Black & Blue and Basel all over

It's common knowledge that I'm a bit of a klutz. For growing up as a dancer, this seems counter-intuitive, but my feet only seem to move in sync if there is music playing. This weekend Tim and I met in Basel, which is about half way between Frankfurt and Geneva. On Saturday morning, before we even made it to the old-town/pedestrian zone, I stopped to take a picture of a fountain and then promptly fell backwards down 4 concrete steps. Somewhere along the way I flipped around, so that the lip of the last concrete step stopped my fall against the middle of my shins. Yes it hurt. It hurt so bad that I promptly turned white, then green, then thought I was going to pass out then started to cry without even wanting to. The good news is that I didn't turn either of my ankles. The bad news it that it looks like someone took a baseball bat to my shin bones (it feels that way too).

Tim was quite the hero. He practically carried me to a cafe to get me out of the way and to figure out what to do next.. He also convinced me to go to the pharmacy. They gave me this odd creme that acts as a topical pain killer (cool!) and convinced us that I didn't break anything (it really did hurt that much). We then went back to the hotel where I propped my leg up, iced it and longingly looked at the bright sun out of the window and cursed my clumsiness.

This put a bit of a damper on our trip to Basel. Primarily because I couldn't walk for 3 hours and secondly because about 3 hours later when I decided I wanted to walk again, I was limpy and slow. Did I mention that everything worth seeing is in a pedestrian zone?

But, I'm fine now. Achey from the fall, but fine. Walking is not a problem, but steps are a bit of delima. Going down steps is seriosly painful. How fortunate that my bedroom is lofted above the living room. I guess once I get up there, I'll just have to stay there.

Like my shins, Basel is a brilliantly colorful city. This is a place that loves Christmas almost as much as my mom does. Every building was decorated with angel's lofted over the awnings, santa's climbing into windows, bows, ribbons and lights, lights and more lights. 20 foot fir trees were placed along the streets and lit up with candles (electric). Basel boasts "the longest christmas street in Europe" which means the street of the main shopping drag is draped with lit up stars and lights from building to building. It was the opening weekend of the Wiehnachtmarkt (christmas market). The christmas market was nice for the atmosphere, but I found the hoards of people and shacks selling crappy knick knacks a bit overwhelming. Tim and I found a little stand selling foods I've never heard of and gluhwein, a hot wine/cider mix, that warms up everything inside and out. As long as they sell gluhwein, I will visit every christmas market in Europe.

So, bruised but happy, I'm back home, ready for the holidays and thankful that I didn't break anything.

It's fun to be the American...although sometimes you feel like a turkey.

I'm in Brussels tonight for the Homecare Connect Days. This is our big dog and pony show where we convince all of the different countries why our innovation for the next year is great. It's called the connect days because we are supposed to forge friendships so that we don't spend the other 364 days of the year cursing at each other. In a corporate sense, this means big expensive meals and lots of wine. Tonight was the big expensive meal/wine portion of the event. Our emcee, the Assistant Brand Manager on Swiffer, gave me a bit of a shout out. In a room of over 80 people he mentioned that tomorrow was Thanksgiving in America and since we had one American in the room we needed to make her feel at home. To do this, he directed everyone to come up to me tomorrow and thank me.

I fear tomorrow may be a long day.

Auerbach Castle

Tim and I visited the Auerbach Castle a while back. It's a "national-park" type castle: free, open to the public, a bit unkempt and with amusing little details to keep kids entertained. For example, in the courtyard there was a "lifesize" replica of something that looked either like a dragon or a dinosaur. I mentioned to Tim that I wasn't certain which it was. Tim looked at me point blank and said it had to be a dragon cause dinosaurs weren't around when the castle was built.

Who says that Germans have no sense of humor?

