It's a bird, it's a plane, it's a ... bee?

Carnival (Carnaval, Καρναβάλι (Carnavali), Carnevale, Carnestoltes, Carnaval, Karneval, Carnaval and Karnawał in Portuguese, Greek, Italian, Catalan, French, Dutch, German, Spanish and Polish languages) is a festive season which occurs immediately before Lent; the main events are usually during February.

Carnival typically involves a public celebration or parade combining some elements of a circus, masque and public street party. People often dress up during the celebrations, which mark an overturning of daily life.

The origin of the name "carnival" is disputed. Variants in Italian dialects suggest that the name comes from the Italian carne levare or similar, meaning "to remove meat" since meat is prohibited during Lent.

A different explanation states that the word comes from the late Latin expression carne vale, which means "farewell to meat", signifying that those were the last days when one could eat meat before the fasting of Lent. Yet another translation depicts carne vale as "a farewell to the flesh", a phrase embraced by certain carnival celebrations that encourage letting go of your former (or everyday) self and embracing the carefree nature of the festival.

Thank you, Wikipedia.

And now, what you've all been waiting for, the letting go of our everyday selves ...

As seen from the cheap seats

On my first visit to Vienna I committed a near mortal sin, forgetting that she who visits Vienna shall not leave without attending the opera. Not wanting to commit such a grave error the second time 'round, V. extended every hospitality for a great night out on the town, including a visit to the Wiener Staatsoper to take in Le Nozze Di Figaro like all good locals should.

This was my first opera, mind you, and we had just about zero interest in shelling out the big bucks for tix. Instead, we joined the throngs of those arriving two hours early to hang around the back door in the hopes of snagging cheap seats.

At the front door, all the elegant tux-and-gown, see-and-be-seen opera goers. At the back door, all the bratwurst in hand, holes-in-my-jeans and five-miles-of-scarves-in-my-hand bargain hunters. Not to brag, dear tux and gowners, but your ticket cost more than 200 euros. Ours cost 4. That's right, four.

Four euros for direct center stage tickets on the ground level. Never mind we had to stand and were packed in like sardines--it is part of the adventure. Kinda like comparing first class Titanic passengers to those in the steerage. The cheap seats are where the party's at.

If I would have had my camera, there would have been pictures of legs. Lots of legs. From those much needed sitting (squatting?) breaks when you look up and are only reminded of what the world looked like when you were 4 years old.

There would be pictures of scarves. All the scarves "reserving" people's places hours before the show started. The scarves over which all out brawls started, including yours truly as she battled out our territory with the snotty Spanish woman.

There would be pictures of people on the ground. Where can you ever have a group of people standing squashed together for four hours without at least one person passing out? At least this time it wasn't me.

And there would be a picture of my Coke. My Coke that cost more than my ticket to the show.

And the show? Great. I'd do it again anytime ... but only from the cheap seats.

Moroccan desperation, Moroccan inspiration

It's been awhile. Like going on three months long while. Though certainly not for lack of potentially inspiring goings ons, I have been thoroughly uninspired. Not uninspired in the "don't know what to write" sense, I'm talking uninspired in the "if I have to look at a computer screen for even two more minutes, I am really going to lose it" sense.

But in the name of historical memory, and proof of life to family far away, maybe I'll just have to get over it and get back on the horse.

The last week and a few, have found this little lady deep amidst the mysterious wonders of Morocco. And while I wish I were referring to breathtaking mosques, heartstopping desert sands and toe clinching medina markets, my frame of reference is rather the cryptic messages of the Moroccan government in the face of hundreds of courageous, hardworking and utterly distraught refugees and migrants.

Work being confidential as it is (or as confidential as it can possibly be when you see that our every email and text message is being handily diverted and read by some "unknown" body), I will spare the details ... except for one that had me laughing all the way home. Just imagine:

You are standing at the front of the grocery store in Morocco. To your left and down the stairs, you have the "alcohol corner", where alcohol is sold only to men, and only at exorbhitent prices. In front and to your right, dozens upon dozens of shoppers porting veils, loose Muslim "street gowns" (forgive my utter lack of proper vocabulary) and Moroccan leather slippers. Blaring on the store speaker system? None other than Alan Jackson's Gone Country.

Viva Rabat.

Frequently Asked Questions

In preparation for any and all impending conversations that may include the following Frequently Asked Questions, I hereby provide you with a few Frequently Provided Answers (in no particular order), for your convenience ... and mine. Time always goes too fast so we'd might as well skip the small talk (i.e. the FAQs) and get to the bigger and better stuff ... you, know, like what color kayak we should take out, or whether the coals are ready for the s'mores....

FAQ 1: "You have an accent!"
So I'm told. I don't hear it. I'm not "faking it". Just call it a-n-u-n-c-i-a-t-i-o-n.

