. There was a beautiful picnic spot close by nestled under a forested canopy overlooking a lake so we unloaded our bags at a suitable spot and got the fire going with some sort of insane charcoal that burned instantly (perhaps they soak it in paraffin?) and watched in disappointment as some big black clouds rolled in. I decided to take the bags to the car lest out crackers get soggy and the guys decided to brave it out until the meat was good and cooked. Drenched but at least not struck by lightening, they stayed until the last burning coal, and we headed home to put the half-cooked meat in the oven.
The following day we headed into the nation's capital to celebrate the 4th of July with about a million other Americans, all dressed in various combinations of the Stars and Stripes. Interestingly there was a world fair on along the mall, complete with a Hindu festival and bushmen dancers from Botswana (who kept asking, "has anyone seen the God's Must Be Crazy?"). We had expected the festivities to be all American but instead ended up eating West African food at listening to Colombian music. We did get to enjoy to some awesome New Orlean's style R&B music, though, and watched in amazement as the audience danced around the marquee in 35 degree C temperatures.
It finally started feeling like the 4th of July when we headed towards the Lincoln memorial for the concert and fireworks display. We had a long wait ahead of us and looked forward to some classical American tracks being performed by the military band in the lead up to the massive fireworks display. After a few traditional songs, mostly out of the 60s, that must have really made you feel good to be an American, their most famous Country and Western singer took to the stage. For the next 2 hours. To be fair, she never sung Achy Breaky Heart, not once, but the 3 of us reached our Country and Western limit after 30 minutes and were pretty thoroughly tortured for the rest of the concert. It was worth it to see the fireworks display though. Almost half an hour of the most specular light show I've ever seen. Yeehaa! Then the shit hit the fan. All those thousands of people who had entered D.C. in dribs and drabs earlier that day suddenly all had to make it out of Washington en masse, and most of them by the same way as we had come in: on the metro.
We realised that this had been a major oversight by the public transport officials when we hit a wall of people coming down into the subway and somebody at last had the foresight to hit the emergency button on the escalator before a near catastrophe occurred. Hordes of people were coming down but only a negligible number were getting though the turnstyles. We very nearly had a suffocating body pile-up. There was not a single police officer in sight and the metro authorities seemed unwilling to open the turn-styles. Boarding the train was even worse. Desperate people have no queue etiquette and I was wondering how the mothers were coping with their small children. To make matters worse, the metro authorities had not increased the number of trains so through-put was painfully slow. I wonder if this happens every year?
The next morning I had to get up at the crack of dawn to catch my flight to Seattle - the Emerald City. Although there for work, I had the evenings free to wander the Waterfront and even take the ferry to Bainbridge island - one of the many islands scattered along Puget Sound. Maybe it was the perfect weather (unusual for the famously rainy city) or maybe it was my Frasier obsession, but Seattle really is one of the most beautiful cities I've ever been to. And the food! OMG the food.... One particular highlight was Black Bottle restaurant - a gastro-tavern with a menu to make your mouth water before they've even brought the food out. My colleague and I shared 4 mains and a dessert, and would have ordered more if we could fit it in. We had grilled lamb with hummus, lemon caper squid salad, gruyere emmentaler beet gratin with rocket, and grilled portobello, polished off with Chardonnay and perfectly ended with a difficult to choose dessert of peach and blueberry kettle tart with thick cream and espresso. OMG. The last time I had food like that was in Cape Town. We wanted to take the chef back to Geneva with us as nothing even close to that good exists in Switzerland. Even if you wanted to make that sort of food at home you would be hard-pressed to find / afford the ingredients. Leaving the restaurant much satiated and with the waitress thinking we were slightly insane, we took a stroll back to our lovely waterfront apartment (booking though airbnb is always a winner) and bemoaned our imminent return to the land of mediocre cuisine.
Flying back to Switzerland, over the jagged mountains of the Rockies and the snow topped and still active volcanoes down the west coast, I was looking forward to going home. After all, Switzerland is pretty and has great public transport and does make good bread.... and cheese, and chocolate, and ice cream. And I would hopefully be back in the States soon enough for another outlet mall shopping trip, a well-needed hair-cut, and a foodie fantasy come true. Because I do want to go back. Oh yes, I do. I do, I do, I do, I do, I doooooo....
On the other hand, my first introduction this late June was not a good one. Having decided to take the "Super Shuttle" from the airport to Silver Spring where my workshop would be held, I finally made it to the National Labour College almost 3 hours later. The grid-locked traffic, mixed with the unfortunate combination of passengers needing to be dropped off across the far corners of Maryland, meant that, as I was last to board, I was also last to get dropped off some 3 hours later to a destination that was usually a 30 minute drive from Washington Dulles. By the end I was intimately associated with the entire state. Note to self: always board a shuttle bus as the first passenger.
The conference center and hotel were located on sprawling beautiful and verdant grounds, just outside of Silver Spring, and my hotel room was the size of my apartment back in Switzerland, with the bathroom being 3 times as big. This contrasted with the sad little town of Silver Spring, which seemed to be frozen in the worst fashions of the 70s. It consisted of rows of ugly, grey concrete bunker-style buildings with a few swirly blue signs that looked like they should be advertising a water park rather than the home of the FDA.
If I thought my hotel room was generous then it was only out-competed by the variety and portion sizes of food available at the dining hall. Full disclosure: I love the food in the States! Coming from Europe, with their reputation for fine cuisine, you probably think that I'm a philistine, but I have been more than pleasantly surprised by the food quality and variety in the States. Although they are more well known for their none too healthy junk food (and, let me tell you, they make the meanest, juiciest burgers in the world), their healthier and more gourmet-type food is just as good. Moreover, and unlike stingy Switzerland, it is well-priced and available in generous portions. And again, unlike Switzerland where the stores are only open during business hours, in the States you can stock up on a mind-boggling variety of groceries any time of day, on the weekends, and well into the evenings. Americans have choice and convenience up the wazoo. As an amusing but rather sad example, an Aussie friend of mine in Switzerland just wrote a food blog entitled: "When lamb is expensive, go legumes". We both come from sheep-farming countries and this is what the Swiss have reduced us to.
The first evening of the workshop, I was invited out to dinner by Alere, a medium-sized diagnostics company that seemed to be rapidly accumulating any smaller company that looked like a good investment. The two gentlemen who were representing the company at the workshop had hired a spacious American car and proceeded to try to find an Italian restaurant on the complementary GPS. Having located one with suitable reviews, we jetted off down the hi-way in the thick of a thunderstorm. I began getting suspicious after we had flown past the signs for Silver Spring and seemed to be heading for Washington D.C., so, mindful of the fact that guys are quite sensitive about these things, I asked ever so tentatively whether we were, in fact, headed for said Italian restaurant. We eventually discovered that there were 2 Italian restaurants of the same name - one in Silver Spring and one in Arlington, Virginia, and we were clearly headed for the wrong one. After a rather lengthy and scenic drive back to Silver Spring we finally found our intended restaurant 1 hour later. At least the storm had past by then.
Following my culinary journey at the conference (yes, I did some work too), I was taken to my brother-in-law's place in Gaithursburg in his Plymouth Nyon - a car in desperate need of replacement and with brakes so dodgy you were obliged to avoid downhill drives. It was in this vehicle then that my husband, his brother, and I headed off to the Appalachian mountains - a visual spectacular of rolling peaks covered in forests and cut my magnificent gorges. The USA makes Switzerland seem puny. Like a toy country. Lichtenstein must feel like a pimple by comparison.
Virginia is an American cliche. It is dotted with wooden farm houses with big trucks parked out front and restaurants offering barbeque and all you can eat buffets. It makes you want to sing songs like: "Take me home! Country Road! To the place.... I belong! West Virginia!". Of course we had to stop off at a "Chinese" hi-way diner called Jumbo Buffet. If you think it was bad, it was. I declined to partake in the pink, sticky and deep-fried food but the guys got stuck in, trying to wash down the taste with bad American beer, and seriously regretting their culinary choice later on.
My husband, who had let his hair grow long in Switzerland, too appalled by the prices of Swiss hair-dressers, and with definitely no permission from his family to shave it off like he had done earlier in the year (clearly the Nazi look is both unfashionable and inappropriate), had booked a visit to the "Hair Cuttery" as soon as he was off the plane and was therefore no longer looking as though he was growing a mullet, although he would have fitted into Virginia quite well if he had!
