A Well Kept Man

Last night in French class, we were scolded by Georges (our infallible instructor) for daring to describe the lake down the street as Lake Geneva...you see, much like in the U.S. where Minnesota and Michigan fight over which State is more representative of lakes, the Swiss have differing opinions on the name of their beautiful lake. (Minnesota claims to have more than 10,000 lakes, didja know that Minnesota is a Dakota Indian word meaning "water?"; Michigan claims you are never more than 90 miles from a Great Lake, therein making it the Great Lake State...Michigan is derived from the Objibwe Indian word for "large water"; since Michigan has an adjective and Minnesota does not, I decree Michigan as the superior Lake State, even though both States touch Lake Superior).

As you can see from the picture, the lake is roughly crescent shaped (although I could be convinced it looks like a delicious walleye leaping from the water). The Swiss like to divide this lake into two parts, the western part (what would be the tail of the fish...it's skinnier and runs roughly from Geneva to Nyon on the Switzerland side) is called "Lac de Genève," whereas the eastern portion (and subsequently grander, larger, deeper, and better portion running from Nyon to Villeneuve) is called "Lac Léman." Now I don't really understand how you could claim that one lake is really two separate lakes, but the Swiss are like that so I will humor them and only refer to the lake we live by as "Lac Léman" from now on (unless I am west of Nyon in which case I will call it "Lac de Genève").

Chambermaid here...sorry this post is a few weeks late, but as they say in the business "Le fromage c'est vieux, mais je le linge plié et repassé votre pantalon."

Alli and I marked our return to Switzerland by enrolling in French lessons at a local school (it's really a business, but since we are learning, I am calling it school.  This would explain why I dread Tuesday and Thursday evenings...I never seem to enjoy school.  I am always worried I won't have my homework done or something.  I guess that's why I have been having so many high school and college flashback dreams lately, or it could be because I discovered Facebook, but who knows?).  Now my French is basic, and by basic I mean I can say fish, chicken, house, and ask for a carafe of water at dinner.  Aside from that, I am fairly inept despite my tall tales of department store flirtation and taking pictures of tourists (actually, if you ask Alli I am quite good...I think I just have a confidence problem when it comes to speaking in foreign tongues; if I only had a little tongue of fire over my head, perhaps that fear would go away....).

I was trying to learn me some French, when I came across an example of a teacher instructing her pupils. The French word for "pupils" (as in rugrat students) is "élèves". Why is this funny? Because I always wondered why Santa had elves at the North Pole, now I know why. Santa is French. That also explains the whole "Noel" aspect of Christmas (Noel of course being French for Christmas). Leave it to a overweight Frenchman to figure out how to take 364 days a year off, obviously enjoying the finer foods of life, then forcing millions of children to leave him more delicacies which he exchanges for gifts.

It is possible that I am incorrect and that Santa is not French. This would then leave one to assume that the Keebler Elves and Snap, Crackle, & Pop are in fact French; this would explain the whole cooking/baking thing.

Watch this video and you'll know how I feel...learning French is tough. This video still cracks me up every time I watch it. Enjoy! I'm off to get my hair cut and have lunch with Alli, so I won't have anything interesting to write about until this evening.

I am sorry for the low output of blog posts in the last couple days (well, at least Quixotic adventures and such...I haven't found any windmills (moulin à vent) yet). I suppose I have entered the doldrums of living abroad and as a result I don't have any good material. I promise I will try and create some good adventures soon, as I am sure there are those out there convinced that I am living a lifestyle that would enable the sort of Tom Foolery that you all have grown fond of reading.
In the meanwhile, I will post some toilet humor. The picture at left is from our hotel in Turin, no that isn't a sink next to the toilet (at least not one you'd brush your teeth in). Needless to say we did not utilize it for any purposes, not even to test the water temperature (I'm guessing it was tepid).

There have also been some requests to see what our apartment looks like, especially compared to the previous one. I will do a separate post on the new apartment immediately following this one, although to hold you over until that occurs I have included two photos of the respective "sitting" rooms from each apartment. I will let you guess which one goes with which apartment.

It's also raining here so I have been doing things related to learning French, such as taking online lessons and trying to book a weekend trip to Paris. So far so good, I can now safely distinguish between a little boy, a little girl, a cat and a dog (garçon, fille, chat, and chien) as well as basic colors of each (I am worried that they haven't taught me how to address a situation where a small child is literally blue, but that might be covered in the next lesson...so I will be avoiding kids for the next few days). Someday I hope to be able to have a conversation with any of the aforementioned and have them understand me...

