Ladies night and newfound pleasures

I've made a new discovery in Geneva. That's right, two and a half years of literally walking within feet of this place EVERY SINGLE DAY, never knowing that I had yet to discover the hottest place in town. Literally ... like 180 degrees Fahrenheit hot.

We had a bit of a discussion this evening whether the culture of community baths, saunas, hammams, etc. exists in the States, and have come to no certain conclusion. But I am quite certain indeed that hammams/Turkish baths will fall into that category of "Top 5 things I will miss most about Europe" if ever I head elsewhere.

They are fabulous.

A couple of weeks ago we checked out the baths in Yverdon les Bains for the first time. Final verdict? Great baths, easy access from Geneva, 30 bucks a pop and stuck with a time limit. (Like most places.) In my book the winner is still Leukerbad, with its 360 degree mountain views, but my wallet doesn't seem to be in frequent agreement.

Enter Bains des Paquis. 17 bucks, no time limit, three steps away from work, built ON the lake, best food in town and Tuesdays blocked out for women only.

A little slice of heaven.

Where else can you sit in the sauna and peer out of custom made windows that provide a view out over the lake across the Geneva night skyline, snowy mountains and glowing cityscape alike?

Where else can you sit in a steamy hammam with bay windows and feel like you are floating right on top of the water?

And where else can you escape to a women's-only world where the normally burka-clad mix and mingle with women of a dozen different languages and ages ... all while sweating, steaming and exfoliating away?

Apparently only at Bains des Paquis.

Winning war?

In the midst of the incessant severe-migraine-inducing-even-with-the-office-windows-closed shouting and yelling, it's all too easy it is to forget that for a great, great many, the UN is seen to be the only *potential* Earth-bound savior.

Amid political, humanitarian and Sinhalese shouts of joy that the longest running civil war ever in all of Asia has finally "come to an end", it is all too easy to forget that there are always, always two sides to the coin. For the thousands of minority Sri Lankan Tamils religiously demonstrating outside the main gates of the UN for the last four months - for the man who committed suicide burning himself alive in desperate protest against what they claim to be a government-sponsored "genocide" against their people - the end of the 25 year Sri Lankan civil war is no reason at all to celebrate.

Little wonder, then, that the 2,000 or so Tamil demonstrators "adorning" the UN main gates over the last two days were among the most passionate, most desperate this city has seen . They were already well-warmed up by 8:30 in the morning ... and don't ask me how the woman kept her voice enough to still be screaming strong at six in the afternoon.

Glass bottles and malatov cocktails thrown at the police were countered with water cannons, afternoon meetings inside the UN were interrupted again and again with security messages and requests for additional guards. Demonstrators lie strewn throughout the streets where they had lain down to block traffic - several managed to get over the main gates... trying to replace the Sri Lankan flag with the Tamil one. (Watch a video of some of the happenings HERE.)

Heaven above only knows who's right and who is wrong in this case, but "Let the Tamils live. Are we not human beings?" has been the mantra of the day(s) ... and a not-so-subtle reminder that "winning war" is always, always a matter of perspective.

Say what?

One of the all-time best parts of Geneva is the general melange des langues, a total mix-up of languages within an environment where no one even bats an eye when you can't find the word that you're looking for and instead, within a single conversation, throw in words from three or four different languages. No biggie. They're all understood.

That said, I couldn't help but chuckle when a non-native English speaker wondering about the submission deadline looked me in the eye today and asked in total solemnity,

Now, is this your absolute deadliest line?

All in a day's walk

Considering that walking to work involves 3 miles of idyllic "European old town", tree-lined parks, a riverside and infamous Lake Geneva, complete with spouting fountain, my own two feet are generally the preferred mode of transportation. Next time I'm contemplating whether I'd really not rather sleep an extra half hour and take the tram, however, I'll have to remind myself of all the exciting things that I'd be missing - as per this evening's wander home:

100-odd aspiring runners

dozens of dads out playing with their kids

2 burka-clad bicyclists

4 Lamborghinis

1 tremendously well-dressed man-woman

3 joints worth of second-hand weed

90-odd super cool rollerbladers

4 jugglers

1 remote control airplane crash

3 teams of sparring jousters

And last, but not certainly not least,

1 well-groomed 50-year old man, squatting slightly, holding his pants up in one hand (though still well below the bum), a mini boom box in the other and ... clucking like a chicken.

Of fountains and innocence

If you ever feel the need for a little warp back in time, feel free to come to Geneva right about, oh, the first Wednesday of February when the old WWII bomb sirens are tested. Except you won't really know that it's a test, you'll just hear them begin their eery whine and your imagination will begin to run - after all, you are sitting pretty at the epicentre of all things international, many of which - at least in other parts of the world - have made many a tempting target for ill-intentioned souls.

But then you'll put and ear to the window and hear a few other things ... the other signs of spring (no complaints, but already?!), namely road construction and rambunctious protests. With the anti-Davos protests already come and gone, along with the teary-eyed evidence of the pre-preemptive use of force against banned freedom of speech and assembly, another passionate group of some sort has taken to the UN plaza and, yet again, I have no idea what they're out there for. That said, we're all giving them kudos for amassing such an impressive group and reminding us with their echoey megaphone banter that the spring protest season is on its way.

That's about when my colleague pointed out that "the police haven't even turned on the fountains yet" ... and when my innocence was shattered.

About a year ago, several dozen "fountain squirters", along with well-placed lights, were built into the ground of the plaza, making for a magical summer wonderland for all kinds of kiddies jumping over, under and through the timed fountains, never quite sure where the next one will "go off". For those of us less inclined to strip down to our skiveys, it makes for a blissful place to sit sun-side and read to the sounds of splashing fountains and yelping kiddies in the spring and summer months. It never ocurred to me that they were installed - and are subsequently turned on - to limit protest space in front of the UN.