We eventually reached the majestic Shenandoah park and took a leisurely drive through the forested, mountainous reserve, stopping at the various look-out points. I spotted a couple of hiking paths and suggested we do a walk to stretch our legs, so we decided to stop at the next trail entrance. Just then we saw a black head pop up through the undergrowth. A black bear! And then two little cubs scrambled up the tree right in front of us! We watched them play until they scampered off into the undergrowth. A wonderful sighting but hiking was definitely out! Mama bear looked way too scary!
Our drive home was exciting to say the least. We happened to hit the longest mountain pass ever. Downhill. It was not long before we started to smell burning breaks. Lovely. Fearing for our lives, we decided to pull off to the side of the road intermittently to let the break pads cool down and were very relieved to finally reach the bottom. Alive. Thinking that a root beer float might calm my nerves, we stopped at a roadside farm stall. It was deliciousness in a polystyrene cup.
Next day we decided that a braai (barbeque) would be in order so we headed to Wholefoods to stock up on their marinated kabobs (kebabs) and sausages. We even bought Swiss cheese and crackers (for less than we would have paid in Switzerland). Being able to shop on a Sunday: priceless. There was a beautiful picnic spot close by nestled under a forested canopy overlooking a lake so we unloaded our bags at a suitable spot and got the fire going with some sort of insane charcoal that burned instantly (perhaps they soak it in paraffin?) and watched in disappointment as some big black clouds rolled in. I decided to take the bags to the car lest out crackers get soggy and the guys decided to brave it out until the meat was good and cooked. Drenched but at least not struck by lightening, they stayed until the last burning coal, and we headed home to put the half-cooked meat in the oven.
The following day we headed into the nation's capital to celebrate the 4th of July with about a million other Americans, all dressed in various combinations of the Stars and Stripes. Interestingly there was a world fair on along the mall, complete with a Hindu festival and bushmen dancers from Botswana (who kept asking, "has anyone seen the God's Must Be Crazy?"). We had expected the festivities to be all American but instead ended up eating West African food at listening to Colombian music. We did get to enjoy to some awesome New Orlean's style R&B music, though, and watched in amazement as the audience danced around the marquee in 35 degree C temperatures.
It finally started feeling like the 4th of July when we headed towards the Lincoln memorial for the concert and fireworks display. We had a long wait ahead of us and looked forward to some classical American tracks being performed by the military band in the lead up to the massive fireworks display. After a few traditional songs, mostly out of the 60s, that must have really made you feel good to be an American, their most famous Country and Western singer took to the stage. For the next 2 hours. To be fair, she never sung Achy Breaky Heart, not once, but the 3 of us reached our Country and Western limit after 30 minutes and were pretty thoroughly tortured for the rest of the concert. It was worth it to see the fireworks display though. Almost half an hour of the most specular light show I've ever seen. Yeehaa! Then the shit hit the fan. All those thousands of people who had entered D.C. in dribs and drabs earlier that day suddenly all had to make it out of Washington en masse, and most of them by the same way as we had come in: on the metro.
We realised that this had been a major oversight by the public transport officials when we hit a wall of people coming down into the subway and somebody at last had the foresight to hit the emergency button on the escalator before a near catastrophe occurred. Hordes of people were coming down but only a negligible number were getting though the turnstyles. We very nearly had a suffocating body pile-up. There was not a single police officer in sight and the metro authorities seemed unwilling to open the turn-styles. Boarding the train was even worse. Desperate people have no queue etiquette and I was wondering how the mothers were coping with their small children. To make matters worse, the metro authorities had not increased the number of trains so through-put was painfully slow. I wonder if this happens every year?
The next morning I had to get up at the crack of dawn to catch my flight to Seattle - the Emerald City. Although there for work, I had the evenings free to wander the Waterfront and even take the ferry to Bainbridge island - one of the many islands scattered along Puget Sound. Maybe it was the perfect weather (unusual for the famously rainy city) or maybe it was my Frasier obsession, but Seattle really is one of the most beautiful cities I've ever been to. And the food! OMG the food.... One particular highlight was Black Bottle restaurant - a gastro-tavern with a menu to make your mouth water before they've even brought the food out. My colleague and I shared 4 mains and a dessert, and would have ordered more if we could fit it in. We had grilled lamb with hummus, lemon caper squid salad, gruyere emmentaler beet gratin with rocket, and grilled portobello, polished off with Chardonnay and perfectly ended with a difficult to choose dessert of peach and blueberry kettle tart with thick cream and espresso. OMG. The last time I had food like that was in Cape Town. We wanted to take the chef back to Geneva with us as nothing even close to that good exists in Switzerland. Even if you wanted to make that sort of food at home you would be hard-pressed to find / afford the ingredients. Leaving the restaurant much satiated and with the waitress thinking we were slightly insane, we took a stroll back to our lovely waterfront apartment (booking though airbnb is always a winner) and bemoaned our imminent return to the land of mediocre cuisine.
Flying back to Switzerland, over the jagged mountains of the Rockies and the snow topped and still active volcanoes down the west coast, I was looking forward to going home. After all, Switzerland is pretty and has great public transport and does make good bread.... and cheese, and chocolate, and ice cream. And I would hopefully be back in the States soon enough for another outlet mall shopping trip, a well-needed hair-cut, and a foodie fantasy come true. Because I do want to go back. Oh yes, I do. I do, I do, I do, I do, I doooooo....
Sunday, May 8, 2011
To Paris, with love
Now I know why the Parisians are so glam and slim, the lucky buggers. Other than living in one of the most beautiful and vibrant cities in the world, their diet, shops and Metro system ensure that they are always kitted out in the height of fashion and get a daily cardiovascular workout thrown in for free (I guess that the chain smoking and genetics help somewhat too).
The Mediterranean diet, fine red wine and endless boulevards of gourmet restaurants are one of the perks I love most about visiting Paris - and its all good value for money - and I don't have to wonder how I'm going to work off my culinary over-indulgences because all I have to do is spend the day walking down the Champs-Élysées, or around the boutique stores of the Marais, or around one of the many picture-perfect jardins, or, and this is probably the most effective in terms of getting the heart-rate up, I can take the Metro!
The sadistic Parisians have designed the subways and trains in such a way as to maximise the number of stairs possible to fit inside an underground system without having to do some serious geographic alterations. Many a time I have wondered why, especially while lugging around a suitcase that would otherwise be a pleasure if I could only take advantage of the fact that it was on wheels, after just having reached the top of a long staircase, I am forced back down a long line of steps. Why couldn't they just have built it flat in the first place? In a straight line instead of up, down, up, down, up, down? And all the Parisian ladies are stepping daintily around in stilettos like they are made of floating barbie dolls, Vogue cigarette in one hand, Louis Vuitton in the other, like steps are almost impercetable. If I had any French genes running down my family line once upon a time, they are long gone now!
The Mediterranean diet, fine red wine and endless boulevards of gourmet restaurants are one of the perks I love most about visiting Paris - and its all good value for money - and I don't have to wonder how I'm going to work off my culinary over-indulgences because all I have to do is spend the day walking down the Champs-Élysées, or around the boutique stores of the Marais, or around one of the many picture-perfect jardins, or, and this is probably the most effective in terms of getting the heart-rate up, I can take the Metro!
The sadistic Parisians have designed the subways and trains in such a way as to maximise the number of stairs possible to fit inside an underground system without having to do some serious geographic alterations. Many a time I have wondered why, especially while lugging around a suitcase that would otherwise be a pleasure if I could only take advantage of the fact that it was on wheels, after just having reached the top of a long staircase, I am forced back down a long line of steps. Why couldn't they just have built it flat in the first place? In a straight line instead of up, down, up, down, up, down? And all the Parisian ladies are stepping daintily around in stilettos like they are made of floating barbie dolls, Vogue cigarette in one hand, Louis Vuitton in the other, like steps are almost impercetable. If I had any French genes running down my family line once upon a time, they are long gone now!
Saturday, April 16, 2011
What's a box to do?
Just to set the Swiss mental atmosphere (oh, I do love a good pun) - we recently had the International Film Festival being hosted at our little town of Nyon. Our excitement was soon deflated, however, after learning that their main feature film last Saturday night was to be about the territorial inclinations of pregnant Swiss cows.
