Expat overheard

I don't want my kids to speak French. You know why? Because most kids think that their dad is god at least until they hit adolescence. But if they start speaking French with their mom, they're going to realize pretty quick that Dad's French sucks and I'm not perfect. Then he'll be sitting in school with his other 5 year-old friends, all of them thinking that their dads are still gods, and I'm going to be reduced to the stupid one. I'll be getting ripped off of ten years of god status. That sucks.

Two-year itch

I've tried to shake it off as just-another-case-of-Spring-Fever, but a pig in a blanket is still just a pig (err, how does that saying go again?); I have the Two-Year Itch. This may be a seemingly strange ailment for some, while others surely know exactly what I am talking about and are surprised that it isn't something more like the Ten-Month Itch, but it all comes down to a case of not knowing what to do when you are still living in the same place after a determined period of time.

As the two-year-living-in-Geneva anniversary draws near, so too does the potential to break a new personal record ... living in the same quarters for more than two years. I haven't done that but once over the course of the last nine years, and my clutter tendencies have generally thanked me for it; moving makes for an excellent excuse to have a throw-it-all-out party.

But alas, seeing as I have yet to win the lottery, (not to mention nail down a bona fide salary) and do not anticipate leaving Switzerland in the very near future, I've come to accept that I will not be upgrading from my "quaint" (read tiny) apartment anytime soon. That being the case, this weekend desperately called for serious bout of weekend spring cleaning... you know, the "I am Dust Bunny Cop", move-all-of-the-furniture-out, trash-bin-I-shall-stuff-you-full kind.

Then, motivated of course by the Two-Year Itch phenomenon, one is practically obligated to go through the totally pointless exercise (unless you are looking for a way to throw your back out) of rearranging all of the furniture to see if you can give things a "fresh lift" ... only to return to the logical conclusion that in a space that boasts a whopping 30 square metres, there is really only one feng-shui means of arranging things - and it's precisely how you had it to start.

Then again it's not such a bad way to multi-task ... spotless house, cheap-o gym membership, easy as pie.

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