La Suisse--Deux

"Yes, yes." you say. "That's all very well about the expensive muffins, but didn't you promise to say more about Switzerland?" Gold star to you, faithful reader. That shows real attentiveness on your part. I did say that. Donc, voila.

My cousin and her husband (let's just call them my cousins for simplicity's sake. Rest assured they are related to each other only by marriage) have been living in Switzerland for twenty years and though I have been kind of/sort of in the neighborhood many times, I have never managed to actually see them there. And so, I put it on the famous Life List and ta da! It happened. There was no magical teleporting or anything. Life Lists are good, but not that good. In this case, it helped that I was already in Lausanne and they live in Meiringen, which, from Lausanne, is quite nearby. I bought a (rather expensive*) train ticket from a Swiss Rail agent who was regretful that I didn't qualify for any discounts, but was otherwise positively bubbling over with happiness. While I have had no unpleasant experiences with Swiss Rail employees, they are not usually quite so cheerful, so I inquired. She told me that she had just gotten her exam results for her tourism degree and she'd passed, so we had a small festival of congratulations and smiling at guichet #7 and it took the sting out of the ticket price. I was all set to see my cousins the next day.

*Why something in Switzerland being expensive should come as a surprise to me, I couldn't tell you. Just the day before, I had had an extended conversation with a saleswoman at the pharmacy about the relative merits of having aluminum in deodorant. Ultimately, we agreed that it wasn't all that good for your health. Then she revealed that the aluminum-free deodorant was the equivalent of $20. If I suddenly drop dead, but still smell okay, you can assume it was the work of the aluminum in the $6 deodorant I bought instead.

I like trains. I particularly like trains in Switzerland because they have a highly reliable schedule, sure, but mostly because:

I mean, seriously? This is a fairly arbitrary photograph. You'll just have to trust me that things like this are just casually strewn about outside train windows all over Switzerland. I often tell people that Switzerland looks to me as though it were comprised entirely of illustrations from a children's book of fairy tales. It is truly breathtakingly beautiful.

Nevertheless, being a enthusiastic train passenger does not make me some kind of expert. Though the total journey was just an hour and a half, I had to take three different trains to get to Meiringen. Many train tickets have no assigned seats; you just do what you will. On the first train--the longest leg of the journey--I got in the very last car, as it was the least crowded. I did see a reserved sign over some seats, so, sensibly, I didn't sit in them. For about an hour, it was perfect. I sat in a nearly empty car next to a window watching the lake and vineyards and villages slip by (beautiful, beautiful, beautiful). Then, about twenty minutes from the station of my first transfer, the train stopped and my car flooded with about forty teenagers. Excited teenagers with significant luggage and loud American hip-hop. You know what's curious about Switzerland? One minute you are quite happily speaking French to all and sundry and the next, imperious teenage boys are speaking to you sternly and at length in German. It is not altogether pleasant. I came to understand that the reservation sign was not for the seats, but for the car. It is indicated on the sign that this car will be occupied by a school group from X station to Y station. Oh.

Still, I do not object to teenagers as a general concept, there were plenty of seats to spare, and, while I might have been in the way had I crashed their party for their entire journey, I was disembarking in just a few minutes, so I saw no reason to move. I endeavored to explain this to the girl sitting beside me and she seemed slightly alarmed that A) I was there and B) was speaking to her, but on the whole she seemed to think it was fine. I sat there smiling in my little corner while they all sang along with the English chorus of some song I'd never heard and felt quite inoffensive. Two boys did not agree. There was a great deal of glaring, which I ignored and some more angry German, which I also ignored. That was when they started wadding up bits of paper and throwing them at my head. Wha? Am I an adult? An adult who works at a high school? And are children actually throwing things at me? I ignored that too, but my heart rate increased; I'll admit it.

It took me a while to realize that the ringleader boy had seated himself behind me and was speaking English directed at me, while not being exactly addressed to me. He was speaking in a weird low voice with exaggerated slowness. I'll imitate it for you sometime. "Ma-dum" he said, pronouncing "madam" in the British manner, rather than the French. "Maaa-duumm. Come on. Pleeease move now, maadummm. Come on, maduumm. Come on. Pleeeeeassseee. Please go away now. Go to another seat now, maduummm." This went on and on and on. It is very strange to be harassed by an unknown teen who is calling you "madam." It was perhaps the most polite incivility I have ever experienced. Finally, I turned around and said, "Look. There are plenty of seats. I'm not in your way. And I'm getting off at Bern in ten minutes. Calm down. There's no problem." To which he said, "There is a problem. There is a big problem. It is reserved." So I punched him in his smug little show-off face. No, I didn't. But I wanted to. Most of all, I wanted one of the damn chaperones to come rescue me, but they didn't. I endured further paper balls and "maduming" until, praise God, we pulled into Bern.