This week we have regressed to the dubious title of 'Cardboard Criminals'. Having purchased a microwave, we decided to do the responsible thing and lug our box down to the big recycling bins down the road. Unfortunately, the little circular hole provided on top of the big recycling bin did not provide us with the right dimensions in which to load a capacious, rectangular box, so we left it neatly by the side of the bin. A few days later we received a serious looking letter from the Municipality, in French, which we readily and painstakingly re-typed into Google translate, to find out that we have now been classified as illegal garbage dumpers and, if we do it again, they will send the police around to hand over a summons and fine us CHF115. Ouch. Apparently I had been stupid enough to leave my name and delivery details on the side of the box (not realizing, as you don't, that I was performing a criminal action at the time), however, it is likely that they were satellite tracking us anyway. Or filming us on web-cams. To be fair, there are 3 days of the month where you can leave larger items by the bins for collection the next day. I think we'll do it under the cover of darkness anyway. Wearing a beanie. And with camouflage face paint. This is the wild west after all.
This week we have regressed to the dubious title of 'Cardboard Criminals'. Having purchased a microwave, we decided to do the responsible thing and lug our box down to the big recycling bins down the road. Unfortunately, the little circular hole provided on top of the big recycling bin did not provide us with the right dimensions in which to load a capacious, rectangular box, so we left it neatly by the side of the bin. A few days later we received a serious looking letter from the Municipality, in French, which we readily and painstakingly re-typed into Google translate, to find out that we have now been classified as illegal garbage dumpers and, if we do it again, they will send the police around to hand over a summons and fine us CHF115. Ouch. Apparently I had been stupid enough to leave my name and delivery details on the side of the box (not realizing, as you don't, that I was performing a criminal action at the time), however, it is likely that they were satellite tracking us anyway. Or filming us on web-cams. To be fair, there are 3 days of the month where you can leave larger items by the bins for collection the next day. I think we'll do it under the cover of darkness anyway. Wearing a beanie. And with camouflage face paint. This is the wild west after all.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
What lies beneath?
In Nyon, the Swiss village we have made our new home, there is no noise allowed on Sundays. Shops are closed, almost all restaurants are closed, and it is forbidden to do washing or mow your lawn. People hide in their apartments, reading books, sleeping and watching TV. We have come to terms with this lifeless weekend tradition. We have even come to embrace the peace, quite and relaxation. But we do find it difficult to come to terms with the sheer incredulously hilarious pettiness of our Swiss neighbours. I guess it is true that when you live in a country where no real problems exist, you lose all perspective.
Although we have tried to be friendly and warm towards the people that we share our rented house with, tried to communicate with them despite the fact that we speak no French and they no English, it is safe to say that they have reserved only the worst kind of disdain imaginable just for us. We do not, however, take this personally, because the petty things they complain about are so trivial that, instead of taking them seriously, we can only shrug and laugh in amusement and amazement.
Our first heinous act was to move into the loft apartment, period. To be here at all is, apparently, unforgivable. The couple that live on the bottom floor have rented here for 20 years and their mother lives on the second level, with us in the loft. They obviously see this house as their family home and we as the intruders on their personal space. The lady that we are subletting from had already warned us that the neighbours were crazy. The day she moved in, they told her that she wasn't allowed to park her car outside the front door, even temporarily, and even though she was trying to move heavy furniture inside. So, we weren't expecting a welcome with a sunny hello and freshly baked cookies then, but we weren't expecting outright dislike, either - although you'd never suspect it from the way they always smile and say hello each time we happen to pass on the stairwell. Perhaps its more of a grimace.
Our second heinous act was to use the tumble dryer, which no one told us was dysfunctional and leaking water, and which ended up flooding the basement. At least we were sticking strictly to our 2 allocated washing days - Wednesday and Thursday - and making sure to fetch our washing off the lines in the basement by early Friday morning. Our neighbour made it clear that even early Friday morning was unacceptable, as it was cutting into her wash time, by pushing our clothes to the side so that she could hang up her own washing as early as 7am.
Our third heinous crime was to sit in "their" garden and, oh horror of horrors, take our cat for a walk. I mean, the damn animal might pee in their veggie garden! We suspected that this was going to be an issue so had even taken him out on a dog lead - an interesting experiment and something that worked out about as well as trying to teach a cat to like water. This entertaining spectacle brought out the curiosity from the cat next door who came to stare at him with pity and derision from her sunny spot on top of the garage. I bet she pees on our neighbours veggies.
These indiscretions have resulted in them making many heated phone calls to the rental agent (who has confirmed to us they are, indeed, insane), the last one being that, because they look after the garden, and mow the lawn and plant tulips, we are not allowed to enjoy any part of it and neither, and especially not, is our cat. And because they simply can't abide us, they thought they'd throw in an unfounded complaint that we have far too many noisy visitors, although we've have exactly 3 friends over since we moved in 2 months ago and with noise levels that can only be described as mellow, and that we must stop parking our car in "their" drive-way, even though we don't even own a car and neither do any of our friends. Must have been that one time we called a taxi.
In the South African spirit, we have decided to be the better neighbours. To continue to be kind and conscientious and to keep out of their way as much as possible without penalizing ourselves to the point of ridiculousness. But I do hope the kitty next door pees on their veggies. Regularly and with relish.
Although we have tried to be friendly and warm towards the people that we share our rented house with, tried to communicate with them despite the fact that we speak no French and they no English, it is safe to say that they have reserved only the worst kind of disdain imaginable just for us. We do not, however, take this personally, because the petty things they complain about are so trivial that, instead of taking them seriously, we can only shrug and laugh in amusement and amazement.
Our first heinous act was to move into the loft apartment, period. To be here at all is, apparently, unforgivable. The couple that live on the bottom floor have rented here for 20 years and their mother lives on the second level, with us in the loft. They obviously see this house as their family home and we as the intruders on their personal space. The lady that we are subletting from had already warned us that the neighbours were crazy. The day she moved in, they told her that she wasn't allowed to park her car outside the front door, even temporarily, and even though she was trying to move heavy furniture inside. So, we weren't expecting a welcome with a sunny hello and freshly baked cookies then, but we weren't expecting outright dislike, either - although you'd never suspect it from the way they always smile and say hello each time we happen to pass on the stairwell. Perhaps its more of a grimace.
Our second heinous act was to use the tumble dryer, which no one told us was dysfunctional and leaking water, and which ended up flooding the basement. At least we were sticking strictly to our 2 allocated washing days - Wednesday and Thursday - and making sure to fetch our washing off the lines in the basement by early Friday morning. Our neighbour made it clear that even early Friday morning was unacceptable, as it was cutting into her wash time, by pushing our clothes to the side so that she could hang up her own washing as early as 7am.
Our third heinous crime was to sit in "their" garden and, oh horror of horrors, take our cat for a walk. I mean, the damn animal might pee in their veggie garden! We suspected that this was going to be an issue so had even taken him out on a dog lead - an interesting experiment and something that worked out about as well as trying to teach a cat to like water. This entertaining spectacle brought out the curiosity from the cat next door who came to stare at him with pity and derision from her sunny spot on top of the garage. I bet she pees on our neighbours veggies.
These indiscretions have resulted in them making many heated phone calls to the rental agent (who has confirmed to us they are, indeed, insane), the last one being that, because they look after the garden, and mow the lawn and plant tulips, we are not allowed to enjoy any part of it and neither, and especially not, is our cat. And because they simply can't abide us, they thought they'd throw in an unfounded complaint that we have far too many noisy visitors, although we've have exactly 3 friends over since we moved in 2 months ago and with noise levels that can only be described as mellow, and that we must stop parking our car in "their" drive-way, even though we don't even own a car and neither do any of our friends. Must have been that one time we called a taxi.
In the South African spirit, we have decided to be the better neighbours. To continue to be kind and conscientious and to keep out of their way as much as possible without penalizing ourselves to the point of ridiculousness. But I do hope the kitty next door pees on their veggies. Regularly and with relish.
Pavement Special, all the way!
Spring has well and truelly sprung. I bet the weather here is even better than the autumn Cape Town must be experiencing already. The sun is setting past 8pm and there are tulips and daffodils blooming everywhere. We thought, as our cat was soon to join us in the sun-kissed hills of Heidi-land, that we couldn't have asked for a more perfect time of year to introduce him to his new home.
He was booked to fly from Cape Town to Amsterdam on March 29th and then, once clearing customs, on to Geneva where we would finally be able to fetch him from the airport after what we could only imagine must be quite a traumatic trip for an animal previously familiar with only two things: living in our apartment in Cape Town and exploring the small garden at the bottom of the stairs.