FAQ 2: "So when are you moving back to the States?"
If ever I could convince all you family and amigos to migrate out this way, I might well stay here. But since you're stubborn as door nails, I suppose I'll be back that way sometime. Only the stars above can get anymore specific than that, until then, thank you for sparing me the lobbying efforts.

FAQ 3: "What do you miss most?"
Family, amigos, fresh crab, sandwich bread, sourdough bread, rocky road ice cream, Fairhaven burgers. Kettlecorn.

FAQ 4: "What do you mean you can't think of the word in English?"
It means I can't think of the work in English. Period. And no, I'm not "faking it" or trying to be a snot. I'll give it to you in Spanish or French if you want it ... and don't even ask me to spell anything in English anymore.

FAQ 5: "When are you getting married?!"
When life says it's time. That time is not now. We'll let you know when it is.

FAQ 5: "Are you a freakin' alcoholic?"
It's called wine. It's commonly drinken with lunch and dinner on a regular basis. It's good for the heart. Drink it up and enjoy.

FAQ 6: "You've put on some weight!"
Cheese. Chocolate. Gelatto. Need we say more?


Hmmm. Surely the list could go on, but with T-minus 24 hours ... I'd best be on the run. With any luck, my plane might just beat recent records and remember that it was built to FLY, not swim.

Welcome to the Boys' Club

Actually, technically, I'm not sure that I can really welcome you to the Boys' Club. I'm clearly not in it myself, and even after nearly two years of riding last Sunday night trains alongside all the soldier boys, I just don't get it. I think it's fair to say that, outside of Switzerland, the name "Swiss Army" conjures up images of things like utilitarian army knives and Vatican guards and maybe, possibly, for those a little more informed, alp-hidden bunkers --- by the dozen. Inside Switzerland, however, (and from outside the Boys' Club) "Swiss Army" seems more likely to conjure up images along the lines of ....

• Shrieking the 1st time you opened the closet door and an army-issue rifle fell out on your feet. Breathing only slightly easier when it is stored under the bed.

• Beer. Cases and cases of beer ... for the on-duty guys.

• Late night Sunday train rides packed to the brim with frumpy soldiers returning to their annual 3 weeks of duty after a weekend off at home ... all in uniform, drunk and / or drinking, most often singing or chanting, and occasionally on their feet in the aisles imitating their senior officers.

• Involuntarily sitting squashed between all the above mentioned men in uniform, with your feet buried under a pile of rifles tossed haphazardly upon the floor.

• Stories of unabashed rookie hazing ceremonies.

• Summer camp, combined with an annual class reunion, and the realisation that you shouldn't feel any too bad for them - this is nothin' but mandatory national mens' bonding time.

• And last, but certainly not least, images of the honourable Swiss Army getting lost in the woods and wandering into neighboring countries ...

Then I'm told to be culturally sensitive and think this is normal.

Up where the air is clear

Lost your sense of childhood wonder? Check the basket - you may well have forgotten it back at the Annual International Hot Air Balloon Festival. Dozens of ballons, dozens of acrobatic sky divers and mountaintop bands to boot makes for one heck of an excursion, and some mighty fun PHOTOS.

They say this is Deutsch

Put twenty already-beat-after-a-long-day-at-work students who eternally bear the linguistic marks of 17 different mother tongues into a sterile, stuffy room where they're supposed to be becoming enlightened with the wonders of German but haven't quite reached that point yet so you might just mistake it for a French class, and this is what you get:

Instructor: "Repeat after me: du sprichst"

Student(s): "du sperikst"

Instructor: "non, du shhprriikkkssshhhtt"

Student(s): "du shpriKKKst"

Instructor: "no, in your throat, like this: du shprihhhhst"

(scene repeats itself about ten more times, until finally ...)

Student: Mais, madame, if we keep making sounds like these, the janitors are going to be here all night just to clean all the spittle off the tables!

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!

Alperchilbi what?

If a single sentence sums this weekend up in a nutshell, it shall be as follows: "You've earned your authentic Swiss certificate!" (Thank you, Petra, for the accolades). In short, between a wedding, a fair, a cows-come-home-from-the-Alps festival, raclette, yodelling, Alp horns, cows, sheep and goats and adorable little kids with perfect little braids in the mountains, you simply can't get much more Swiss tradition packed into a single weekend. Check out the cool pictures HERE (and yes, that is a 120 pound cheese round in the photo...)