Golden Arches

I spent the majority of October with pretty rough bout of homesickness. It is quite a distinct feeling of heartache and distress, like you are looking for something you've lost, but you can't remember what it is you've lost. The last time I felt this way I was in grade school at a girl scout camp. My homesickness caused me to do something unthinkable...I went to McDonald's. I haven't eaten at McDonald's in at least 3 years. I tend to be fundamentally opposed to everything the company represents from fast eating to biggie sizing to childhood obesity(and adult obesity) to beef industrialization. I also haven't eaten fried foods for two years. But, I ached for something familiar, comfortable...something American. There are many things I missed: television, radio, newspapers, english-speaking people, cookies. I could go on and on. But for some reason when my bus home from work passed the McDonald's, I knew that only one thing was going to make me feel better.

That evening I went to my African Dance class. This is where I show up in a room full of French speaking people and learn traditional african dances from a south african man and women who speak such an interesting version of french, that I'm not sure I could understand it even if I did speak the language. They speak to me in french and I nod and follow along and try to dance a little better so that they don't stop me again to tell me what I'm doing wrong (which I don't understand).

I had told myself that after dance I wouldn't want the McDonald's so badly and would be able to go home and eat a sensible meal. Unfortunately the Mickey D's is on my way home. I got near and I felt the worst dichotomy of yearning and guilt. I wanted McDonald's so bad! But's it's sooo bad for me! And bad for the world! And bad for children! And bad for heart disease! But one smell of the quintessiantal fresh fried salty aroma and I was done.

I literally felt ashamed when I walked in. But oh how juicy the fish fillet looked. It's quite possible that the last time I ordered a fish fillet it came in a box with a plastic toy. I must say, McDonald's is pretty brilliant with their international menus. It was simply one board with 8 sections each with a mouth-watering picture of one of their products and a number. You need to simply grunt and point to get a full meal.

I grunted, pointed, paid my 7.60 CHF (!) and walked away with my fish filet and fries. I hid my face in shame walked out and fretted about running into all seven people I actually know in Geneva and trying to rationalize to them why I was eating at a McDonalds (silly American!).

I got home, laid my bounty out on my Ikea coffee table and admired how after at least 20 years (since the last time I remember eating a fish fillet) they still haven't figured out how to line-up the buns with the fillet with the cheese. Why is it exactly that the cheese is always askew and dripping off the side? Is this a strategic choice? Do they train their mc-droids to do this?

I ate my fries first...I distinctly remember that if you wait too long they taste like cardboard. It was salty indulgence heaven. Then I had my fish fillet. It was just as I remembered it. Every bite took me one step closer to home. It was a like a little magic sandwich with fat-laden buns that made me happy. I ate the whole thing...and most of the fries (yes they still taste like cardboard after the heat has left).

I felt great...for about an hour. And then my stomach reminded me that there's a good reason why I shouldn't eat foods like this. I crawled into bed, curled into a ball...and fell asleep achey...but not with homesickeness.

Sarah Logic

Sarah's blog titled "If my life were a musical it would begin in Gruyeres, Switzerland" is the best reading I've had all week.

http://itsprobablysarahlogic.blogspot.com/

Why the British might be crazy. And why I love the British.

Tim and I spent last weekend in London. Then I was back again for work three days last week. I love London and truly enjoyed my time there. But, after five days, I have reason to believe that the British might be crazy. Here's why:

-They drive on the wrong side of the road. I feel fully justified calling this the wrong side of the road because at every intersection they have painted along the curb "Look right" and "Look left" with an arrow to keep unsuspecting foreigners from being wiped out by the oncoming taxis. Nowhere else in the world feels the need to do this...shouldn't this be a sign that they may be driving incorrectly?
- The pubs close at 11pm at night. Seriously, this is too early.
- If you order fish and chips you have the choice of peas or smashed peas. Not only are peas one of the worst vegetables ever grown, but to have them smashed? I didn't actually order fish and chips while I was there, but I'm certain that I wouldn't want my plate of fried glory ruined by peas...or even worse, smashed peas. Oh...and of course, the chips are really fries...and they're served with mayonaisse not ketchup. Crazy.
- Breakfast comes with baked beans. They pour them all over your eggs and bacon (which is really canadian bacon). Yuk. Yuk. Yuk.
-There's no rhyme or reason to the roads...there isn't a straight road in the entire city. I realize that London is a very old city...many cities are very old...but like many old cities, they've had their share of bad things happen that the lovely people of London could have used as an opportunity to build roads that go in a straight line and corners that turn at 90 degrees. But alas, this has not happened. Instead if you are in a car in London you will get sick to your stomach.
- Again with the roads, we ran into a few roads that literally are named the same thing on all four sides of the block that it covers. In addition, the numbering goes up one side (both odds and evens) and then up the other side, makes a corner and continues numbering on one side. Both Tim and I (who arrived seperately), walked around 3 of the 4 sides of a block before finding our hotel.
- Churches are merely shrines to dead royalty. I know that the seperation of church and state is a truly american cultural expirement, but it was so weird to walk into church that had less to do with God and more to do with dead rich people.