And you know what happened then? ALL of us disembarked. I had assumed they were going to be in that train car for hours to come. My adversary said "bon voyage" as he passed. The little fu....Sorry. The chaperones were not far behind him and I told them how terribly charmant that boy was. I also apologized to them because I still didn't actually know the rules of reserved cars. Maybe I really was obliged to move. They waved away my apologies. The woman said, "I can only say I am very, very sorry." I told them I work at a high school and it was fine. They laughed. "There's always one," I said. She looked at me dolefully. "Oh. There's more than one." "In that case," I said, "I'm very sorry." "Thank you," she said. And then went off to have a truly terrible time for several days.

When I recounted this story to my cousin she told me that no one is obliged to move for these groups, if they have enough room. "It's not a requirement; it's more like a warning."

I finished the journey unmolested and arrived in the very small town of Meiringen, to find my cousin waiting for me on the platform with her groceries. It was moving in a way I can't quite articulate to see a member of my family in such a far-off place in such a dramatic landscape. We walked about a block to their flat where the Swiss Alps are framed in each window. This was the view from mine:

It looks like this everywhere. Everywhere. The building in the background to the left of the tree is the elegant Hotel du Suavage where Sherlock Holmes stayed before his fatal scuffle with Moriarty at Reichenbach Falls in 1891. Where is Reichenbach Falls, you ask? Why, it's that little white line in the mountains. Toward the right, about three quarters of the way up the picture.

There is a little Sherlock Holmes museum in that church. Kath tells me that people come on little Sherlock pilgrimages, clad in period costume. Sadly, there weren't any there that day.

What? Still no? How about now?

We had a drink at a restaurant and the Alps were nearby. Then we had dinner at home and the Alps were nearby. They were pretty much always right there. After dinner,we went to a graceful wooden church at the very foot of the mountain for a concert. Several very charming and enthusiastic musicians said many things in German and then played some Schubert very beautifully. When we walked home (about two blocks), it turned out the village fest was in full swing right outside the flat.

In addition to the alpine horns, the fest was comprised of some restaurants serving beer outside and some other musical groups. It was quite chilly out, so we didn't stick around, but I could hear plenty of accordion from the living room. Sadly, there wasn't any yodeling, which I was given to understand was quite a surprise, as pretty much every self-respecting Swiss fest has some yodeling. A concert and a fest all in one day was pretty major for Meiringen, so I'm glad I was able to make it that day. On my way back to Lausanne, I spent a few hours in Interlaken, which, for the record, is also not ugly. Additionally, I had some shockingly delicious ice cream at some snack bar near the train station. Bi-Rite Creamery? You've got nothing on Interlaken Snack Bar. I'm not kidding.

On the train back, I was in the last car. There was a reserved sign. I read it very carefully and got the hell out of there when we reached the appointed "reserved from X" station. A few stops later, from my new seat, I saw the group disembark. It was comprised entirely of girls and they were chaperoned by two nuns in full ankle-length habits.

I think I would have been safe.

I did try

Last night, I was unable to remember how to set my alarm clock, which I think is an indication that I have had a good summer. I figured it out, ultimately, which was fortunate since I was wide awake at 1:30am and there was no way I would have woken in time for work without assistance. Unsurprisingly, I had no trouble remembering how to operate the snooze alarm.

On my way to work, I stopped by the aforementioned concrete purveyor of treats to do some cake reconnaissance (you never know when you might need cake). I bought an expensive muffin and then, because I am nice (and also because I was quite late), I bought an almond financier for my boss. And guess what? My boss didn't come to work. Hrumph. So I ate my treat and then, several hours later, when right-thinking Americas would have had a balanced lunch, I ate his treat. Perhaps I will eat some vegetables later, but I doubt it.

Switzerland-Un

When I flew to Switzerland, I was seated in the dreaded middle section of the plane, quite near the back (in a smelly toilet-adjacent region), but at least I was on an aisle. My two row companions were Swiss-Germans in matching uniforms sort of evocative of EMTs. Curious. I was busy working through my complicated emotions about the seating arrangements, so I didn't immediately notice that across the far aisle, where there should have been two people contentedly sitting by the window, there was instead a man in a hospital gown lying on a stretcher. There was a curtain rigged to theoretically shield him from view, but it was open so that the attendants sitting next to me could actually see the guy. I have never seen anyone in a plane on a stretcher and I have to tell you--it is incongruous. To accommodate hospital-style transit, they are obliged to fold down three sets of seats (folding them down forward, as you would with the driver's seat of a car, a thing I didn't know was possible.) and elevate the stretcher above them. So this guy was lying on his back approximately a foot below the ceiling for about 11 hours. Since the stretcher was on these spindly pole things, it wasn't all that smooth of a ride. I hope his pain meds were fantastic.