Rootbeer, mac'n'cheese and the chemicals we crave

It must go with the territory that among the top ten questions heard by "those crazy people living abroad" comes the "what foods do you miss most from home" ... a question which always makes me smirk, considering I live in Switzerland and not, I dunno, someplace in Asia where the food might actually be substantially different and/or "American" products hard to find. Despite the fact that I haven't yet found a genuine, "American" burger around these parts (they try, but really, they're just setting you up for disappointment), quite frankly, I rarely, rarely find that I miss foods from home, except perhaps if you count the sentimental touch of having that food cooked for you by gourmet momma or BBQ pops. Every once in awhile, though - about every six months, in fact - a craving or two hits ... the sort where you sit there and think "how can I possibly crave this junk, if it doesn't even fall into the category of the top 10 foods I ate when I lived in the States?"

Here are a few examples:

1. Neon orange Kraft mac'n'cheese

2. Rootbeer

3. Gooey, doughy cinnamon rolls

4. Out-of-the-box cupcakes, with out-of-a-jar frosting and sprinkles on top

5. Rocky road icecream

6. S'mores

7. American hamburgers

8. Sourdough bread

10. Cold lemonade ... with pulp

Yup, see what I mean? About the junkiest cravings possible. Seeing as the last time I was home was in January, the six month cravings have kicked in right on time and, combined with the fact that I discovered Marcel had never heard of a rootbeer float, I finally decided a trip to the American Market was in store this weekend. One box of mac'n'cheese, three cans of (Barq's!!) rootbeer, one bag of soon to-be-roasted marshmallows and 20 bucks later (alas, couldn't afford the 15 dollar - no joke!- box of graham crackers to make them into true s'mores ...), I ever-so-ecstatically endulged in my mac'n'cheese + rootbeer while Marcel said little (smart man) and swallowed his down as well...

Of course, the indulgence was subsequently followed by a swollen, aching belly, but the annual cravings have now been satisfied for another six months. Really, though, what chemicals do they put in that stuff that gets you hooked for life??

Queen of the cows

For anyone who may be inclined to believe otherwise, it may be useful to remember that Switzerland is vastly farm country.  A couple "big" cities (that would qualify only as towns in many other countries), loads of small villages, acres of land busting with produce, green rolling hills, unimaginably wild mountains ... all of which are incessently tinged with the soothing-to-some downright-obnoxious-to-others sounds of church bells and bells hung on the necks of goats and cows.   When you think of Switzerland this way, it suddenly doesn't seem so strange that cow fighting could just about be classified as the national pasttime in the mountain regions.

Of course, one can't be in Switzerland without coming to know these national pasttimes, so last weekend we tagged along with a photographer friend (see his pictures here, they're great!) who was planning on doing an exposee of the event.  So it was that WE WOKE UP EARLIER THAN WE EVEN WOULD ON A WORK DAY AND WERE ON A TRAIN AT 7AM ON A SUNDAY TO GO AND LOOK AT COWS.  That's about when we realized we were crazy.

Then again, it wasn't just any cow fight we were attending, it was the CHAMPIONSHIP round of the Combat des Reines ... the Queen's Competition.  From what we can gather from the history of it, story goes that the farmers used to argue about who's cow should lead the pack up to the Alps when they "migrate" up to (or down from) the Alps in the summer (of fall, respectively).  Competition apparently got the best of them, so they decided to set the cows head to head (literally) to see who is the real queen.

Nothing even remotely similar to the bloody - deadly - Spanish bull fights, the Combat des Reines is held in good Swiss fashion ... extremely orderly, extremely polite and never flaunting the winners.  To sum it up, a bunch of cows bearing swiss cow bells and giant numbers on their bellies are all led into the arena and set free to pick their battle.  Generally about half aren't the least bit interested in fighting, a quarter have to be dragged into fighting position by the "keepers of the arena" and the other quarter go straight at it ... meaning they put their head down and head butt another one - sometime for ages - until one or the other gives up and runs away ... the loser.

In the meantime, the crowds look on ... practically silent.  No cheering, no clapping, no whistling ... an occassional collective gasp or "oooo" yes, but really nothing until perhaps the very end of the championship round when the face of the winning farmer beams with joy as he calls his even more estatic wife and sons over to be in the winning cow with the mandatory flower crown photo session.

Don't get me wrong, it was most definitely something worth seeing, but we certainly could have slept another couple of hours.  In fact, I think my bum - after sitting on a cliff of a hill for seven hours straight - would have thanked me.  Quite frankly though, we've just about deemed it the Swiss equivalent of American baseball:  quiet, relatively uneventful, and much more of an excuse to try a different food every inning and BS with the amigos.  And of course heaven forbid we forget yet another fine example of Swiss efficiency... no "refreshment men" carrying heaving coolers or awkward carriers around their necks ... here they just bring out the backhoe, fill the "scoopers" with ice and drinks and "voila" drinks delivered while you silently cheer on "Tina", the reining 2008 Queen of the Cows.