But there's a charm to London that makes it one of the great cities in the world. I believe it's the people. Here's why:
- A British person can tell you off, but will do so in a way that sounds absolutely charming and you will leave smiling. This didn't actually happen to me, but I did see some "angry" brits and they were just lovely.
- Everyone you meet will offer you tea and expect you to take it. Part of my job is going into people's homes and asking them about cleaning products. (It's more fascinating than it sounds). Every home we went into either already had the tea going or started prepping as soon as we walked in the door. I love tea, so this was like a glorious caffeine adventure. I usually only drink two cups a day. I was averaging about five while I was in London. I'm not complaining...I didn't sleep at night...but I'm not complaining.
- Again with the tea. In most places in the world when you order tea you need to specially order milk which they will bring out in a little pot accompanying the tea. In England, the milk is assumed and added without even asking. Milk with tea is my favorite way to drink tea. This made me so happy.

They might be crazy, but they're my type of crazy.

Marrons

Autumn is upon Geneva. The leaves are just starting to turn with the yellows and golds already coming out. The air is crisp and today is a lovely day with temperatures in the high 60's and a light breeze. Tim and I went to the farmer's market this morning to get our groceries for dinner tonight. Every time Tim visits he brings another suitcase of my stuff...and regardless of what fits in he brings one of my Cooking Light Annual cookbooks. Tonight we're having Roasted Chicken with Dried Plums and Shallots and Swiss Baked Potatoes (how fitting). Before leaving, I went to my new favorite website, www.translate.google.com and translated all of the vegetables into french so that I could order what I needed from the stands at the farmer's market. The market is a closterphopic's nightmare...it's packed with people ordering and pushing through to get the best produce. I tend to go the least crowded stand I can find so that my lack of French doesn't slow down the entire food-buying community of Geneva. For the first time today I ordered everything I needed in French (with a bit of pointing due to my poor pronunciation). So now I've got a kitchen full of eschallots (shallots), oignons (onions), ail (garlic), fenouil (fennel), poulet (chicken) and pommes de terre (potatoes).

On the way back from shopping we passed a little wooden cabin on a street corner (that wasn't there last week) that seemed to have large vats of something smoking. Later in the afternoon, we passed another one in a different part of town. The sign on the front said Marrons and there was a line of people waiting to purchase whatever they were selling. Naturally, I had to try it. We got to the front of the line and I pointed at the 100 gram sign (I don't know how to say 100 yet), handed over my 2.60 francs and then watched the lady scoop in some piping hot somethings into a paper cone. I pulled one of the large nut looking things out of the bag and realized what I must have ordered. These are chestusts roasted on an open fire! It seems bizarre that I could sing the song every christmas, yet have made it through my entire life without actually eating a roasted chestnut. We peeled the shells off, careful not to burn ourselves and walked to lake. The taste overall is fine...I'd much rather have a nice piece of chocolate, but still, I love that there are these little stands all over selling these things. It felt like the perfect way to enjoy a fall day...peeling and eating warm chestnuts, walking along the lake and looking at the changing trees in the parks along the lake.
So ton

Thoughts on a Train

I wrote both of these on the train to Frankfurt on Friday. I should have been getting some work done, but adding to my blog seemed much more exciting.

Why do people call me Beth?