We were in quite a high state of excitement as we had last seen him as long ago as January, before our move to Switzerland, and were wondering if he would even remember us. One of the conditions that Switzerland insist on is a booster rabies vaccination followed by an antibody titre test and another 3 months wait before your pet can travel out of South Africa to rabies-free Europe (this is completely biologically implausible if the animal has had all its vaccinations, including boosters, as a kitten - I mean, you don't see them asking humans for booster vaccinations before traveling the globe - but we won't split hairs).
Expecting him to arrive on March 30th, we took a trip to "Cats and Dogs" to stock up on his favorite food, fresh cat litter and a cat scratch pad a tiger would have been happy with. We had been warned that our kitty might just hide under the bed for a few days and only venture out with much spoiling and coaxing, and that we had to keep all the windows and doors shut in case, in sheer confusion and delusion, he decided to run away. We were therefore justifiably concerned when he was delayed at customs in SA because they gave him the wrong permit number and further delayed, after finally reaching The Pet Hotel at Amsterdam airport on Friday morning, because KLM had lost all of his paperwork. They assured us that, because his documents were part of a container-full of important post that some CEOs in London were already making a hoo-ha about locating, his documents should be found readily. They also assured us that, even though they had made their own personal copies, they could not release him until the original paperwork had been found. As it was, they only found the container late Friday afternoon and so our poor cat had to spend the entire weekend in The Pet Hotel. I realise this sounds considerably less traumatic than I make it out to be. I mean, it is a hotel. With food and water and soft bedding and vets looking after your every need. I guess we were just disappointed at not having him with us for the weekend.
Air France, his flight carrier between Amsterdam and Geneva, tried their very best to get him released on copied paperwork, and there were many phone calls back on forth between Geneva, Amsterdam and Cape Town, but to no avail. By the time my husband finally went to fetch our cat from the Geneva airport on Monday morning kitty was quite famous. Everyone knew him by name and couldn't wait to meet him. Plus he had a case file as thick as a book.
As it was, Geneva was having one of its intermittent spring downpours so poor kitty had to be carried home in the rain - not a very welcome introduction to his new homeland.
Despite being taken from the only home he has ever known, held captive at multiple airports, flown for 13 hours in cargo-hold and getting wet on the way to his new apartment, he settled in remarkably quickly. There was no hiding in dark corners or refusing to eat. No accusing looks or depressive behavior. In fact, from the moment he arrived, and after thoroughly exploring the apartment, he settled comfortably on the couch for a nap, following the sun along the seat, and staring out the windows with interest at his new world, purring in ecstasy whenever we showered him with attention. I guess that's what you get for having a pavement special!
He was booked to fly from Cape Town to Amsterdam on March 29th and then, once clearing customs, on to Geneva where we would finally be able to fetch him from the airport after what we could only imagine must be quite a traumatic trip for an animal previously familiar with only two things: living in our apartment in Cape Town and exploring the small garden at the bottom of the stairs.
We were in quite a high state of excitement as we had last seen him as long ago as January, before our move to Switzerland, and were wondering if he would even remember us. One of the conditions that Switzerland insist on is a booster rabies vaccination followed by an antibody titre test and another 3 months wait before your pet can travel out of South Africa to rabies-free Europe (this is completely biologically implausible if the animal has had all its vaccinations, including boosters, as a kitten - I mean, you don't see them asking humans for booster vaccinations before traveling the globe - but we won't split hairs).
Expecting him to arrive on March 30th, we took a trip to "Cats and Dogs" to stock up on his favorite food, fresh cat litter and a cat scratch pad a tiger would have been happy with. We had been warned that our kitty might just hide under the bed for a few days and only venture out with much spoiling and coaxing, and that we had to keep all the windows and doors shut in case, in sheer confusion and delusion, he decided to run away. We were therefore justifiably concerned when he was delayed at customs in SA because they gave him the wrong permit number and further delayed, after finally reaching The Pet Hotel at Amsterdam airport on Friday morning, because KLM had lost all of his paperwork. They assured us that, because his documents were part of a container-full of important post that some CEOs in London were already making a hoo-ha about locating, his documents should be found readily. They also assured us that, even though they had made their own personal copies, they could not release him until the original paperwork had been found. As it was, they only found the container late Friday afternoon and so our poor cat had to spend the entire weekend in The Pet Hotel. I realise this sounds considerably less traumatic than I make it out to be. I mean, it is a hotel. With food and water and soft bedding and vets looking after your every need. I guess we were just disappointed at not having him with us for the weekend.
Air France, his flight carrier between Amsterdam and Geneva, tried their very best to get him released on copied paperwork, and there were many phone calls back on forth between Geneva, Amsterdam and Cape Town, but to no avail. By the time my husband finally went to fetch our cat from the Geneva airport on Monday morning kitty was quite famous. Everyone knew him by name and couldn't wait to meet him. Plus he had a case file as thick as a book.
As it was, Geneva was having one of its intermittent spring downpours so poor kitty had to be carried home in the rain - not a very welcome introduction to his new homeland.
Despite being taken from the only home he has ever known, held captive at multiple airports, flown for 13 hours in cargo-hold and getting wet on the way to his new apartment, he settled in remarkably quickly. There was no hiding in dark corners or refusing to eat. No accusing looks or depressive behavior. In fact, from the moment he arrived, and after thoroughly exploring the apartment, he settled comfortably on the couch for a nap, following the sun along the seat, and staring out the windows with interest at his new world, purring in ecstasy whenever we showered him with attention. I guess that's what you get for having a pavement special!
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Boarding on the insane
Moving to Switzerland in the middle of winter, it took a visit from our South African friends to get us to brave the snowy white slopes on a snow-board aka 'speed-demon with a mind of its own'. We boarded a shuttle - Skiidy Gonzales (no kidding, the drivers were wearing sombreros) - and set forth on a beautiful and windy road into the French alps and the resort village of Montriond.
Getting there a bit late in the season, there was no snow to be had at the base of the mountains, but up there, below the sharp glacial peaks, it was still possible to ski the slopes. Having no professional winter clothing whatsoever, we were marched to the sports store to stock up on waterproof pants, with braces, that made us look like we were wearing unfashionable sleeping bags, and hire some intimidating looking snow boots and boards.
This felt foreign. This was the sort of sport undertaken by adrenalin-fueled teenagers wearing jeans so low their underpants stuck out the top, and peak caps pulled to the side, and big skater pumps. This was the sort of sport mastered by guys who had been skate boarding since they were 3 years old. This was not us. But at least for Saturday afternoon we had the pleasure of relaxing in the wooden cabin we were staying in and enjoy some tea and cookies. There was even a fireplace so I encouraged hubby to pile on the wood. As soon as he had a nice raging fire going, the lady who owned the B&B ran into the lounge in a flat panic and accusing him of trying to burn her house down. Apparently we weren't supposed to make a fire with more than one log as she had no insurance. We thought that it might not be prudent to point out that that wasn't really going to be very effective and snuck back to our room while she poured a bucket of water over our lovely fire and hoped she wasn't going to spit in our breakfast.
Next morning we rose early and nervously, dressing in our puffy waterproof suits and squeezing our feet into our enormous snow boots, with what felt like a million laces, and clomped outside, with our boards, looking like alien hobbits and unable to straighten our legs (which is supposed to be the idea when you are snow boarding but makes walking a little uncomfortable). Our friends had promised to give us lessons so we took the gondola up to the nursery slope, which was full of toddlers zooming around like marshmallow rockets. Two hours later we were no closer to mastering the board. We had given it our best shot but, in the end, had to admit that we may have needed to invest in some professional lessons. All we'd gotten for our troubles was ice down our pants and bruises on our bums. Plus my fingers were aching. Every time I started picking up too much speed I would fly into a panic, tip myself forward and slow myself down by grabbing at the snow with hands like makeshift pickaxes. Smooth. Real smooth. We finished off with hot dogs - on French bagettes, of course - and beer, and made our way home for a well-deserved hot bath to ease the pain in our already stiff muscles.
It was wonderful seeing our beloved friends again but snow boarding will just have to wait until next winter when some miracle worker of an instructor will hopefully be able to teach us how to make it all the way down the nursery slope standing up, like the rest of the toddlers. Our friends toddler, on the other hand, did not think much of the snow at all. It was cold and wet and it was the first time he'd had to wear shoes in months. He was clearly not used to his new winter outfit and kept shrugging off his impractical mittins and tripping over his big boots.