A nice man across the other aisle who kept wanting to chat with me told me that this was an element of Swiss health insurance. That is, if you are hospitalized in some foreign land, they will transport you home. He told me that his mother had once been brought home from Greece. Later, when I got to Jules' house and told him the story he said, "That's this thing with the Swiss insurance." I told him that some man had explained that to me. He said, "I'm not surprised. They are very proud of it. People are constantly telling me about it. Everyone has some relative who was brought home from somewhere." [The man across the aisle also told me I must watch The Intouchables, which was one of the movies available on our flight. (Altogether, round trip, I think I watched 8 movies. I have trouble sleeping on planes.) I watched it on my way home and he was right. It made me laugh in a shoulder-shaking type of way that I worried might wake up the guy in 30A. You should go see it too. Probably near people who are awake. I think it's in theatres now, so you don't even have to fly on Swiss Air to avail yourself of it.]

The Zurich airport is small but confusing. It involves an airtrain that is peculiarly poorly marked so that as you follow signs to your terminal you find yourself suddenly on the platform of a train you didn't know you were obliged to take. Once you do get on, it's a very short ride, but long enough to feature a medley of Swiss sounds played over the loudspeaker. There are some alpine horns, some yodeling, some cowbells, and, my favorite, some mooing. And then--voila--you are at your destination.

While waiting for my short [nevertheless, delayed] flight to Geneva, a pleasant, weirdly self-possessed teenage boy struck up a conversation with me. He was on his way home to Stuttgart after a semester of high school in Illinois, which seemed to work out well since his English was excellent. Then, later, just as I was about to slip into a terrible jetlag coma, a young Greek woman befriended me. She was also headed to Lausanne, so we took the train together and she offered me one of her ear buds, so we could listen to Greek pop music together.

I was in Lausanne to see my friend Jules whom I love very much and who lives, rather inconveniently, in...Switzerland. But he seems happy, so I guess he can stay. We ate a lot of pain au chocolat and watched many Noir films and talked and talked. Or I did, anyway. Jules is a good listener. We had a splendid time. He bought some new sheets just for me and I bought him some storage baskets. No end of excitement. I also discovered that getting copies of two keys costs about 70 bucks. From this you might suspect that A) keys in Switzerland are very complicated and B) Switzerland is very expensive. Both these things are true. It is also true that, in the end, one of the keys didn't work. Grrr. While I was there, Jules was making his way through a French book about Homeric era Greece (I was reading P.G. Wodehouse, because I am not as smart as Jules. Also because I really like P.G. Wodehouse.)

See? Here he is, reading it. He actually used his whole head to contemplate this book, even the part I inadvertently cut off.

And here he is pondering it. Homer was our daily companion. As was the balcony garden, which bloomed while I was in town to our great delight.

Oh, there's more; don't you worry. But not today. A bientot.

Home again, home again

At home, I use one of my dining room* chairs at my desk, purely because it is more aesthetically pleasing than some kind of appropriate desk chair. However, it also sucks for sitting and typing for any length of time. I wanted you to know I am suffering for my art/for your amusement, the two things being more or less intertwined. (The art [which is a term I employ in this context only while snorting with laughter] and your amusement, not suffering and your amusement. I like to think you're nicer than that.) Anyway, I just went to fetch a more comfortable chair from the kitchen and said to myself "A'ight. Let's do some blogging up in here." I find it very entertaining to talk to myself** (and select others) in the manner of a hip-hop star. I think this is partially because I am the least likely hip-hop star in the world and partially because I still can't quite believe that hip hop became a mainstream thing. Back in 1988 when Amy stayed with us for the summer and we came across my brother's copy of Word Up magazine, headlines such as "Flava Flav Dissed Melle Mel" did not seem to be comprised of real words. Did we laugh? Yes. Indeed, did we laugh all summer long and hide notes saying "Flava Flav Dissed Melle Mel" in the kitchen cabinets for each other to find? Um....yes. I guess you could say we dissed both Mr. Flav and Mr. Mel. But I think it's safe to say that they had the last laugh.

*I do not want to mislead you into thinking I have a dining room. I do not have a dining room, nor do I imagine being able to afford a place with a dining room any time in the foreseeable future. I do, however, have a table that would like to be in a dining room and that table has chairs. All of these reside in the living room, in close proximity to the [small] desk. You know who does have a dining room? Flava Flav. I know. Who's a joke now, sucka?

**I also talk to myself in a normal way all but constantly. If talking to oneself "in a normal way" is a thing that is possible. Beware of living alone for 15 years. Particularly if you are chatty.

Today was a typical San Francisco sort of day.
1. The sun never came out. I wore a wool coat.

2. I was going to take the J Church to an appointment that was about a block from the Van Ness station, but for some reason the J Church wasn't running today. In general, the J Church and I have a fairly antagonistic relationship. I took BART. BART does not go to the Van Ness station. I was late.