My colleague looked at me like I was the most naive person in the world, adding only "Of course! And why do you think so many of the South East Asian cities have dozens of overpasses around the city centers? It's not for aesthetics or improved traffic flow, it's to prevent tanks from coming in too close to the capitals!"

Farewell dear innocence ...

Hear ye, hear ye: She's showing signs of life!

For those of you who haven-t yet come to Geneva and thereafter taken the near-obligatorz-by-international-city-tradition UN headquarters tour, allow me to give you a quick idea. Let's put it this waz, the UN HQ Geneva looks and feels every bit the 1929-original-building-plus-five-million-add-ons-in-the-1960s-and-70s that it is.

Add to this, then, the usual human atmosphere in the day-in-day-out routine, and you get an old, unattractive building (albeit with fantastic lake and mountain views!) filled with frowns, stern faces, courtesy smirks/smiles, security guards and x-ray scanners, mounds of documents, loads of formal protocol, and all the politically-correct diplo-speak you could ever imagine. In fact, come to think of it, usually the most exciting thing in the vicinity are the free-range peacocks whose squawking can occasionally lend a comical air to the most serious of meetings.

And so, imagine my surprise - if not outright glee - this morning when I opened the main door, only to be blasted with the noise (a first in itself!!) of music, chatter, people - hundreds of them smiling, laughing and happily setting up stands according to country - and the amazing smells of foods from every corner of the world. Gone were the suits and ties - replaced instead with traditional clothing of each country, gone were the obnoxiously conspicuous ID badges - replaced instead with signs of people's true identity, and gone were the stoic security sentinels, who were instead intermingling and enjoying the good food and entertainment just as much as anyone else. Three cheers for the annual United Nations Women's Guild International Bazaar.

Even amid my pleasant surprise and the mariachi band beginning to close in around me for a morning serenade, however, I unfortunately could not neglect the fact that I was actually not there to indulge myself to my tummy's delight as I would have liked, but rather was already running late for a meeting. And as I (quite literally ) shimmied and shaked my way through the belly dancers, salsa dancers, small children and intermingling government delegates who were conveniently (strategically?) blocking the escalators, the awestruck smile on my face was surely betraying my thoughts ...

... once again, the women have got it all right - if only we'd let them lead the way in solving the world's woes!

On staying in one place ... and the things you didn't realise that you didn't realise

Heeding the small hands on my legs pushing me out of the way, sidestepping small children running between my legs and ducking under the extended binder-bearing, frantically waving arms of focused mothers expertly managing back-to-school shopping has been just one more not-so subtle reminder that my beloved summer is on the verge of bidding farewell.  While the sun is still shining and the lake waters still invitingly refreshing, the days are suddenly slipping into dusk  much earlier and the mornings are beginning to have that crisp Fall morning flavor to them.

What does all of this mean?  That I have officially set a personal recent-history record ... I'm still living in the same place I was one year ago!  No moving boxes, no appartment searches, no scouring the classified ads for cheap furniture ... just an appartment that hasn't had the benefit of having the clutter cleaned out annually.

While this past year has had many an up and down, it has absolutely flown by.  Marcel's recent retelling of his encounter with an American guy at the entrance to the apartment building that apparently began something like this: (American guy) "Bon soir, je cherche un ... uh, ok, I'm here to see the apartment on the 5th floor??" -  brought back memories of me looking at (and applying for) a billion and one apartments this same time last year ...

A few select memories of Geneva year 1

• moving into an all women's residence hall and feeling like I was back to freshman year of college ...


• lucking out with an fantastic French roommate ... with whom I spoke only Spanish


• breaking down in tears of relief when I got the call offering us an apartment - I was en route to look at another and had just stepped off the tram.


• The look on the real estate woman's face when we went in to sign the contract and it was clear that we didn't even know which apartment we were signing for.  I'd applied to 40 some places and we hadn't been offered any of them ... this one was the second one I ever went to see and I'd seen so many since then that I didn't remember a thing about it


• First time speaking at the UN


• Waking up one morning and realizing that I actually can speak French fairly well


• Supporting the local economy by drinking hot wine in winter, by the litre


• Braving arctic cold, cutting wind Hash runs


• Curling up on the balcony to watch the spectacular thunder storms roll over the mountains


• Learning how to only breathe through your nose, keeping your lips sealed at all times so as not to swallow the hoards of bugs when running lakeside


• Establishing, planting and harvesting the balcony garden ... I've never eaten tomatoes as sweet as the ones we've grown!


• Evading the rooftop gardener and his not-so-tricky peeping Tom moves


• Discovering, after 11 months, that I actually live only 10 minutes from the lake by foot if I take the other road than the one I've been taking the whole time ...


• EuroCup madness

Coming back from vacation has also made me realise how much I didn't realise how much Geneva is becoming my community.  I run into people I know at the train station, the grocery store, by the lake, on the road, at the park.  Funny how you can move somewhere without knowing anyone and so quickly have people calling your name behind you.  Then there are the people that you see everyday (or nearly) and have that mutual but silent acknowledgment of presence ... so long as you see them "regularly", than the world must be turning all right. A few of the favs?

• The elderly woman with wrongly dyed purple hair (I think she was going for red, but it went a little wrong) always impeccably, proudly dressed, walking her poodle dog through the park at 8:15AM (she's my perfect monitor to know if I'm running late for work!) and scattering bird seeds along the way.  Always accompanied by a girlfriend and happily chattering away ... either to the friend, the dog or the birds, some of whom are sitting on her shoulder as she walks.