Next step, after skiing lessons, will be to master the button lift - a slippery bugger of a contraption that you are supposed to be able to tuck between your legs with one foot still strapped into your snow board so that you can be taken up the hill without having to walk. Only problem is that its metal, and has a tendency to liberate itself, make a wide circle, and almost hit someone in the head, while it sends you flying backwards onto your bum, again, and while all the button lift fundis are flinging you looks of pure disdain. Just makes you want to shout out loud: "What on earth am I doing here? I am from Africaaaaaaa!!!!"
Getting there a bit late in the season, there was no snow to be had at the base of the mountains, but up there, below the sharp glacial peaks, it was still possible to ski the slopes. Having no professional winter clothing whatsoever, we were marched to the sports store to stock up on waterproof pants, with braces, that made us look like we were wearing unfashionable sleeping bags, and hire some intimidating looking snow boots and boards.
This felt foreign. This was the sort of sport undertaken by adrenalin-fueled teenagers wearing jeans so low their underpants stuck out the top, and peak caps pulled to the side, and big skater pumps. This was the sort of sport mastered by guys who had been skate boarding since they were 3 years old. This was not us. But at least for Saturday afternoon we had the pleasure of relaxing in the wooden cabin we were staying in and enjoy some tea and cookies. There was even a fireplace so I encouraged hubby to pile on the wood. As soon as he had a nice raging fire going, the lady who owned the B&B ran into the lounge in a flat panic and accusing him of trying to burn her house down. Apparently we weren't supposed to make a fire with more than one log as she had no insurance. We thought that it might not be prudent to point out that that wasn't really going to be very effective and snuck back to our room while she poured a bucket of water over our lovely fire and hoped she wasn't going to spit in our breakfast.
Next morning we rose early and nervously, dressing in our puffy waterproof suits and squeezing our feet into our enormous snow boots, with what felt like a million laces, and clomped outside, with our boards, looking like alien hobbits and unable to straighten our legs (which is supposed to be the idea when you are snow boarding but makes walking a little uncomfortable). Our friends had promised to give us lessons so we took the gondola up to the nursery slope, which was full of toddlers zooming around like marshmallow rockets. Two hours later we were no closer to mastering the board. We had given it our best shot but, in the end, had to admit that we may have needed to invest in some professional lessons. All we'd gotten for our troubles was ice down our pants and bruises on our bums. Plus my fingers were aching. Every time I started picking up too much speed I would fly into a panic, tip myself forward and slow myself down by grabbing at the snow with hands like makeshift pickaxes. Smooth. Real smooth. We finished off with hot dogs - on French bagettes, of course - and beer, and made our way home for a well-deserved hot bath to ease the pain in our already stiff muscles.
It was wonderful seeing our beloved friends again but snow boarding will just have to wait until next winter when some miracle worker of an instructor will hopefully be able to teach us how to make it all the way down the nursery slope standing up, like the rest of the toddlers. Our friends toddler, on the other hand, did not think much of the snow at all. It was cold and wet and it was the first time he'd had to wear shoes in months. He was clearly not used to his new winter outfit and kept shrugging off his impractical mittins and tripping over his big boots.
Next step, after skiing lessons, will be to master the button lift - a slippery bugger of a contraption that you are supposed to be able to tuck between your legs with one foot still strapped into your snow board so that you can be taken up the hill without having to walk. Only problem is that its metal, and has a tendency to liberate itself, make a wide circle, and almost hit someone in the head, while it sends you flying backwards onto your bum, again, and while all the button lift fundis are flinging you looks of pure disdain. Just makes you want to shout out loud: "What on earth am I doing here? I am from Africaaaaaaa!!!!"
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Brussels - sprouting not much
Out of the 5 MSF operational centres (Geneva, Amsterdam, Brussels, Paris and Barcelona), my first work trip saw me jetting off to Belgium - a strange little country divided by language and with no formal government. Although I'd heard rumours around the office that Belgium wasn't the most happening place for a visit, when living in Europe for the first time, you may as well explore! So hubby and I decided to tag on a tour to beautiful Brugge.
I took the late morning flight, so that I could have a bit of a Saturday morning sleep in, and hubby took the budget 5am option with "easy"Jet, which turned out to be a safer bet than Air Brussels. My flight ended up being delayed by 1.5 hours, which was crap, but I didn't mind too much as I was shut off to the world in a land of 3GS iPhone bliss. Two weeks down and that phone is still like heroine. Never again will I be bored, lost, out of touch, missing the headlines, or unable to photograph, copy, phone, find or locate something or someone. You go Steve Jobs et al. And thank you.
Landing in Brussels was a bit of a shock to my Swiss-spoilt expectations. Every ticket machine was out of order, and didn't except credit cards anyway, so I had to queue for 15 minutes to get a train ticket to the city center. After leaving Geneva at 9h30 that morning I finally arrived at the B&B at 3h30 that afternoon. It would have been quicker to take the train. And my sanity would have been intact.
Our first impression of Brussels was not good. We had somehow ended up staying in the dodgy end of town where all the buildings looked close to crumbling in on top of each other; and the gray skies just made the entire neighbourhood look depressing and gloomy, so we headed into the town center as soon as possible to find the famous square. The place was buzzing - more than any Geneva Saturday night ever would - and there were so many shops selling beer and chocolate we hardly knew what to buy first, so settled on one of the many seafood restaurants down "restaurant alley" - a quaint side-street reminding me of little Italy in NYC. The square was indeed very grand, with its gilded and opulent buildings, and was lit up beautifully at night.
Next morning we headed for the train station in time for the 10am train to the much anticipated Brugge. The sun was out - a rare occurrence - and we joined the throng of tourists on the platform. The Belgian train system, while comprehensive, is completely disorganized. Unlike Switzerland, multiple trains going to multiple destinations leave from the same platform with no way of discerning from the train itself where on earth its headed. The only option is to check the time your train is supposed to leave and then hope for the best after you've boarded. So, thinking that hubby was right behind me, I confidently hopped on the first train that arrived at 10am. The doors shut instantly behind me, after-which I heard a panicked knock on the glass and turned to see my husband gesturing wildly for me to get off. I tried to jimmy the door open but it was locked down. In full terror at ending up in Budapest or somewhere, I ran to find the conductor who obliging let me get off. Close one indeed.
After that excitement, we then found out that the train to Brugge had broken down and blocked the entire length of track in-between. Some Flemish people managed to translate a message for us that we were going to have to wait over an hour for the next train. What an anti-climax! Fortunately these same Flemish people were also going to Brugge so, an hour later, when we finally got the message that our train was on its way, they managed to catch a message, 2 minutes before departure, that it was now leaving from an entirely different platform. Running like mad to get on the train, and leaving half the other tourists behind, we were finally on our way to Brugge. And it was all worth it. Maybe it was the sunshine, maybe it was all the good beer and Belgian chocolate, but Brugge really was one of the most beautiful historic towns I've ever been to.
We did a looped walk around and through the picturesque and well-renovated parks and homes, shops and churches, only stopping at a cupcake-stocked tea-room for scones and to watch the swans bob for food on the tranquil canals. The town square definitely rivaled that of Brussels and offered horse-drawn carriage tours and original 'pomme de frit' just to complete the experience.
We headed back to the train station with the throngs of people that had descended on the town that day and found ourselves having to sit on the floor because the conductor would not let 2nd class passengers sit in 1st class, even when no more seating was available. Not very visitor friendly but I guess they don't want to let the riffraff into premier class.
Heading back to the airport on Tuesday afternoon, our disappointing experience with the public transportation system reached its apex. The ticket machines were still out of order, necessitating a 30 minute queue for a ticket. Some guy in a wheelchair was able to jump the queue in front of me (I'm being insensitive, I realize, but being annoyed doesn't bring out one's generous side), and by the time I got to the front their systems went off-line and I had to wait another 15 minutes. At this rate I was betting on missing my flight. Luckily I'd checked in on-line so, once at the airport, I flew my suitcase over the counter at baggage-check and prayed that there wouldn't be a random screening at security.
I managed to get back to my beloved Switzerland and on to a train home that left on time and was clearly labeled with its destination. What a relief. Poor hubby was delayed 2 hours with his "easy"Jet flight and only just made it out of Belgium before the 11pm flight cut-off. I can just imagine how a night at Brussels airport would have gone down. Close one indeed.
I took the late morning flight, so that I could have a bit of a Saturday morning sleep in, and hubby took the budget 5am option with "easy"Jet, which turned out to be a safer bet than Air Brussels. My flight ended up being delayed by 1.5 hours, which was crap, but I didn't mind too much as I was shut off to the world in a land of 3GS iPhone bliss. Two weeks down and that phone is still like heroine. Never again will I be bored, lost, out of touch, missing the headlines, or unable to photograph, copy, phone, find or locate something or someone. You go Steve Jobs et al. And thank you.