Here’s a brief overview of the types of names I deal with on a daily basis in Western Europe: Yannick, Gregana, Pietro, Ignacio, Geza and Titia. There are others that I still haven’t figured out how to pronounce or spell. And yet, I do not call these people Yan, Piet, Ig, Gez or Tit (thankfully). So why exactly is it universally and naturally assumed that Bethany can be shortened to Beth? I’ve been walking around with this name for roughly thirty years (give or take a few) and am rather certain that this is not a terribly common name, especially in non-US cultures. So, why exactly do people from other countries automatically assume that Bethany can be shortened to Beth? Somehow in the only one month that I have been working in WE, my name has become…to some…Beth. I’m getting emails to this “Beth” person and in meetings, my work is referred to as “Beth’s” analysis. Who is this person and why is she getting all the credit? I wouldn’t begin to assume, if I met someone named Nadja, that I could start calling her Nad. So why Beth?
One could argue that the “th” sound in Bethany is a difficult sound for some cultures to make (I’m regularly called Bettany or Be-tan-ya). But abbreviation doesn’t solve this problem?
My other hypothesis is that there has been in the past a less-than-savory character named Bethany who could not in full-confidence own up to the richness of her full-name. She hence created an alter-ego…which everyone came to know…and hence “beth” was written into western europe lexicon.
It’s not that I’m against a nickname. I realize that my name has a whole three syllables which can get a bit overwhelming to some. If you must shorten it, I actually like the name “B” as in “Hey B” (best spoken with enthusiasm from Kristin Kent). Even Betney – the name my parents and sister have called me for years – is one that I’ll answer to. But Beth? It seems so simple….so country….so Little House on the Prairie.

That’s Awesome.

My office loves to make fun of people from different counties. Primarily because we are all from different countries. Depending on the day we all make fun of the British, the Hungarians, the Italians…the French get more than their fair share…and occasionally it’s time for the Americans. Luck would have it that I am the only American on my team right now…so when it’s USA’s time to be ridiculed, I stand and look amused like a Texan in a vegetarian restaurant.

It basically all comes down to one word. “Awesome” I’ll admit that I’m guilty of sprinkling this word throughout my day on a regular basis. It’s like “sweet” or “great” or “excellent”….a random adjective used to express that I’m pleased with something. But Europeans find this hilarious. When enquiring as to the hilarity I’m told “God is awesome, waterfalls are awesome…office reports are not awesome. Getting your email to work is not awesome. “ Clearly if you are European, you use the word awesome to imply that something causes awe. Whatever. That is soooo literal! Where’s the creativity in these people? And so, scenes abound of Europeans doing bad American impressions slinging the word awesome back and forth like teenage girls. I sit there, I continue working and just wait till they get back to making fun of the French.

Disconnected

My internet in my temporary holding cell (it's starting to feel like a prison) has not worked since September 1st. After days of attempting to communicate with the management I have realized that I am going to be sans internet for a while.



But I have so much to write about! I'm not sure when I'll get to all of these, but I will:
- One day, three countries...the joy of doing research in the UK and then flying to Frankfurt, with an aside on how great it is that European airlines consider beer and wine a complimentary beverage.
- Why Germans shouldn't mix marzipan and chocolate and why they should stick to dark chocolate...with an update on my Geneva Chocolate expedition from Le Bonbonniere and their magical truffles.
- Hiking around La Saleve and why cows are so fascinating.
- The Mainz Wine Festival, quite possibly the most brilliant way to spend a Saturday night.
- My favorite new cooking game show...in french.
- Day trips to Lausanne and Nyon...and why I intend to live next to a lake whenever possible.

More to come!