• The Salvadoran woman who owns the little after-hours corner store by my house. Short, stout in a fantastic grandmotherly sort of way, with glasses and grey streaked black hair meticulously tied into a tight, low-riding bun, her homemade empanadas, smile and warm chit chat are enough make you feel as though you've won the lottery.


• The man who pushes the his little old-fashioned music cart through town with his bear-sized cat curled up in a specially made bed on the front.


• The half-crazy guy who runs around town with his bike asking people if they could "just give him one smile" and asking "are you happy?"

Cheers to year two!

Dear filthy rich people ...

To the summer Geneva visitor population who has taken over the city with fancier luxury cars than I have seen in my entire life ....

To the drivers of these disgustingly fancy luxury cars (driven, or more likely shipped, from their happy garage homes in the Middle East) who park them (or have them valet parked) ten in a row in front of every Starbucks in town ...

And, especially to the woman who purchased five twenty swiss franc shirts at H&M with a freakin' 500 EURO BILL (about $760) ...

Do you really have to drip your riches in front the noses of us "poor" folk??? Honestly now, Starbucks may be a bit of a luxury even in this town what with a latte putting you out about 12 bucks, but H&M? Come on, leave us alone!

If there is one single place in town where you might be able to prevent price-depression around here, it's H&M ... it's rough enough walking down the street in your proud H&M wear and realising all the other student/intern types are wearing exactly the same diggs, but having you come in and getting five hundred dollars back in freakin' change is quite enough. I might have a different opinion if you offered to, say, sponsor a shirt for each of us while you were at it, but seeing as it clearly did not even cross your mind, please kindly remove your fancy-schmancy cars from sight, at least pretend you don't have quite so much extra money to burn by paying with something a little more normal like, say, twenty dollar bills, and remember, it's not exactly normal to have chauffeurs, servants and nannies as everyday escorts!

Redeemed by God, fulfilled by Allah and refreshed by the Genevan waters that lie inbetween?

So last Sunday I was blissfully exposing my hide to a few cancerous UV rays lakeside on the rocks beside the Geneva Baby Plage, aka Baby Beach, i.e. beach for small screaming children, when suddenly a rambunctious and festive entourage of 80 or so Africans (unfortunately I have no idea what country they might have been from) dressed in gorgeous traditional summer attire and bearing all kinds of African drums and miscellaneous instruments "invaded" the baby beach ... whose size is just as baby as the kiddos who use it. With small children moving aside like the parting of the seas, the entourage settled in (aka indiscriminately took over) for what was to be a ceremony of several hours, full of dancing, praying, music, singing and, sorry - but I have to say it, what can only be described to the cultureless ear as "shrieking".

Quite frankly, it took me ... and the other two hundred gawking onlookers ... all of two hours to figure out exactly what kind of ceremony it was. Was it a funeral? A birthday? A birth? A family reunion? The light finally went on when three men wearing white gowns waded waist deep into the lake and began systematically dunking another forty white-clad people into the cold water. Most definitely a baptism; and a really cool one at that. My opinion? We should go back to having baptisms held in natural bodies of water. No more of this sterile cup over the head/indoor basin business. Let's get back to the truly praise-worthy, awe-inspiring, natural, settings.

I diverge. What really made the whole thing fascinating and truly unique, I think, to Geneva, was the intermingling of people, cultures and religions ... I've mentioned before the tremendous number of Arabs who make Geneva their summer home and indeed, as the festive baptism ceremony was going on, there was a group of teenage girls enjoying a dip in the lake as well ... in full burka dress. It was really a cool sight to see such diversity all in one kit and kaboodle and I was dying not having my camera with me.

That said, it was somewhat disheartening when the girls, clearly oblivious to anything else that was going on, happened to swim across the 10 foot gap of water between the dunking and the beach-bound witnesses ... only to have one of the witnesses run down, frantically screaming for them to "moooovvveeee!!!!" Was the girls' being in front of the baptism on a public beach ruining their pictures of the event or, as I fear may sadly be the case, was he fearful that having a Muslim in so close to their holy water might "curse" a Christian baptism?

Either way, it once again left us all saying "only in Geneva" ...

The near-mortal sin you never knew you committed

Grocery stores - or shopping in general - in Switzerland could really provide enough fodder for several lively (if not to say ranting) blog entries, but in an effort to stay focused here, I'm going to comment on what it perhaps my biggest Swiss pet peeve ... the near-mortal sin you never knew you committed ... failing to put the separator bar down between your purchases and those of the person behind you on the check-out lane conveyor belt. Heaven forbid.

Shopping hours in Switzerland are quite limited, with stores closing in Geneva at 19h every day except for the famed, beloved and much appreciated "late night shopping Thursdays" (open until 19.30!! Ooh Aah! or occasionally 21h for stores other than groceries...) and Sundays, when, of course, everything is closed all together. For those of us who are therefore left with no other alternative than to shop on the hellishly busy Saturday mornings, even getting to the checkout in one piece is a triumph, let alone getting there with a smile on your face.