Landing in Brussels was a bit of a shock to my Swiss-spoilt expectations. Every ticket machine was out of order, and didn't except credit cards anyway, so I had to queue for 15 minutes to get a train ticket to the city center. After leaving Geneva at 9h30 that morning I finally arrived at the B&B at 3h30 that afternoon. It would have been quicker to take the train. And my sanity would have been intact.
Our first impression of Brussels was not good. We had somehow ended up staying in the dodgy end of town where all the buildings looked close to crumbling in on top of each other; and the gray skies just made the entire neighbourhood look depressing and gloomy, so we headed into the town center as soon as possible to find the famous square. The place was buzzing - more than any Geneva Saturday night ever would - and there were so many shops selling beer and chocolate we hardly knew what to buy first, so settled on one of the many seafood restaurants down "restaurant alley" - a quaint side-street reminding me of little Italy in NYC. The square was indeed very grand, with its gilded and opulent buildings, and was lit up beautifully at night.
Next morning we headed for the train station in time for the 10am train to the much anticipated Brugge. The sun was out - a rare occurrence - and we joined the throng of tourists on the platform. The Belgian train system, while comprehensive, is completely disorganized. Unlike Switzerland, multiple trains going to multiple destinations leave from the same platform with no way of discerning from the train itself where on earth its headed. The only option is to check the time your train is supposed to leave and then hope for the best after you've boarded. So, thinking that hubby was right behind me, I confidently hopped on the first train that arrived at 10am. The doors shut instantly behind me, after-which I heard a panicked knock on the glass and turned to see my husband gesturing wildly for me to get off. I tried to jimmy the door open but it was locked down. In full terror at ending up in Budapest or somewhere, I ran to find the conductor who obliging let me get off. Close one indeed.
After that excitement, we then found out that the train to Brugge had broken down and blocked the entire length of track in-between. Some Flemish people managed to translate a message for us that we were going to have to wait over an hour for the next train. What an anti-climax! Fortunately these same Flemish people were also going to Brugge so, an hour later, when we finally got the message that our train was on its way, they managed to catch a message, 2 minutes before departure, that it was now leaving from an entirely different platform. Running like mad to get on the train, and leaving half the other tourists behind, we were finally on our way to Brugge. And it was all worth it. Maybe it was the sunshine, maybe it was all the good beer and Belgian chocolate, but Brugge really was one of the most beautiful historic towns I've ever been to.
We did a looped walk around and through the picturesque and well-renovated parks and homes, shops and churches, only stopping at a cupcake-stocked tea-room for scones and to watch the swans bob for food on the tranquil canals. The town square definitely rivaled that of Brussels and offered horse-drawn carriage tours and original 'pomme de frit' just to complete the experience.
We headed back to the train station with the throngs of people that had descended on the town that day and found ourselves having to sit on the floor because the conductor would not let 2nd class passengers sit in 1st class, even when no more seating was available. Not very visitor friendly but I guess they don't want to let the riffraff into premier class.
Heading back to the airport on Tuesday afternoon, our disappointing experience with the public transportation system reached its apex. The ticket machines were still out of order, necessitating a 30 minute queue for a ticket. Some guy in a wheelchair was able to jump the queue in front of me (I'm being insensitive, I realize, but being annoyed doesn't bring out one's generous side), and by the time I got to the front their systems went off-line and I had to wait another 15 minutes. At this rate I was betting on missing my flight. Luckily I'd checked in on-line so, once at the airport, I flew my suitcase over the counter at baggage-check and prayed that there wouldn't be a random screening at security.
I managed to get back to my beloved Switzerland and on to a train home that left on time and was clearly labeled with its destination. What a relief. Poor hubby was delayed 2 hours with his "easy"Jet flight and only just made it out of Belgium before the 11pm flight cut-off. I can just imagine how a night at Brussels airport would have gone down. Close one indeed.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Where have all the people gone?
A month down in Switzerland, I'm still searching for good shopping stores. I thought that, especially coming from summer in Cape Town to winter in Geneva, the sort of things I'd miss the most would include obvious examples such as warm sunshine; clothing and people in all colours of the rainbow instead of a line of black-, grey- and brown-jacketed pale-faced people stretching down the street; walking on white sandy beaches alongside wild seas with a ball of red setting sun stretching vivid colours across the horizon. But no, yours truly, the previous anti-consumer prioritizing you-have-to-drag-me-to-the-shops-screaming-in-protest me, is, first and foremost, missing the variety, price and products of the South African stores. What I wouldn't do for a Dischem... a Woolies... a Cape Union Mart... even a decent electronics store! I think, right now, I would give up a weeks worth of Lindt supply to find a decent pharmacy with a display of supplements bigger than one shelf's worth. It's useless over here. I have always assumed that, if you can find it for a decent price in the bottom of Africa then surely you will be able to find it in any 1st world country? Apparently South Africa is quite a bit further along on the products front that I had previously given it credit for.
The second aspect that I am missing is the buzz and entrepreneurship pervasive throughout both the cities and the small towns and villages popular for weekend visits. Apparently we do French-style markets better than the French. I haven't seen a cheese here that isn't available at the local Checkers. Whether you are at a Saturday morning market in the middle of the CBD or 2 hours drive away in one of the many newly renovated, trendy little historic villages that circle the cities, you will find all sorts of delicious homemade produce from organic veggies to crispy, hot bread to refreshing lemonade or gingerbeer to baked quiches, pies, cupcakes and pastries. The High street becomes jammed with weekenders stocking up on the delicious selections, whether at the market or at one of the many gourmet restaurants that are open the whole weekend. And, although you can't go snow skiing, there are plenty of other activities available such as hiking, fly fishing, quad biking, wine tasting, and adventure sports such as "kloofing" and water skiing. And nothing shuts down on Sundays. In Switzerland I sometimes wonder where all the people have gone?
I have been assured that, come Spring, people will suddenly flock outside to soak up the sun and sample a swim in the lake. I wait in anticipation. Until then, I'll try soak up the peace and quite. It's worth a try.
The second aspect that I am missing is the buzz and entrepreneurship pervasive throughout both the cities and the small towns and villages popular for weekend visits. Apparently we do French-style markets better than the French. I haven't seen a cheese here that isn't available at the local Checkers. Whether you are at a Saturday morning market in the middle of the CBD or 2 hours drive away in one of the many newly renovated, trendy little historic villages that circle the cities, you will find all sorts of delicious homemade produce from organic veggies to crispy, hot bread to refreshing lemonade or gingerbeer to baked quiches, pies, cupcakes and pastries. The High street becomes jammed with weekenders stocking up on the delicious selections, whether at the market or at one of the many gourmet restaurants that are open the whole weekend. And, although you can't go snow skiing, there are plenty of other activities available such as hiking, fly fishing, quad biking, wine tasting, and adventure sports such as "kloofing" and water skiing. And nothing shuts down on Sundays. In Switzerland I sometimes wonder where all the people have gone?
I have been assured that, come Spring, people will suddenly flock outside to soak up the sun and sample a swim in the lake. I wait in anticipation. Until then, I'll try soak up the peace and quite. It's worth a try.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Another South African Export
A long time dream come true, I boarded a flight on the 15th January to start a long-awaited and long-anticipated job for the Access to Essential Medicines Campaign at Médecins sans Frontières / Doctors without Borders (MSF) in Geneva, Switzerland as their new Diagnostics Advisor.
The week before leaving had been insane. Hubby was still working and we both had some mutant version of the flu that we must have picked up on our flight back from the States. Somehow between coughing fits, narcolepsy and running out for more tissues and Vit C tablets, we managed to pack up our whole apartment in Cape Town, say goodbye to our friends and prepare our boxes for shipping. If that didn't kill me I reckon nothing will. Hubby was traveling 10 days after me so I left him to spring clean in 30 plus temperatures and headed into snow-capped Heidi-land.
I boarded my Lufthansa flight with a multitude of emotions and trepidations and wondered when I would see my beloved home-land again - a land where skis and snow-boots are about as foreign as the super efficient public transport system I was about to experience. How would I cope knowing that I couldn't just go to a game park and see ellies and rhinos and lions, or go for a tropical holiday on the east coast, or go on a wine tour or a walk down the magnificent beaches of the Cape? I squeezed myself into my midget-sized seat and wrapped myself in the complementary blanket that was about as thin as a frayed bed sheet, and wondered if I should brave the evening meal. We didn't even get those little bags of goodies with socks and toothpaste and earplugs that you get on SAA. I prepared my airline pillow and tried to sleep a full 11 hours to Frankfurt.