You may be asking yourself what does Coke signify with respect to being in a foreign country too long? Well, I'll say that I drink a lot of it because it's tasty and refreshing. Please look closely at the picture. You'll notice that the bottle has some condensation (meaning it's cooler than the ambient environment...kind of like I am with respect to the citizens of Europe, Obama included). I'll also let you know that I just poured the Coke into the glass (meaning it hasn't been sitting there since yesterday). You may also like to know that I am currently enjoying this tasty beverage as I type (don't worry, I'm not violating any laws of surfing the internet while under the influence of Coke...although you have to wonder if intoxicated web surfing should be considered a misdemeanor. I mean, who would spend time actually making a MySpace or Facebook profile unless they were under the influence of some foreign substance, such as Nutella?).

Also notice what is missing.

That's right, no ice. I don't even miss it anymore, and I am also to the point where I would think it to be ludicrous to pollute my perfectly crafted boisson (that's French for something you want to drink, a beverage perhaps). Actually, I can go either way...ice is great because if you don't drink too fast the whole drink will stay cold, on the other hand ice seems to have this uncanny ability to melt leaving my Coke tainted with liquid water (as opposed to solid water...by the way, did you know that technically ice is a liquid? So is glass. Look it up.).

If you plan on visiting please understand the lack of ice in this part of the world. It's not that it is unavailable, they just don't believe it's necessary to the overall satisfaction of your boisson drinking experience.

After trekking the hills of Lausanne in search of a bicycle tire repair kit, I finally found what I was looking for at a small sports shop. After successfully locating the patch kit, I proceeded to the cashier (caisse) where I attempted to pretend to be a local.

Clerk: Bonjour Monsieur
Mark: Bonjour (I hand him the kit)
Clerk: (Scans item, totals the price) Huit francs et quatre-vingt-dix centimes (8 francs and 4 twenties and 10 cents...or 8.90 CHF...at least that's how much my receipt says, again, I'm not fluent yet, so this may be incorrect)
Mark: (I swipe my bank card, punch in my pin...life is good)

At this point I'm expecting the transaction to be over, maybe getting a Bonne Journée (Good Day), but I'm pretty sure he doesn't know I'm American (maybe the fact that I was super sweaty from walking up to the city distracted him from my Ohio State Buckeyes football t-shirt, causing him to mistake me for an exercising European)


Clerk: Voulez vous un sac por le kit? (or something close to this "Would you like a bag for your kit?")
Me: Uhhhh (I didn't have a clue what he was asking. It's interesting; I'm to the point now where I can understand some basic questions, and if I listen closely I can understand some words, but if I'm expecting to hear one thing and hear something else, or if I'm not expecting anything at all, I turn into a deer staring into headlights)

Clerk (in perfect English): Do you want a bag for your purchase?
Me: Non, merci beaucoop.

Why is this interesting? Because when you pretend to know French and get caught not knowing how to respond, people notice the fact that you are wearing white socks and running shoes even though you aren't working out, and that you are sweaty because you are out of shape, and that you probably only speak English. He didn't bother repeating the question in French, nor did he switch to German or Italian (2 of the more common languages spoken around here); he went straight to English. I guess I need to keep learning.

For those that were wondering, I patched the tire on my bike so I am mobile again. I tested it out with Alli last night on a pleasant bike ride down to Lutry (10 km ride = 6 miles). Today, I am going to be attempting laundry, although I have only been cleared to wash towels, sheets, pillow cases, and my underwear. I still haven't been forgiven for shrinking and/or changing the colors of previous loads of laundry in our first couple weeks as a married couple (which is fine if you ask me).

As you can see from the picture at right, it's one of those days. I hopped onto my bike for a ride (I wanted to feed the ducks and swans in the lake some old bread that wasn't fit for the queen's consumption) and noticed something funny about my bike (no, it isn't that my butt feels like it has a shoe wedged between my butt-bones, that's normal). Remembering some old tricks from my days as a stunt double for MacGyver (I had to wear a wig because I refused to grow a mullet) I proceeded down to the lake where there's a fountain that the little kids play in (don't worry, I was upstream from the warm areas).

I put the tire in the water (of course it was clean), and slowly turned it in the water looking for drowning gremlins jumping out a hole. Voila! (that's a French word, I think it's a wooden instrument with strings)...bubbles! Me thinks I have a hole in my tire. Sure enough, there was a large thorn sticking out of the tire, most likely from my off-roading adventure near the flash flood zone (I wish there was a warning sign for flat bike tires).

So I am now going out (on foot, I wouldn't be caught dead riding a girl's bike; at least not without my man capris, man purse, and little pink basket on the front with streamers on the handlebars) to try and find a repair kit as I don't want to purchase a new tube (when you are unemployed, err, on sabbatical you try to remain as frugal as possible... which is really nothing new for me).

On the plus side it's beautiful outside so I am going to take off my watch and hope the sun gives my wrist a little tanning action...I just need to finish my beer and bretzel (it's bread, it's pretzel flavored...it's a bretzel!) first.