Chocolate Review Deux

I didn't buy any chocolate this weekend. And, since it's Sunday, I won't be able to get any. I really need to stick to my guns and keep buying chocolate or I'll never get the opportunity to try all the different shops. So, today I'll review last week's chocolate, Martel, as well as as the popular export chocolate: Lindt.
Martel Chocolates
Martel is a cafe that also sells chocolates and unbelievable looking desserts. The glory of the dessert case led me to decide that once I've throughly evaluated all of the chocolates in the city, I'm moving on to desserts. Martel uses this wonderfully playful font on everything they do and on this alone I was excited about their chocolates. Tim and I went in pror to catching the bus to France and La Saleve to enjoy with our picnic. We choose a box of four truffles. Two were in dark chocolate and two were covered in cocoa powder. As usual, we had no idea what were inside, since the only french word we know that comes in usful in a chocolate shop is "chocolat" and "merci". This was the first of the three chocolate shops that I've visited that did not give me a sample when I bought my chocolate. At the top of La Saleve, Tim and I had our first truffle. The truffles had a chocolate shell filled with Bailey's Irish Cream chocolatey goo in the middle. The texture of the chocolate was excellent and Tim really enjoyed his. But anyone who knows my chocolate preferences knows that I'm very anti liquor/chocolate combinations. Because I didn't like the flavor of my chocolate, I can't really evaluate whether it was good or bad. I guess I'll have to go back.

Favorite French Words, Deux

Voila.
Of course, I was familiar with this word long before coming to Switzerland. Yet, in the nearly 1 month (whoa!) that I've been here, I've been amazed by the depth of meaning that this word has. I hear it dozens of times a day. I not only love the zillions of meanings this word can take, but I love the way that people say it. When spoken aloud it has the tone of genuine pride. "Look at me. I did this. I'm extremely proud of my work. I solved the problem. And now I'm handing it over to you. Enjoy." Voila!

4:00am? Really?

A Hungarian, Pole, Brit, German, American and Swede walk into a bar. No punch line. This was my Friday night. Only we walked into many many bars. Tim and I left at 3:30am. There may have been more bars after that, but we were exhausted.

One of the coolest things about my office is the diversity. Everyone is from somewhere, few are from Switzerland. I've never seen such a diverse group of people get along so well. Everyone loves to poke fun at the other cultures...I've heard some pretty mad impressions of Americans...but it's all in good fun.

Friday night we were celebrating a successful summer for one of the interns on the Mr. Clean team. We started at a cute little bar in Paquis called Le 5 Portes. The atmosphere was artistic and chill, a place you'd expect the grad-school crowd to hang out in...if this were a university town. What I didn't expect was such unbelievable food. When am I going to realize that the food in this city is consistently awesome? Tim and I shared a buffala mozzerella appetizer unlike any other we've had before. The mini-mozzerella balls were served with cherry tomatoes and basil in a parfait glass. On the side was tomato glace....tomato icecream. No kidding. A couple of bottles of wine later we sat back from our equally tasty meals and realized that we were in for a great evening.

Bar One: Can't remember the name. Can't remember where it was. Can't remember what we ordered, but it came in a shaker and the group of six got 5 shots each out of it. It's party time.

Bar Two: The Lounge at the Kempinski. The worlds beautiful people...and wealthy... chill here. Sitting right on the lake, the dj spun house music and the richy-riches drank 20chf cocktails. Not a place I would hang on your average weekend evening, but the place I'll be taking my girls when they come visit.

Bar Three: SIP in Plain Palais. According to the owners, this is not a night club. Whatever. This place bounces. In a multi-store renovated factory building, there's a outdoor patio on the first level, a lounge on the second, and a dance floor on the third. The dance floor was packed when we arrived and we kept it occupied for the next few hours. The music was a dance/house/hip hop melange. I was practically falling over from exhaustion and Tim still had to drag me off the floor cause the music was so good. Ladies, bring your dancing shoes. When you come visit, we're going to show them how it's done.

A twenty minute walk home and Tim and I realized we'd stayed out way past our bedtime. Saturday was a little slow going, but Friday was totally worth it.

Favorite French Words, Part Un

Ouef
If someone were to punch me in the stomach, this is the sound I would make.
But, this word is not "the sound one makes when chucked in the gut". Instead it means egg.
I love eggs, or ouefs.

Aubergine
This is a very elegant word for one of my other favorite foods, eggplant. It's a beautiful vegetable, and clearly, the french wanted a more beautiful word cause if it had been a direct translation it would be ouef-plant. And that just sounds disgusting.

Happy Birthday Pizza

If I had wanted to, I could have spent my birthday in Italy. It's only about an hour away. But I didn't. It was a Tuesday. I had to go to work. And I don't have a car. Or know where I'm going. Instead, I went out to dinner.