Arriving on a Sunday morning in Geneva's tiny international airport, 4 bags of luggage in tow (which i had somehow managed to weasel past the over-baggage police), I headed for a trolley. I was surprised to discover that 2 francs were required to liberate one from lock-down - this in international arrivals, where none of the foreigners have any Swiss francs yet and, if they do, it certainly isn't in change.
Lugging my bags out through customs and trying to suppress multiple hernias, I decided to forgo the free public transport available for 80 minutes after arrival and hail a taxi instead. I was too tired and had too much luggage to be my usual frugal self.
Speaking no French at all, I managed to sign language sufficient information across to the taxi driver to get me to my hotel, the Drake Longchamp, my home for the next 2 weeks and a convenient one minute walk from my new offices in Rue de Lausanne. It even had a meager kitchenette and so, after dumping my bags and having a brief but catatonic nap, I headed out to the main road in search of a grocery store.
The city was in shut down. It was like happening on a once vibrant town after Armageddon but with no signs of destruction. So it couldn't have been a meteor or WW3, I reckoned, but maybe a virus or lethal gas? I sniffed cautiously but then noticed a few lone people out on the side walk and a restaurant open here and there. There were a few foreign-run superettes open selling overpriced shampoo and bananas but I decided to try a meal at one of the cafes and popped into the nearest one. The entire menu was in French. I scoured the pages for any familiar foods and settled on a mozzarella and tomato crepe with a vanilla milkshake. Feeling weird but at least satiated, I headed back to the hotel to get some rest before my big day. I also decided to buy some overpriced bandwidth so that I could check emails and find out what the normal shopping hours were.
Coming from Century City, with the monolithic Canal Walk shopping centre a stones throw away, I was used to 400 stores being open until 9pm every day of the week. Apparently, in Switzerland, I was going to have to get used to shops closing by 7pm and sometimes over lunch, and not being open at all on Sundays. I could have a minor shopping spree on Thursday nights, their late shopping day, where shops closed as late as 9pm. I was also soon to discover that, with the exception of the incredulous IKEA (all hail, all hail), the merchandise was mostly lacking in variety and was unreasonably over-priced. Clearly a yearly trip back to the outlet malls in Virginia, USA, might be justified.
I threw myself into my new job with the sort of zealous that is completely foreign to laid-back, sun-tanned and beach-soaked Capetonians. In Cape Town, office workers (those poor sods unlucky enough not to have been born into substantial trust funds or those not working for the movie industry) clock out by 4h30pm at the latest to get in a few hours of surfing or hiking on Table Mountain or strolling along Seapoint promenade before finding a good spot for sundowners. I was undaunted, however, and adapted, quite impressively, I thought, to working until 6pm.
My next challenge was finding an affordable apartment that wasn't the size of a cat litter box - no small feat in Geneva where accommodation is in high demand and landlords can afford to be as fussy as they like, interviewing 10 or more people before deciding on which lucky person gets to pay an over-inflated price to stay in their less than spacious apartment. I was not looking forward to this mission impossible and had already resigned myself to eating baked beans just so that we wouldn't have to stay in studio apartment that last got renovated in the early 1900s. Thankfully, though, through a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend, I found a sublet in the beautiful little lakeside village of Nyon, just 15 minutes from Geneva. We are now very happy in our sunny loft apartment and hubby managed to hook us up to the amazing world of high speed, uncapped internet. We've gone from 364KB/sec of 3GB bandwidth a month in SA to 20000KB/sec, use as much as you like, for only twice the price!
We were also looking forward to having 120 channels at our disposal (from 4 in SA) but, as it turns out, only 3 of them are in English and they include BBC World, CNN and CNBC, so if you don't wish to watch the news (Egypt, Egypt, Egypt, Egypt...) or the markets, or tele-evangilists on CNBC on Sundays, there isn't anything else. At least in SA you could get satellite tv; here, as an English expat, especially at 12 francs to rent a dvd, you just have to learn to find illegal internet streaming sites or take up bridge.
We do want to assimilate into the Swiss way of life as much as possible, without losing our African routes, and so far that hasn't been too traumatic. Delicious chocolates, cheeses and wines are readily available and we are surrounded by breath-taking mountains along a lake with water so translucent it looks like purified mineral water. The freedoms that the safety and the comprehensive public transport system bring are also incredibly alluring for someone who was once living in the sort of place where burglar bars and smash-proof windows were the norm, and having a car, when the only alternative is to walk or catch a dodgy, manky train that may or may not arrive on time, was an incongruous priority for a country where most of its citizens lack the basic of services.
I have never before been able to walk or catch a train alone, at night, with no fear of danger, without feeling that I must be the craziest person in the world to be taking such a risk. I now board a sleek, high speed train, which runs every 15 minutes (to the second), with my ipod, phone, money and laptop. My only worry is that I might just miss the next tram to work when I get to Geneva or that I might leave something on the seat that I will, inconveniently, have to later go locate at lost and found. In fact my exercise routine is compiled of a power walk to catch my morning train (because I still manage to oversleep every morning), a wild dash from the train to the tram in the hope that I will just make it on before it leaves the station, followed by a 10 minute walk to work when I do miss the tram, because Swiss transport waits for no one (even if you are sprinting in front of the almost moving vehicle, waving your hands around like a crazy loon). And the whole thing repeats itself in the evenings.
The tram system, at least on my route, operates on a weird timetable whereby the 2 trams, each running in 10 minutes intervals, run in parallel to each other so that they are either 3 minutes apart of 7 minutes apart. My husband has since become the public transport blitz (from "The Blitz" episode in "How I met your mother") because every time we go anywhere we always either just miss our train or have to wait the 7 minutes for a tram. It definitely is a conspiracy. I hope he can pass his blitz curse along to some other poor sod sooner than later. The bouts of sprinting are doing wonders for our cardio-vasculature but are pretty inefficient otherwise. There is no sadder sight in Switzerland than seeing your train happily riding out of the station just as you reach the top of the steps. The other minor inconvenience of not having a car is schlepping groceries or even bigger shopping stash (e.g. trips to IKEA) back to your apartment before gangrene has set into your fingers. So the other day we bought a wonderful solution - a wheelie bag! Now we look like two old biddies without walking sticks and rain coats but who cares! If people can have suitcases on wheels, why not shopping bags!
Most people have asked me what it is like to live in Switzerland, compared to South Africa, and the closest answer I can give is that it is just different. They are both amazing and beautiful places in their own ways. Switzerland is an incredibly first world country, with all the amenities that go with it, and yet there are still things that amaze me about how backward it is. The fact that when I was living in the arse end of the world I could buy a Simmons mattress from dial-a-bed and have it delivered the same day, or Pistachio Lindt chocolate from my corner store. In Switzerland you have to have a mattress of that quality shipped in from the the UK and many varieties of chocolate are only available in the very big grocery stores. They just don't have a consumer society. Might explain the troubling high suicide rates in a country where the only other thing you could die of is boredom.
It is also strange how much they love spitting and smoking and having little midget dogs that look like deformed mop heads; and that, in most restaurants, horse meat features on the menu. But I have found, at some very popular international stores for expats, Marmite AND Mrs Balls chutney at 4x the normal price so life ain't so bad. We even have glamorous Swiss bank accounts (0.25% interest rate, woohooo!! - I think we might keep some savings in SA), which were surprisingly easy to open unless you are an American citizen, have a Greencard or have ever lived in the USA (what up with that??). The uber sophisticated internet banking comes with a funny little calculator thing that spits our security codes so that you can log in and make payments. But don't lose it next time you are in the Bovilian highlands because they can only post you a new one when you're back in Switzerland.
Now that we're semi-settled, next on the list is French and skiing lessons - both of which will make hilarious and top-rated podcasts on Youtube.
Stay tuned.
The week before leaving had been insane. Hubby was still working and we both had some mutant version of the flu that we must have picked up on our flight back from the States. Somehow between coughing fits, narcolepsy and running out for more tissues and Vit C tablets, we managed to pack up our whole apartment in Cape Town, say goodbye to our friends and prepare our boxes for shipping. If that didn't kill me I reckon nothing will. Hubby was traveling 10 days after me so I left him to spring clean in 30 plus temperatures and headed into snow-capped Heidi-land.