So you get there, start loading your five necessity items that will inevitably put you out 60 buckaroos, and allow your mind to momentarily drift as you think about what order will allow you to do your other must-do-Saturday-because-my-schedule-never-matches-the-Swiss-store-hours-schedule errands and, GASP! you do not put down the separator bar behind your things!!! Meanwhile the person behind you has left three feet of empty space on the conveyor belt before s/he begins placing her/his things down, and yet still begins the following ritual:

1. loudly clears throat


2. moves up real close to you, poking a knife into your personal bubble


3. makes a point to roughly brush against you as s/he huffily reaches for separator bar that is just as easily reached by him/her as it is by you


4. heavily sets the bar in the mile-wide gap, making sure that it makes audible noise upon touch-down


5. you, unknowing committer of a near-mortal sin, turn and give you-are-absolutely-ridiculous courtesy smile


6. s/he returns icy if-looks-could-kill glare and mutters something about people being so rude and uneducated these days


7. check-out woman pretends as if she's seen nothing, when really, she's seen it all one hundred times before

The whole process is actually quite entertaining, really. And while I use the busy Saturdays as an example, in fact, it doesn't matter when it is ... you can just as easily witness the same phenomenon at 2.30 in the afternoon on a Tuesday ... when no one is buying more than one or two items each ... and there is absolutely NO line of people waiting to checkout.

As I'm now rapidly approaching my one year anniversary of moving to Geneva, I learned this essential cultural nuance loooonnnng ago, however, Geneva sees an endless sea of visitors and non-Swiss newbies that ensure that these fine shows of grown-up temper tantrums continue to proliferate. Then again, maybe they're not visitors or newbies at all ... maybe they're just people like me who think shoppers need to just get over it and thus selectively "forget" (i.e. refuse) to put the bar down just to make sure no one loses their knack for giving killing glares in a country that is otherwise the epitome of politeness.

A shimmy, a shake and a whole lot of groovin'

With threats of torrential rains and thunder showers looming overhead, I got my first taste of a street parade with the Geneva Lake Parade ... four hours of shimmyin', shakin' and groovin' people parading around town at a snail's pace, displaying all kinds of incredibly sculpted, waxed and tanned bodies; flabby, saggy, bulgy but proud bodies; impossibly high heels; feathers; lingerie ... you name it. It was a good show, though surely nothing like the ones in Zurich, Berlin or Rio de Janeiro, and the crowds were out in full force lest they miss part of the action.

Summer in Geneva is interesting, particularly with a notable change in the city's demographics, aka the arrival of hundreds of Middle-Eastern summer residents, the vast majority of who don beautiful head scarfs, if not the full only-see-your-eyes burkas. A friend of mine recently recommended a book that looks absolutely fascinating, entitled "Who speaks for Islam: What a billion Muslims really think", and talking a good bit about gender perspectives in the two cultures. To cite just one thought-provoking quote that he threw out there:

"While Westerners still often see the veil as a symbol of womens' inferior status in the Muslim world, Western womens' perceived lack of modesty signals their degraded cultural status in the West. In both cases, the assumption is that women are either covering or uncovering to please or obey men. For example, a woman that Gallup interviewed in Malaysia says she feels sorry for the women in the West because they don't love themselves enough and feel they must give in to men's sexual desires"

If this quote - and perspective - struck me at the time, it hit me all the more as we were watching the first of the twenty-four discos-on-wheels parade by, carrying women (and men) who were as scantily clad as possible ... not so often in the "this is how we dress for the festivities" Rio de Janeiro kind of way, but rather more in the "I really need attention to make myself feel beautiful and this party is the perfect way to do it" kind of way. And funny enough, my very first thought as I watched them go by was what Geneva's Muslim summer residents in particular must be thinking at the sight of such a public skin fest. Would they find it disgusting? Pitiful? Fascinating? What a shock it must have been to anyone who happened to be coming into town yesterday without a clue about the event....

All that said, I it was a great time ... especially for anyone keen on dance, drink and people watching ... after my first street parade, I'm already looking into the "biggies" to see how I can rally the troops for a rally up to the Zurich or Berlin renditions. If I might leave you with just one more thought for the day though ... check out these Ghostbuster beer-meisters and their hot bods (look closely, the pic is not so good)! The parade organiser's were smart enough to make every third "float" a bar-on-wheels ... no more missing out on the action or battling to recuperate your four inches of viewing territory ....

Whatever it takes

Geneva is a funny place - one of those places that has a bit of a double personality and can't decide if it's a small town or a small city (that said it is the second or third biggest city in Switzerland ...). A couple of months ago was the "Fete des voisins" - the Neighbors' Party, where many, if not most, of the apartment buildings organised gatherings among all of the residents to mingle, shmingle and get to know one another. As you walked around the neighborhoods, the mini-"fetes" were as colourful as the people, with music, facepainting, BBQs, light apertitifs, potlucks, akward first encounters among people who think they have nothing in common, and laughter among those who have lived side-by-side for years. The building down the road even featured a man dressed as a clown and playing a banjo who, with all the kids gathered around him, went window to window serenading the neighbors who were still in hiding, calling them by name to come join the festivities.

My building did nothing. In fact, I've lived here for almost one year and have no clue who my neighbors are. There are four apartments on my floor including my own ... I've gathered that there is an African family in one of them from the amazing smells of food that are always wafting out from under their door, but the five times I've seen someone come out of that door, it's never been the same person. Once, I've ridden the elevator (in awkard silence, of course) with the man who lives right next door and we make uneducated guesses as to his current living situation judging by the female name that was taped onto his door-name plate but which has recently disappeared. No CLUE who lives behind the door on the other side.

Downstairs there's a maniac child that I hear more than see ... "mom, I want cartoons!" "get your teeth brushed" "we're taking a bath NOW" screem, scream, scream. Actually I do see them occasionally as we seem to have similar morning departure times ... I call them the screamer family. Then there's the Polish couple two floors down who have a little baby ... the three times I've seen them have allowed me to see the progression from HUGE, HUGE maybe you're-expecting-triplets pregnant belly, to honey-please-go-grab-this-quick-from-the-store, to happy-baby-with-happy-parents. Same with a Colombian couple (minus the gianormous belly) three floors down. Then there's the Portugese woman who runs the little "corner" store by the front door who I've decided has a personal vendetta out for me.