Interesting adventure...so Alli decided when we first arrived that she needed a hairdryer. Never mind waiting until we actually made it into an apartment to see if there was one already present, Alli needed one immediately. As fortune would have it everywhere we've been has had a suitable hairdryer (apparently there is such a thing as an unsuitable hairdryer but when your hair is rarely longer than 2.54 cm [1 inch for all the Americans reading this] you don't really have use for a hairdryer).

So today I found myself in the position of having to return the unopened hairdryer we purchased two weeks ago at Media Markt. Yes, that's the name of the store I didn't forget the 'e' or add a 'k'. Unrelated, but when you order a Coke here, it's not a Coke, it's a Coca...or Coca light (for the Diet Coke lovers in the house). But back to my story.

So I arrived at Media Markt with my awesome 1800W blow dryer, unopened, with the original receipt wondering how on earth I am going to communicate with the equivalent of a American teenager about how I need to return this because my crazy wife couldn't wait a couple days to see if she even needed the hairdryer. (Have you ever tried to communicate with a teenager, I am sure parents everywhere will roll their eyes when the read this but kids these days, are they capable of forming complete sentences without the need to txt their bff, OMG!)

So I walk up to the Media Markt and there's some sign about Merchandise blah blah blah and I think ok, I have this language thing figured out...this is where returns are supposed to go. Wrong. It was the loading docks. But for 100 CHF (Swiss Francs) I could have gotten some real nice equipment that "accidentally" fell off the truck. Try #2. I go inside the store this time (brilliant idea by the way) to find a counter where they deal with such things as exchanges, returns, refunds, complaints, but mostly just blank stares from the Swiss teenager who can't wait for her shift to be over so she can go watch Laguna Beach or The Hills or whatever the popular tv show dubbed in French that kids watch these days.

After patiently waiting the hired help comes up to me and says "Bonjour, blah blah blah blah blah" (I am so close to learning French I can taste the baguette). So I reply back "Parle-vous anglais?," which is of course the French version of the American question "Do you speak English because in America, we don't feel it necessary to learn anything other than our language and maybe one other, randomly chosen depending on which class the hot girl in homeroom told you she was taking your Freshman year of high school".

I patiently smiled as I figured that she would appreciate my gesture of international participation and reply back in English that of course she knew it because America rules. Sadly, she did not know English.

OH NO! How the heck now am I going to get my 19 CHF back? Alli will surely have me tarred and feathered for such insolence...perhaps I can draw her a picture. Everyone can understand pictures, or maybe I can give her the universal sign for "I'd like to return this" which involves me pointing to the receipt, giving her the hairdryer, speaking a little louder, pointing back at the receipt and her nodding in agreement while giving me back my money...guess what...didn't happen.

Thankfully there was a worldly gentleman in line behind me who volunteered to translate, disaster averted. I calmly explained the situation, he said something to her, then she proceeded to look at me and speak French. Apparently I spoke such perfect French the first time that she figured I could understand and possibly speak French, just not the phrase, "I'd like to return this, I never used this, give me my money back."

After I got the translation through my intermediary, I spoke back to him, and we had our own little mini United Nations party at the returns desk. She gave me a slip which he then informed me I'd need to take to the place where I purchased the hairdryer to get my money back. Um, I don't mean to point out the obvious, but this IS where I bought the hairdryer. Nevertheless, I wouldn't let this sudden turn of events foil my attempt to retrieve my 19 CHF. I went to the exact spot in the store where we found the hairdryer and Voila! there was a clerk who I could give my slip to and surely he would know what to do.

Again, he muttered something to me in French, to which I responded, "Parle-vous anglais?" Figuring I had no other choice except for making ape-like gestures and/or stealing the cash register, I held my breath as he responded "A little."

Clouds lifting, angels singing, the vision of me sleeping on the couch slowly fading away. I explained that I needed to return this hairdryer and that nothing was wrong with it, I just didn't need it because we already had one (apparently the first slip was just to let me take the hairdryer back into the store because hairdryer theft is the number two crime in Switzerland after failing to use the proper fondue fork etiquette). I spared him the agony of telling him about my wife's need for the hairdryer safety net in case our new accommodations lacked a hairdryer and we hadn't enough time to get to the store before they closed to avert a hair drying emergency.

After some nodding on his part and typing into his computer (which knows French by the way, even the keys have all the weird French symbols and the Windows key is replaced by one with a picture of St. Bernard dog - very cool) he produced two slips of paper to be taken to the cash register to get my money back. I thanked him in French (Merci, Au Revoir) and off to the counter I went.

Naturally, wanting to avoid another United Nations conference I walked around the store for a bit until I found someone else carrying a slip of paper similar to mine. I figured I could just stalk them until they left and watch how they get their money back and I would be in the money (pun intended). I quickly found a line with a paper holding Mademoiselle (French for 'my little lady,' if you don't believe me look it up on the internet, Wikipedia is never wrong.)