I boarded my Lufthansa flight with a multitude of emotions and trepidations and wondered when I would see my beloved home-land again - a land where skis and snow-boots are about as foreign as the super efficient public transport system I was about to experience. How would I cope knowing that I couldn't just go to a game park and see ellies and rhinos and lions, or go for a tropical holiday on the east coast, or go on a wine tour or a walk down the magnificent beaches of the Cape? I squeezed myself into my midget-sized seat and wrapped myself in the complementary blanket that was about as thin as a frayed bed sheet, and wondered if I should brave the evening meal. We didn't even get those little bags of goodies with socks and toothpaste and earplugs that you get on SAA. I prepared my airline pillow and tried to sleep a full 11 hours to Frankfurt.
Arriving on a Sunday morning in Geneva's tiny international airport, 4 bags of luggage in tow (which i had somehow managed to weasel past the over-baggage police), I headed for a trolley. I was surprised to discover that 2 francs were required to liberate one from lock-down - this in international arrivals, where none of the foreigners have any Swiss francs yet and, if they do, it certainly isn't in change.
Lugging my bags out through customs and trying to suppress multiple hernias, I decided to forgo the free public transport available for 80 minutes after arrival and hail a taxi instead. I was too tired and had too much luggage to be my usual frugal self.
Speaking no French at all, I managed to sign language sufficient information across to the taxi driver to get me to my hotel, the Drake Longchamp, my home for the next 2 weeks and a convenient one minute walk from my new offices in Rue de Lausanne. It even had a meager kitchenette and so, after dumping my bags and having a brief but catatonic nap, I headed out to the main road in search of a grocery store.
The city was in shut down. It was like happening on a once vibrant town after Armageddon but with no signs of destruction. So it couldn't have been a meteor or WW3, I reckoned, but maybe a virus or lethal gas? I sniffed cautiously but then noticed a few lone people out on the side walk and a restaurant open here and there. There were a few foreign-run superettes open selling overpriced shampoo and bananas but I decided to try a meal at one of the cafes and popped into the nearest one. The entire menu was in French. I scoured the pages for any familiar foods and settled on a mozzarella and tomato crepe with a vanilla milkshake. Feeling weird but at least satiated, I headed back to the hotel to get some rest before my big day. I also decided to buy some overpriced bandwidth so that I could check emails and find out what the normal shopping hours were.
Coming from Century City, with the monolithic Canal Walk shopping centre a stones throw away, I was used to 400 stores being open until 9pm every day of the week. Apparently, in Switzerland, I was going to have to get used to shops closing by 7pm and sometimes over lunch, and not being open at all on Sundays. I could have a minor shopping spree on Thursday nights, their late shopping day, where shops closed as late as 9pm. I was also soon to discover that, with the exception of the incredulous IKEA (all hail, all hail), the merchandise was mostly lacking in variety and was unreasonably over-priced. Clearly a yearly trip back to the outlet malls in Virginia, USA, might be justified.
I threw myself into my new job with the sort of zealous that is completely foreign to laid-back, sun-tanned and beach-soaked Capetonians. In Cape Town, office workers (those poor sods unlucky enough not to have been born into substantial trust funds or those not working for the movie industry) clock out by 4h30pm at the latest to get in a few hours of surfing or hiking on Table Mountain or strolling along Seapoint promenade before finding a good spot for sundowners. I was undaunted, however, and adapted, quite impressively, I thought, to working until 6pm.
My next challenge was finding an affordable apartment that wasn't the size of a cat litter box - no small feat in Geneva where accommodation is in high demand and landlords can afford to be as fussy as they like, interviewing 10 or more people before deciding on which lucky person gets to pay an over-inflated price to stay in their less than spacious apartment. I was not looking forward to this mission impossible and had already resigned myself to eating baked beans just so that we wouldn't have to stay in studio apartment that last got renovated in the early 1900s. Thankfully, though, through a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend, I found a sublet in the beautiful little lakeside village of Nyon, just 15 minutes from Geneva. We are now very happy in our sunny loft apartment and hubby managed to hook us up to the amazing world of high speed, uncapped internet. We've gone from 364KB/sec of 3GB bandwidth a month in SA to 20000KB/sec, use as much as you like, for only twice the price!
We were also looking forward to having 120 channels at our disposal (from 4 in SA) but, as it turns out, only 3 of them are in English and they include BBC World, CNN and CNBC, so if you don't wish to watch the news (Egypt, Egypt, Egypt, Egypt...) or the markets, or tele-evangilists on CNBC on Sundays, there isn't anything else. At least in SA you could get satellite tv; here, as an English expat, especially at 12 francs to rent a dvd, you just have to learn to find illegal internet streaming sites or take up bridge.
We do want to assimilate into the Swiss way of life as much as possible, without losing our African routes, and so far that hasn't been too traumatic. Delicious chocolates, cheeses and wines are readily available and we are surrounded by breath-taking mountains along a lake with water so translucent it looks like purified mineral water. The freedoms that the safety and the comprehensive public transport system bring are also incredibly alluring for someone who was once living in the sort of place where burglar bars and smash-proof windows were the norm, and having a car, when the only alternative is to walk or catch a dodgy, manky train that may or may not arrive on time, was an incongruous priority for a country where most of its citizens lack the basic of services.
I have never before been able to walk or catch a train alone, at night, with no fear of danger, without feeling that I must be the craziest person in the world to be taking such a risk. I now board a sleek, high speed train, which runs every 15 minutes (to the second), with my ipod, phone, money and laptop. My only worry is that I might just miss the next tram to work when I get to Geneva or that I might leave something on the seat that I will, inconveniently, have to later go locate at lost and found. In fact my exercise routine is compiled of a power walk to catch my morning train (because I still manage to oversleep every morning), a wild dash from the train to the tram in the hope that I will just make it on before it leaves the station, followed by a 10 minute walk to work when I do miss the tram, because Swiss transport waits for no one (even if you are sprinting in front of the almost moving vehicle, waving your hands around like a crazy loon). And the whole thing repeats itself in the evenings.
The tram system, at least on my route, operates on a weird timetable whereby the 2 trams, each running in 10 minutes intervals, run in parallel to each other so that they are either 3 minutes apart of 7 minutes apart. My husband has since become the public transport blitz (from "The Blitz" episode in "How I met your mother") because every time we go anywhere we always either just miss our train or have to wait the 7 minutes for a tram. It definitely is a conspiracy. I hope he can pass his blitz curse along to some other poor sod sooner than later. The bouts of sprinting are doing wonders for our cardio-vasculature but are pretty inefficient otherwise. There is no sadder sight in Switzerland than seeing your train happily riding out of the station just as you reach the top of the steps. The other minor inconvenience of not having a car is schlepping groceries or even bigger shopping stash (e.g. trips to IKEA) back to your apartment before gangrene has set into your fingers. So the other day we bought a wonderful solution - a wheelie bag! Now we look like two old biddies without walking sticks and rain coats but who cares! If people can have suitcases on wheels, why not shopping bags!
Most people have asked me what it is like to live in Switzerland, compared to South Africa, and the closest answer I can give is that it is just different. They are both amazing and beautiful places in their own ways. Switzerland is an incredibly first world country, with all the amenities that go with it, and yet there are still things that amaze me about how backward it is. The fact that when I was living in the arse end of the world I could buy a Simmons mattress from dial-a-bed and have it delivered the same day, or Pistachio Lindt chocolate from my corner store. In Switzerland you have to have a mattress of that quality shipped in from the the UK and many varieties of chocolate are only available in the very big grocery stores. They just don't have a consumer society. Might explain the troubling high suicide rates in a country where the only other thing you could die of is boredom.
It is also strange how much they love spitting and smoking and having little midget dogs that look like deformed mop heads; and that, in most restaurants, horse meat features on the menu. But I have found, at some very popular international stores for expats, Marmite AND Mrs Balls chutney at 4x the normal price so life ain't so bad. We even have glamorous Swiss bank accounts (0.25% interest rate, woohooo!! - I think we might keep some savings in SA), which were surprisingly easy to open unless you are an American citizen, have a Greencard or have ever lived in the USA (what up with that??). The uber sophisticated internet banking comes with a funny little calculator thing that spits our security codes so that you can log in and make payments. But don't lose it next time you are in the Bovilian highlands because they can only post you a new one when you're back in Switzerland.
Now that we're semi-settled, next on the list is French and skiing lessons - both of which will make hilarious and top-rated podcasts on Youtube.
Stay tuned.
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