You see, she's a bit of a car-salesman type (sorry, no offense meant) at her little store, charing outrageous prices (I think she charged me $2.50 for a single egg once...) with a fakey little smile. Just on the other side of the building, however, there's a fantastic little store run by a Salvadoran woman who I'd take as my adopted grandmother ... she's great and the store is straight out of El Salvador. Naturally, on those late-night-gotta-have-it runs (which could be anytime after 19h here!), I sneak over there for my goods ... but inevitably I have to pass the store downstairs and the hawkish Portugese woman who sees all, knows exactly what I'm doing and puts on her best smile-with-a-glare look. Now she won't even say hi to me if we happen to cross paths.

This being the neighbor situation as it is, last night was all the more exciting. At exactly 5:23AM I was awaken by the sound of yelling and shattering glass ... lots of it. I knew right away that someone was breaking windows, and I figured the most likely was that someone was breaking into the Portugese woman's store. Second runner up might be the Ethiopian cafe next to that in an unlikely racist attack. Whatever the case I ran up to stick my head out the window and see what I might be able to see ... and all I saw was all the neighbors ... doing exactly the same thing. The guys breaking glass were not to be seen under the awnings, but left and right, up and down, all the neighbors were bending as far over the balconies as they could .... sexy lingerie, homely pjs, towels, half-naked ... you saw the neighbors all at their very best. I can't imagine what one walking by must have thought if they had looked up, oblivious to the glass.

Having gone back to bed for a couple more hours worth of sleep, you can bet the first thing everyone did was run downstairs this morning to see exactly what what had been the victim. I don't know what anyone else thought, but I was surprised to see that it wasn't the store nor the cafe ... it was our own doors. With everyone gathered 'round who-hawing over the three foot hole and scratched jibberish over all of the glass, I realised that, finally, one year later, something had brought the neighborhood together.

A little round ball and the craze of a continent

No, it's not a UFO, it's a 1.5 MILLION DOLLAR balloon that someone had the brilliant idea to float on top of the infamous Geneva fountain in honor of the Euro Cup football championships (as seen from my house ... ). I should try and dig up a photo as it appears from its "rightful" place on top of the fountain, but in the meantime I'll put it this way - the first time I saw it walking out of the office, my first thought was "how the hell did THAT get by the city beauty committee??" And that was BEFORE I knew how much money was being spent on it.

Make matters worse, the thing has to be lowered any time the wind picks up to more than 10 knots (not an infrequent phenomenon when you're talking about a lake in a valley in the alps ...) - and my trusty source of morning news has reported that it's costing them 10,000 CHF every time it has to be raised or lowered. And that was before it got a hole in it and had to be sent to London for repairs ..... (wish I could say I had been the one to put a BB gun to it!)

If nothing else though, the event is providing plenty of entertainment. As one poster I saw today said, the once-every-four-years EuroCup does not equal party, it equals business, and business it has been (though there's certainly been a fair share of party too :-) . Soccer balls are appearing in all shapes and forms, and national flags and clothing everywhere you turn ... the city lampposts have had their covers replaced with ones in a soccer ball form, the tourist info center has laid down astro turf and constructed a giant goal post as an entry, the chocolotiers are producing nothing but balls, all of the flower boquets at the florists have balls attached to them, every other balcony has a flag hanging down, school kids dressed in the jersey and long socks of their favorite football idol run rampant, air horns and ceaseless honking is heard all day - only to quadruple in force at 20h and 22h when the two games of the night are over, tour buses roll into town from all over Europe carrying crazed fans with banners plastered to the windows and luxurious buses carrying the teams are followed by police escorts and more crazed fans at every turn.

Too bad the Swiss are already out of the runnin' ....

Hopp Schwiiz!!

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Won't you be my neighbor?

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It's funny the things that are "instilled" within you as you're growing up ... the things you roll your eyes at when you're little and then realize later that you really kind of like them. I remember Mr. Carlson lecturing us in junior high PE class, for instance, telling us that we needed to make sports a lifetime habit. I rolled my eyes then ... and heaven only knows just how much I need sports now for my own mental safety.

Volunteering could also fit well within that roll-your-eyes category ... and yet, this weekend I found myself back volunteering at a soup kitchen - and loving it. Yes, it was Saturday, and no my eyes were not fully open when I was at the grocery store buying $450 (thank you Bacardi, for sponsoring) worth of groceries with ten other not-yet-recovered-from-Friday-night volunteers at 9AM. Perhaps here I should point out yet another interesting cultural tid-bit ... fully half of the volunteers are American and Canadian and, as we started talking about it amongst ourselves, we realized just how very much volunteerism is encouraged and promoted - if not required - in the North America, while it remains somewhat of an oddity around much of Europe ...

Anyhow ... under the watchful eye of a former restaurant owner and professional chef, we peeled, chopped, sliced, diced and cut loads of veggies to our hearts content until amazing aromas were wafting out of the kitchen and we opened the doors to some 120 people - people, we were told, who were not "homeless", per say, but rather needy.

This is indeed an interesting distinction and, especially when you really took note of the people. From my meager experience with soup kitchens in the States, I think it's fair to say that most "customers" are clearly in very dire straights of one nature or another. Not so the case here. In fact, many were well dressed, all were clean, almost none carried bags or other personal possessions. The vast majority were men - mostly in their 50s or 60s; there were native Swiss and there were immigrants; there were children, babies and even the ocassional (good looking) dog. Many, I would guess, happen to know that there is (excellent!) free food available and are simply saving a few pennies and, quite honestly, in a city as expensive as Geneva and with some salaries being as low as they are, it's an idea that's worth considering ...