My most wonderful boyfriend took the train in just for the occasion. I gathered advice from former expats as well as people in my office on a great place to get some dinner. There is no shortage of great places to get dinner in Geneva. The city caters to those on an expense account and prices and food quality reflect that. I was looking for something a bit less gastronomic and a bit more no-wallet-regrets. As a bonus, I wanted to partake in the heavy Italian heritage in Geneva.


We went to a little Italian place called L'Incontro. I'd been told by two people to have the Pasta Sicilliano. It has eggplant in it, commonly called the much more eloquent word "aubergine". I rarely turn down aubergines, but walking in I walked by table after table of tempting pizzas.

Pizza has been my favorite food for years. I can hardly resist it. I could eat it everyday of the year. Arris's, Shakespeare's, Ian's, Dewey's, even Godfather's and Pizza Hut. I love it. The pasta sicilliano would have to wait. I wanted pizza for my birthday.

I ordered something that had "jambon" on it - stands for ham, although it really doesn't resemble ham ala lunchmeat. The other ingredients were a bit of a mystery as the ingredients were listed in Italian and French. Good thing I know English and German.

Tim and I sipped our Montipulciano and chatted and I noticed that pizza is a knife and fork affair in L'Incontro. When our pizza's arrived, I knew why. It's really just a light thin dough with a melt of goodness on top. While the edge crust is crispy, everything in the middle is melty gooey wonderful. And in true European fashion, where convenience is an afterthought (if a thought at all), the pizzas are not cut, but served as one big uncut pie. Knives and forks definately required.

I ate my rand0m-melty-stuff pizza, lost in it's yummy goodness and Tim ate his, which he also enjoyed. Next time I may need to skip the pasta sicciliano again as I'm ordering Tim's pizza. Right in the middle, shining to the world, rested a sunny-side up egg, cooked right along with the cheese, jambon and whatever else was on there. Brilliant Italians. Eggs on pizza. Like a little gift to the pizza-eater....or the birthday girl...or the birthday girl's boyfriend. Regardless, just brilliant.

Chocolate Review Un (1)

Switzerland is known for a few important things. Skiing. Peace. Chocolate. I'm already a huge advocate of peace. I don't know how to ski (yet). But I do believe I'm qualified to evaulate the variety of chocolate available in Geneva. I've decided I'm going to spend the fall testing the varieties of chocolate around the city so I can bring home the most tasty and decadant for my family to enjoy at Christmas.

Today I review my first two: Rohr and Aver.

Rohr Chocolates:
Rohr Chocolate's operates an adorable little store at the edge of the old town on a side street that I never would have noticed had I not decided to take a detour along a new path home last Saturday. I was charmed by the store window and went in. Tim was coming to visit later in the day, so under the guise of buying him a welcome gift, I purchased a box of "Mini-pralines 6" for 7.50 Chf. They were packaged in a little golden box with golden ribbon wrapped around it. After the purchase they offered me a plate with a variety of chocolates to sample. The box contained six mini-truffles. Four were round, two were square. Half were dark chocolate, half were milk chocolate. My first piece, a dark chocolate round one, was delish. It had an intense dark chocolate flavor, but with a creamy inside that melted in my mouth. The other two were also fine, but the dark chocolate truffle was superb.
I would definately purchase Rohr chocolate again.

Auer Chocolates
This store is located along the main shopping street in Rive Gauche and also operates as a cafe. On my way back from grocery shopping this week I went to purchase a little treat for making it through my second week in Geneva. I purchased a box of what looked like 16 cocoa-covered rabbit turds for 10 Chf. In fact they were chocolate-covered hazelnuts dusted with cocoa powder. The desk attendent wrapped the turd-chocolates in lovely Auer chocolate wrapping paper and sealed it with a metallic sticker. After purchase, they also offered me a sample of a piece of their dark chocolate. It was excellent. I immediately thought that Sarah would love this dark chocolate. Once I got home, I admired the lovely wrapping of the chocolate and almost hesitated to open it. But alas, I like chocolate more than I like lovely wrapping paper. I was a little disappointed with the chocolates. The coccoa powder made them slightly bitter and the chocolate surrounding the hazelnuts was good, but not decadent. They were still very tasty, but I wouldn't purchase this type in particular again.