After watching her go through the motions and seeing that her slip was merely a note to have something delivered to her car in the parking lot, I became a bit worried. It was my turn and the queue behind me was too long to go stalk someone else. I handed her the slips hoping she wouldn't notice that I was incapable of replying to any question she asked me with the exception of whether or not I wanted coffee, tea, or dessert. She looked at the slips, looked at me (probably thinking to herself that she could probably send me down to the loading docks to get my refund knowing that this time that I would just give up and she would have my 19 CHF for a night of Fondue on the unfortunate American), then pointed to the bottom of the form and handed me a pen.

I think she said something but I was on autopilot and figured she thought I was some kind of celebrity from America and she wanted my autograph. Either way, I signed the slip, she gave me 19 CHF back and I was out of that store faster than Superman out of a phone booth. Although the curious thing was that she scribbled out the purchase on my original receipt like it never happened. In America, you usually get a whole new receipt, plus a shiny staple that hooks the new receipt to the old one. I guess the rest of the world has figured out one more way to save the world from excess receipts and staples...if only America would catch up.

So I have an interesting story that I simply must share.

Most of you know what I look like; ruggedly handsome, well dressed, typical American boy, scrawny physique, awkward movements, etc. And in your minds out there you're probably thinking, he could pass for an Italian, or someone of Hispanic decent, possibly a German, or even an individual from the cradle of civilization (sans facial hair). Nevertheless, for those of you who have been overseas Americans tend to stand out from the rest of the world.

Even in the land of lots of Caucasians (although I can't seem to find a travel guide for this magical place, Caucasia), Americans are the only ones wearing shorts, t-shirts, white socks, and tennis shoes at all times. If there was to be an official American outfit (I think Congress will be introducing a bill on this soon as in an election year they try to avoid anything too scandalous), this would be it, except in winter when the shorts are replaced with blue jeans (not too tight, but not too baggy) and the t-shirt is layered with a sweatshirt indicating where all of our parents money was spent (thanks Dad, loved the 4.5 years in Indiana!).

Real Europeans
Europeans on the other hand always seem to be neatly dressed, nary a wrinkle in their clothes, nor brown belt with black shoes. Perhaps they have on black socks with their tennis shoes, but they are probably working out (aka breaking a sweat on purpose) whereas Americans are just hoping someone will think they are athletic and fall in love and marry and have babies and ignore the fact that their waistline has increased along with their flatulence.

So anyway, here I am along the shores of Lake Geneva taking pictures of Dahlias and enjoying the lovely sunny morning. I am dressed just as the American dressing manual has stated, complete with my cargo sized pockets on my shorts (this is a variation for those wishing to look like they are useful rather than athletic). All of the sudden I am approached by what can only be described as a typical American family. When you travel enough, you just know.

So the dad (wearing the country club version of the American uniform, golf shorts, polo shirt, dock shoes) approaches me holding out his camera (what a coincidence, I have one too...we should be friends, no really, oh my gosh, you like pizza too? let's be pen pals!). I figured this would be a typical "I need you to take a picture of my family to prove to our friends at the country club we were actually in Europe and didn't just go to the Wisconsin Dells for a week because our mortgage is bankrupting us" kind of experience.

Well it was not.

The dad says, "Monsieur" (that's French for hey random guy), "You take photo?" in a somewhat loud and I hope he understands me kind of manner. He also makes the international sign for will you take a picture of me and my family by pointing to the camera, pointing to his wife and daughters who are all rolling their eyes, and then points back at me. So being the fellow American traveler wanting to ease his worries about being in a strange place, I simply say "Oui" (that's French for yes).

Not wanting to blow my cover I pretend to initially understand how the camera works, looking at it like the chimps at the zoo look at the fleas off their buddies head before they eat it (is this poisonous, it smells ok, it tastes ok, ok, I'll eat it). Then I mutter something vaguely resembling French, "Oui, voulais vous, oui, maisson, poisson, etc" and motion for them to get close together.

Then, when I figure the gig is up, I go for broke and say "Un, Deux, Trois" (that's 1,2,3) and take the picture. They smile, the daughters both shyly say "Merci" (thanks, as in, I am so glad my friends weren't here to see this happen, I would have like totally been embarrassed), the dad says "Thanks, oops, Merci" and the mom says "Merci Beaucoop" (Thank you very much).

And I walked away trying not to laugh and ruin this perfect experience for the Americans who successfully negotiated a photo op of the whole family without having the crazy Swiss guy run away with their camera and sell it on Le eBay.

Imposter

I was wrong, the driver was Chilean. And he was an hour and a half late. Pleasant, but sweaty. I'm off to figure out lunch now (or not since Alli will want to eat dinner soon)...maybe just a casse-croute (snack).

Please also forgive the lack of accent marks and/or weird French symbols, my keyboard is still learning French too.