Perhaps the most interesting part, though, was seeing the "neighbors" in a different environment. There was the 12ish year old Romanian girl who I see on a weekly basis on the trains, pretending (it was proven today!) to be deaf and asking people to sign her "petition" for money. There was the Asian man who can always be found trying to sell transport cards in front of the train station. And there was the seemingly half-crazy woman I always see around town wearing BRIGHT green shiny spandex pants with giant gaudy fake leather belts and jelly shoes - today she stayed to the dishes of everyone who left without washing their own. And there were a couple that were quite simply hungry university students.

I think, for the first time, I felt a connection to a certain Geneva community, a sense of seeing a familiar face that doesn't carry a diplomatic facade or a seller-of-luxury schmooze instinct. But mostly, I think I was stunned - and impressed - by the difference in social profile. I wonder if the soup kitchens of Portland or Seattle would ever have let half of these people in the door ... and I wonder if the Geneva soup kitchens would know how to serve the truly desperate attendees of those in Seattle and Portland.

An open letter of the heart and mind

I think I mentioned before that I often "write" blog entries in my head ... stories of the people you meet on the street, the bizarre things you see, the cultural wives tales couldn't have imagined if you tried, memories of amazing day trips and the hard "what to do next" life choices and questions.  And yet, written as they may be in my head, they never do get written.  Forgiveness may therefore be required in light of tonight's splattering of thoughts.

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  Springtime! Geneva has changed overnight ... gone are the short, dark, depressing days of winter that relegate man, woman and child to either hibernation or mountain refugee, the lakeside tikki torch bars are up, the parks are packed with reckless scootering toddlers and happy arm-swinging couples and the magnolia trees, daffodils and tulips are in full bloom.  In many ways I find it odd ... it rains relatively rarely here and, in fact, the climate, plants, etc are otherwise strikingly similar to the Pacific Northwest, inspiring the same sense of giddy spring excitement when the air becomes fresher and the time springs forwards, and yet, I endlessly find myself wondering if I would ever be able to happily readjust to the Northwest/Swiss temperate climates ... thank God for warm sunshine and the coming long summer days!! 


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  Learning to accept.  I've mentioned this to a couple of people, and all have apparently been surprised that I would "do this", but in taking stock of my last seven months in Geneva, I've come to realize that it has been, among other things, a very important lesson in learning to accept - and savoring - things (and people!) for what they are.  Perhaps because I felt fully integrated into Spanish society, I came to Geneva hoping for the same kind of cultural experience ... become one of the locals - talk their language, take part in their community and above all, do whatever possible not to stand out as a foreigner.  This meant that I rarely, if ever, spoke English and, while I would readily talk about the US, culture, politics, etc, I knew no Americans (or other Anglo-foreigners for that matter) and made no effort whatsoever to search them out. Hoping for the same in Geneva, I realize now that, for a long time I "rejected" anything (or anyone) non-francophone, hoping to perfect my French and slip into the local community.  Seven months it's taken me to acknowledge that the local community here IS foreign, does NOT speak French and is equally well worth integrating into.  Hindsight is 20-20, they say ... hopefully I've figured it out soon enough. 


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  The Tower of Babel.  On one hand, I now laugh when someone tells me they came to Geneva to learn French.  On the other hand I laugh too, but also am endlessly amazed by the breadth of languages spoken anywhere and everywhere, the patience people have on the streets to communicate with you in one language or another (in most other cities, you're simply blown off if you can't put a sentence together logically or if your accent is "too thick"), and the thoughtlessness with which people drift in and out of languages in a single conversation. Even Marcel, Swiss himself and very used to living in an officially trilingual country, was amazed by the linguistic morphing of conversations at a party we went to recently.  Here, people who speak 6, 7, 8 languages fluently are a dime a dozen. Though I feel nowhere near fluent in French, I feel entirely competent ... this surely sounds outrageous to most, but I rarely speak French despite listening to it daily and I swear, after being here and doing nothing but listening to it for four months, I opened my mouth one day and it just came out.  No recent practice, no recent classes, it just came out.  Guess it kind of makes sense seeing that's how babies learn...


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  Chocolate.  Never, never will I get over the selection of chocolates here.  Here, telemarketers call, not to sell you insurance or tickets to the rodeo, but to survey your chocolate preferences.  Chocolate is an actual department at the department stores, with more flavours than you can possibly dream up.  Case in point, I'm munching on Frey's new dark chocolate with lemon and pepper as I type. 


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  Bureaucracy.    The UN is a monstrous institution.  Good intentioned and very much limited by the will of the governments making up its body, the phenomenal lack of institutional memory has yet ceased to amaze me.  Call it job insurance if you will, the three and four year staff rotations for both UN staff and embassy staff has effectively succeeded in creating a memory vaccuume.  Time and time again I find myself in meetings on a controversial issue or discussing some new convention or policy that someone would like to craft, only to return to my desk and find, after some digging, that the very same policy, convention, protocol, you name it was debated - by identical actors and with the very same arguments - years earlier.  Raises a sizeable question mark on the "what the heck are we doing????" and "is this even worth my time????" lines of thought.    