So, to recap Chocolate Review Un: Rohr trumps Auer. More to come.

Vive Geneve!!

I might possibly live in the most gorgeous city in the entire world. It reminds me slightly of Madison. It's about 200,000 people, most of whom live a pedestrian lifestlye. There's a big lake that's the focal point of most activities. The biggest differences are the mountains in the background, quite absent in Madison, and the multitudes of rich Saudi's escorting their fully-burqa'ed wives through the streets of Geneva, thankfully absent in Madison. I have nothing against full burqas...well, that's not entirely true...but that's a post for another blog.

This weekend marks the end of the "Fete de Geneve", essentially a celebrating coinciding with Geneva's National Day (like our 4th of July). The entire lakefront, rive gauche to rive droit is litttered with amusement rides, food stands, music groups and hordes of people.

On Saturday night 300,000 people showed up to enjoy the fireworks spectacle. I say spectacle because this was like nothing I have ever seen before. Tim and I were encouraged to arrive early since the population of the city plus 100,000 other people crowd along the shores of the lake to watch the show. We packed a backpack with apricots, fresh mozzerella, basil and heirloom tomatoes and a bottle of wine.

I've realized one thing I love about Europe. They are totally, 100% ok with public drinking and intoxication. When we left the apartment I was telling Tim that we would need a way to hide our wine. He looked at me and shook his head as if thinking, "silly american, we don't participate in your prudent ways." So, off the wine went with us.

We sat on the boulders just north of the beach and across from the Parc la Grange to watch the show. It was 45 full-minutes of explosions, sound and light. It was spectacular spectacular. Four different fireworks companies compete to show the best 12 minute fireworks display. They each pulled out all the stops. This was a light parade in the sky. I oohed and aahed and felt patriotic for a country in which I'd just arrived.

I may be new here, but all I can say is Vive Geneve!

The Farmer's Market

All week my alarm has gone off at 7am. Wait, that's not true. All week, the cathedral bells start donging (it's really loud, as if Quasimodo wants to get revenge on the entire city of Geneva) at 7am. About 25 seconds after the bells stop, my alarm goes off.

Generally, I'm a morning person. This week my alarm goes off and I curse the Swiss world. How can it possibly be morning already? When will my system realize that it truly isn't 1am, but in fact, time to get up and get to work.

Naturally, I've been eagerly awaiting Saturday morning. Last night I turned my alarm off and settled in my twin size bed to watch "My Family", my favorite new british television show that airs on BBC Prime every evening at 10:30. I have my choice of three english language stations here. CNN, which blows. MSNBC finance, also blows. And BBC Prime, which I adore. After the show, which was hilarious as usual, I snuggled down and looked forward to a long night's sleep. I even shut my windows to muffle quaisimodo's incessant hourly revenge.

When I awoke, I felt fully rested, light as air and ready to start my day. I flipped over to check the time on my blackberry. Blerg! It's 7am. My jet lag has officially sped off.

Like every good Swiss person, I need to do my grocery shopping on Saturday mornings. If you don't, and you work between 9am and 6pm, then you don't eat for the next week. Off to the farmer's market I go.

Every Saturday morning the street in front of Les Halles is filled with fruit and vegetable stands. The vegetables all come from France and Switzerland, the stone friuts come from the same and the citrus fruits come from Spain. I wandered around the market twice, before decided exactly what to buy. I had 50 chf in my pocket and wanted to be smart about what I purchased. Also, I was terrified about interacting with the people behind the stands with my vocabulary consisting of "bonjour" and "merci". Still, I did it. I purchased a motley blend of heirloom tomatoes, unbelieveably fragrant basil, haricots verts (green beans to the rest of the world), mountain-grown strawberries, wild mushrooms and apricots. Next, I went to the indoor portion of Les Halles. This is where the butchers, cheese-makers, bakers and fish-people set up their stands. This place is chaotic. Little old swiss women with thier push carts hollaring over the counter about exactly what they want and every other swiss person in the world hoarding in to place their orders. I had the balls to order 6 slices of succulant-looking ham (it was 9 chf, so it better be succulant) bread, fresh yogurt and some jelly. My hands full, my pockets empty, I headed home to enjoy my bounty.