3. Despite the grey, grey, greyness, people were out summering. I had tea at Two Sisters Bar and Books which meets all my aesthetic needs (cozy, books, charming, atmosphere-appropriate soundtrack played at background volume. Nicely done.) and many other people went to the beer garden nearby, just as though it were sunny.

4. I walked home (ten million blocks. Take that, Olympians.) down Valencia and passed FOUR restaurants I have never seen before in my life. I was only gone a few weeks. Sheesh. Culinary San Francisco is a slippery character. One of the places is a fancy pizzaria with exciting tile and doors that I find pleasing. (They're newly painted with glossy black paint and they have enormous wooden doorknobs right in the middle. If I were a proper blogger, I would have an Instagram photo of them, obviously, but you know this is a pretty rinky dink operation. Here's a link. You can go there yourself and Instagram the HELL out of it.) I look forward to going there, stuffing myself with pizza, and pretending I'm still in Italy, which should be easy since it, much like Italy, will be full of Americans. Next to it is a concrete place (San Francisco, please stop making all your restaurants out of concrete. Thank you.) that apparently serves all sorts of treats. Nothing about concrete says "come get treats here" to me, but I'm not very cool. Their menu belies their industrial posturing.

5. I think my neighbors may be borrowing some additional child for the evening? A child that cries relentlessly in a manner not unlike a siren? By which I mean an ambulance siren or similar, not a sultry seductress of sailors. Sigh. Surely their own, slightly quieter, baby would suffice. For the record, in Switzerland, you can't hear the neighbors. Also, they have the Alps. Not that I require the Alps at all, but they are impressive.

Life List update. July 2012

Buongirono amici.
I'm back.

Which is not to say that I'm taking the "vacation is over" thing particularly well. I am clinging to the vestiges. To wit:

5:15pm. Prosecco with a splash of limoncello and the mint I bought at the market yesterday because it smelled intoxicating, though I have no practical use for mint. Vacation's over, you say? Ha, I say.

Before embarking on my journey, I made a note in my journal of the Life List items that might potentially be accomplished. They were:
#8. Go to Rome.
#9. Speak basic Italian.
#38. Have wine in Tuscany with an Italian.
#39. Own something from Carli.
#40. Own grown-up lingerie.
#50. Visit Kath and KC in Switzerland (and pray they don't make me scale anything).

Well, hold on to your hats, friends, because many of these things came to pass.

Go to Rome. Si! Sono andata a Roma. Veni, vidi, ho mangato gelato.

Speak basic Italian. Hmmm. Well, that one's kind of a moving target isn't it. Did I use the past tense twice just moments ago? Si. Am I therefore amazing? Si. Certo. Was I able to confidently ask for a table for one and express my preference for sparkling water? Si. Did I feel like I spoke basic Italian? Not really. Though, by some measures, I think maybe I do. Perhaps I want to actually speak Italian. I will give myself a "quasi" on this one. A mezzo-check, if you will. Italian? I totally like you. Oh, sorry. I mean, Italiano? Tu mi piaci molto.

Have some wine in Tuscany with an Italian. I'm going to say no. I did have wine in Tuscany near Italians. I was even given wine by an Italian, and I did purchase wine from Italians, but "let us sit together at this tavola and raise a bicchiere insieme" still lies in the future, I'm afraid.

Me having wine in close proximity to Italians.

Own something from Carli. Not only did this not happen, this will probably never happen. However, I give myself credit for going to Lucca expressly to find out. I have been thinking about Carli since I first encountered it seven years ago, but at that point I was too intimidated to set foot inside. This time, I went; I asked to see two rings from the (gorgeous, perfect) case; I tried them on; I was told they were each more than three thousand euro; I laughed loudly in an un-chic manner and soon thereafter, departed. But at least now I KNOW. A rich man who is besotted with me is required. I'll see what I can do.

Own grown-up lingerie. I've got this one covered, people. Admittedly, I had envisioned exquisite, gossamer things, possibly purchased at La Perla. Indeed, I did go in to La Perla and let's just say that you could buy three bras there, or a ring from Carli. Still. Lace has been achieved. Matching has been achieved. This marks significant progress. And it's all thanks to a pre-vacation sale at the Gap. You laugh, but I'm totally hot and I can still afford to pay my rent.

A sampling. Not that, strictly speaking, it's any of your bee's wax.

See Kath and KC in Switzerland (and pray they don't make me scale anything). Yes! And hooray. My cousin and her husband have been living in Switzerland for twenty years and I have never managed to see them there. They live in a tiny town with the most dramatic landscape imaginable. I was overjoyed to see them there, at last. I found it unexpectedly moving to visit a blood relation in such an improbable place.

So, in short, it's been good. Stick around. I've got stories to tell you. Soon.