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  Neither here nor there.  This could, I suppose, apply to a great many things.  Age, for instance.  Happily boasting some 24 years, I feel both but a child by European standards and a well-aged adult by North American standards.  While my European friends and colleagues remind me daily that I "am still young" and that I should "be travelling, partying, studying, seeing the world", I look to my North American friends and family and see people married, some with kids, nearly all with good jobs and some money in the back pocket making "practical, adult" choices.  Never mind what my ever supportive parents must be thinking.  Likewise, I've happily put myself into a line of work that is neither here nor there ... one in which "field experience" is craved just as much as HQ positions.  Though I suppose this comes as news to all but Marcel, I recently completed training with UNHCR to be eligible for deployment to work in refugee camps ... I'm the first to say I'd love to go to "the field" and know that, age and life circumstances wise there's no better time than the present, and yet, I can't help but admit that I'm afraid of it.  Not afraid of the "going" itself or the type of work it would be, but afraid of the "humanitarian/travel bug" that has already half got me.  The best metaphor might be the movie "The Matrix" and the choice between the red or blue pills (one allowing you to happily live a ficticious life, the other to unhappily live a life based upon reality).  I would love going to the field, yet I know I would end up constantly searching like so many before me, struggling with the choice of whether to give priority to the field over meaningful relationships and constantly being antsy for the next assignment when "relieved of duty".  On one hand, then, and for as difficult as it is for most Geneva expats to believe, I want nothing more than to stay in Geneva for a few years with an interesting HQ job related to work in the field and enjoying perfectly normal and uneventful weekend activities with friends.  On the other, I wonder if I won't always regret not going to the field if "life" as most people know it creeps up on me soon .... Again, neither here nor there.    

Running with a twist - meet the Hash House Harriers

(HHH Shield, complete with bottle opener, eating eagle runner and the "So What" mantra)

As many well know, I have gathered a great affinity for running in the last couple of years and thought that perhaps joining up with a Geneva running club would be a brilliant idea for combining the sports passion with a similar minded social group. Per recommendations from random people meetings in Tokyo this past summer, I thus sought out the Geneva based Hash House Harriers club ... with the promise of many a good laugh along the running trails.

And indeed, many a good laugh there have been ... I know not where to begin. Let's see, first of all, everyone goes by nick-names such as Frog Chopper, Hover Crap, Cats & Dogs, Sexposure, Tightass, Sputnik or Forest Dump, just to name a few ... the rookies are Virgin 1, Virgin 2 etc, until appropriate names can be determined. Club officers? Forget such drab and boring positions such as President and Treasurer, the Hash House Harriers are kept in line by a Beermeister, Grand Mattress, Hash Habber Dabber, Songmeister, Hash Cash, Geek and Trail Master. Ahhh ha. Geneva now requires not only a pocket atlas for identifying "weird" countries of origin of your collegues, a dictionary of the billion-and-one organization acryonyms, but ALSO an guide to understanding Hash House Harrier lingo.

Following group "stretching" (a phenomenon that must look something like the hokey-pokey performed by drunkards) sung to the song "Father Abraham had many sons", a debriefing is offered on the signs of the evening. You see, the Hashing is more than just running ... it's entails running getting lost, finding your way and getting lost once again as you attempt to decifer the codified course along forest trails throughout the greater Geneva area, which the "Hare" has marked with a series of different chalk and/or flour symbols that can lead to false trails, turn arounds, group meet-up points, etc. Essentially it's a fast-paced orienteering ... in the dark and in the FREAKING cold of what they tell me is Fall, but really feels much more like an Artic Winter.

Of course, the Beermeister officer is not there for nothing ... one of the symbols along the trail is the coveted "BS", shorthand for Beer Stop, where a car miraculously appears with ice chests full of beer and other munchy nummies. "Shots" of beer are poured - and chugged - by anyone who happens to look the wrong direction ... and more songs are sung, including "Why were they born so beautiful?" or the "Wild Rover". Did I mention there is actually a song book? Ah yes, that would be the responsability of the Songmeister ... running/orienteering club-cum-choir. When the BS has been closed with the appropriate songs, a short trotting brings the entire club of slightly off their (our??) rocker expats to the "On-on", ie designated dinner location of the evening.

As I apparently have yet to do/say something stupid enough pass through the coming of age rites, I remain "Virgin 1" and come home laughing to myself as I wonder how in the world I have ended up in the crazy mix of 90% British expat beer and sport lovers ... nearly all of whom are about 40 years my elder. (Indeed, we celebrated Cats & Dogs' 66th birthday last night) Crazy comes as crazy goes, I suppose ... I've yet to come upon a more entertaining crowd!

If you're bored and looking for a good chuckle or two, check out their website ... it will explain the whole Hashers phenomenon far better than I've been able to; I'll be waiting to see who starts a new club in their corner of the world :-)

genevaingear.pdf

American candyland in the world of expats

Geneva is the epitome of an expat town.  You could easily - very easily - live the perfect anglo life here, speaking only English, eating only American foods, seeing American movies in English and, in fact, easily buying all "American" foods. This is a 360 degree shift from Spain, where the only time the opportunity arose to speak English was when calling home, movies were all terribly dubbed in Spanish, American foods were outrageously expensive if found at all and, in 6 years, I never met another American aside from the seasonal tourists. 

Today's spontaneous visit to a little store ever-so-creatively named "American Market", however, has taken Geneva to a whole 'nother lever on the expat ladder of severity.  Cheesily painted in red, white and blue and with stars and stripes to boot, I had passed the place several times and, while the overall feeling was one of "big cringe, how aweful" the little voice of curiousity in the back of my head won the best of me and I had to know, just what might one find in an "American Market"? 