I made it through my first week! Beautiful food. Beautiful city. Now I just need to make friends!

Bonjour! Day One in Geneva

When I first moved to Chicago at 21, I moved into an apartment roughly the size of my thumb. I looked at it as a stepping stone to bigger and better things. Yet here I am, not quite 10 years later (close, but not quite) living in temporary housing in Geneva roughly the size of a postage stamp. But, did I mention that it's Geneva? I'd love to tell you how adventurous I've been in the six hours since I've landed, and I have been, only my adventures have included 1) Getting 136 lbs of luggage to my temporary housing 2) Pulling myself out of my 30-minute power nap after two hours. 3) Buying groceries.

Buying groceries has been my favorite adventure so far and is closely linked to my second adventure of pulling myself out of my power nap. I got to my hotel around 2:45 and decided a quick 30 minute nap would allow me to refresh after which I could hop in the shower and be to the grocery store before it closes at six. This is key because once the store closes at six, there will be no more grocery shopping until Monday morning. That's the way they do things here. I set my alarm, laid back...and woke up...when?....at 5pm. Doh! The worst part is in that half-state of awake I seriously considered choosing sleep over food, laid there for about 10 minutes considering the idea, and grudgingly pulled myself out of bed. Fortunately, I made it to the store prior to closing. Unfortunately, I still haven't showered.

I've always loved going into foreign grocery stores to see what is available and wonder at the interesting foods and choices. But I've never had to actually figure out how to subside on these foods. My list was pretty simple, milk, eggs, oj, oil, salt. The basics to get me started. Geneva is an eat-at-home culture due to the expense of dining out, so if I'm going to do this I need to stock the pantry. I felt like I walked through the looking glass. Milk comes in a box, mayonaise comes in a tube (like toothpaste), eggs sit on a shelf (refrigeration optional), cereal is $7 a box (ugh!) and did I mention everything is in French? I didn't realize how much I loved marketing until today. I need pictures, direction, claims, point-of-sale so that I know what to purchase. Did you know how to say iodized salt in French before today? Neither did I...nor did I know that non-iodized is still an option. I stared at the butter for probably 10 minutes trying to decide between the "bio-buerre" or the "buerre de cusine." I decided on the latter...I'll let you know how that works out later when I scramble some non-chilled eggs. 76 Swiss Francs later, I've got enough food to get me through the week.

The next adventure? Hiding 136lbs of stuff in my postage stamp apartment so that I can see the floor.

The news is good, but the list is long.

It's official. I'm headed to Geneva. I found out last Monday after talking to Ruth. I was ecstatic for the rest of the day. Since then, I've been in a state of mild panic. I am truly excited to go to Geneva. It sounds like a European version of Madison, with some great mountains in the background. I can't wait to live a pedestrian lifestyle again. That's not a euphamism. I really like relying on my legs vs. something that requires fossil fuels.

The mild panic could potentially last until September. As far as I can see it, I'm going to spend May with mild stress around the plan to get there. What do I do with my house? What do I do with my stuff? I'm going to spend June with mild stress around my job. How do I finish up the air care role? How do I transition everything in a way that doesn't leave the team in a lurch. In July I'm going to be mildly stressed about my job and the move. I'll be within that last month wrapping up all the details, while at the same time starting a new job...where everyone I work with lives in another country. August I actually move, which is stressful by nature...and then I'm actually on site and expected to kick it into high gear for the new role. Not to mention trying to find a place to live. So, if I'm fortunate enough to find a place ot live in August, then I might actually get rid of a little bit of stress in September. But, that will probably be my bottom of the curve month, which means Oktoberfest is going to be my first chance to really cut loose. Oh boy will that be fun.

Today I took care of two important tasks for my trip. 1) I sent off the materials for my work permit and 2) I canceled my auto insurance. Two things to cross off the list. Now I just need to handle other 72.