In the spirit of good 'ol American consumerism the store was right on the ball - you never know you're missing anything until someone sticks it in your face and sells it to you.  Aside from the occassional twinge of a craving for rootbeer or, ironically enough, a bowl of mac'n'cheese, very rarely do I ever crave "American" food.  This is not to say that I do not thoroughly enjoy it when I'm back in the States, nor that I don't absolutely love getting "Mom's best" carepackages with a few of the favorite nummies, but I really truly don't miss the food.  And yet, walking into the American Market was an experience in and of itself. 

Wall-to-wall shelves crammed with "stuff" - much of which you don't even realize you haven't seen in the stores around town until you see it here.  Lucky Charms, Cheerios, rootbeer and Dr. Pepper. Doritos, Betty Crocker cake mixes, brownies, peanut butter cookies, junior mints, York peppermint patties, Reeses peanut butter cups, BBQ sauce ... Campbell's soups. Marshmallows, halloween peeps, Pez, oatmeal, Orville Redenbacher microwave popcorn, Gushers, cinnamon gum and, of course, Aunt Jemima's maple syrup.  Mac'n'Cheese - not just one variety, but all of them, Shrek, Scooby, you name it, they got it. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this is how the good 'ol U.S. of A. is seen in the rest of the world ... everything microwaveable or easily prepared in 5 minutes or less and stocked with sugar.  Seeing as we somehow have the reputation for all being filthy rich as well, I guess the prices shouldn't have surprised me ... almost $9 for the smallest size JIF peanut butter. 

With all this American "stuff" - and seeing that the common language is English anywhere else in town - one might logically expect the owner to be American and the store language to be English.  And yet, in good ol' international Geneve fashion, my York peppermint patty, Shrek mac'n'cheese and peanut butter (not the $9 one, I might add) were cheerily checked out by an appropriately American-sized French man, politely smiling "bon soiree" as he handed me my bag ... and suggested that next time I might place my order on-line.

Oh, so American, indeed.          

www.americanmarket.ch

Lessons on diversity - Part II

Actually, this is what I meant to get at the first time around too ... I guess I just got side tracked :-) The GENDER ROLE issue and cultural nuances particularly related to women is actually the direction I meant to go ....

Certainly cat calls, whistles and under the breath comments are nothing new (I mean that in no egotistical way whatsoever - sometimes it's surprising how 'unselective' many men are in their street harrassment), but it does become very blatently evident around the streets of Geneva that women are treated in very different ways around the world. Given that the world is represented in miniature, per say, in Geneva it is an interesting clash of sorts being confronted with the way in which, for example, men from the Middle East interact with women. Unlike the more common styles of harrassment that I already mentioned, many apparently feel that they have the full right to give you the full (but silent) head-to-toe-up-and-down-and-up-again look over with a look that is much more bold I, apparently, am accustomed to. Talking to other (girl) friends, many have made the same observations, even mentioning that they get the notably unequal treatment - if not harrassment - by collegues at work

My solution? Rather than continuing to feel like the 'victim' that cannot do anything about where others set their eyes, I've begun looking people straight back and actually saying "Hi, everything all right?" (In a rather cold tone and continued walking, mind you, so as not to invite conversation either). It's actually been rather amazing the reaction - it is nearly always a 'deer in the headlights look', followed by silence and looks suddenly shot towards any other direciton. Apparently some guys are totally taken by surprise by someone (a woman particularly) confronting them directly. And apparently my strategy works.

These are the kinds of culture clashes that are so very difficult to ease. In no way do I mean to stigmatize or stereotype men from the Middle East, yet I would argue that - in my short experience thus far in Geneva - that it is perhaps the Middle Eastern and Western cultures that most clash on gender issues. In the same way that I am very much used to being treated (nearly, I admittedly do not believe fully) as an equal with my male counterparts, they are very much used to holding a social position notably higher and more dominant than woman. Just how, then, do you reconcile the two traditions?

Lessons on diversity

Interestingly enough, one of my most poignant memories from my last week in Spain is one that demonstrates quite clearly the degree of diversity (or lack thereof) present in Spanish society. Always the one white (and often only girl) with all the Senegalese guys, I suppose I had gotten used to the looks of curiousity, surprise and often disapproval.

These looks were only increased when I would regularly go out to run along the beach with two Senegalese friends (both men). A woman doing sports? [GASP!] A white woman running with two black men? [DOUBLE GASP!!] This particular night, however, it went beyond looks of curiousity - we had photographers following us. The first time we saw them, we thought they were taking pictures of us, but weren't quite sure; but then, by the time they reappeared three more times along our path having advanced on bike, we were quite conscious indeed that we were the subject of the evening's photo shoot and broke out laughing. Picturesque, isn't it? Palm trees, ocean, sand, and the 'symbolism' of integration with a white women running between two black men. How quaint.

Adjusting to Geneva, then, has admimttedly been interesting in the sense that I feel I am now accutely aware of just how much cultural and religious diversity co-exist without hardly receiving so much of a head's bob of acknowledgement. The common site of women in their all black burkas peeking out only through the hole made for their eyes don't attract any attention at all ... in the same way that no one seems to think twice about the melange of colors, languages, clothing, etc that is seen everywhere from the schoolyard to the bus.

Speaking three, four, five, even six languages is by no means uncommon and everyone is so used to listening to a thousand different accents that no matter how bad your French might be, you seem always to be understood. And the typical ice breaker question "So where are you from"?? It's really a joke, to be quite honest ... most everyone has lived in a million places (and half the time you've never even heard of their country, though you certainly won't admit that in public), begging the question why do we almost seem to feel an unquestionable need to know where everyone is from? Will there ever be a day when we can all just be happy with calling ourselves citizens of the world?