Pees Orff

Geneva is like a pimple on the face of Europe in that it is almost entirely surrounded by France.

Swiss flags might be everywhere but the lifestyle and attitudes are mostly French. Croissants instead of Bircher muesli; 'La Poste' on the sides of yellow delivery trucks instead of the rather forbidding 'Die Post' further north; and Fashion over Sensible Footwear.

The official branch of the bank that is used by Love Chunks' UN agency closes down over lunch, so any workers who want to pay bills or open an account have to sneak over before midday or after 2:00pm.  Everything is closed on Sunday, so if you haven't done your weekly shop or wish to visit a restaurant that:

* has decor later than 1978
* is vaguely affordable; and/or
* serves food that isn't Kath's One Pot At Home-standard of pasta or pizza

..... you'll starve.  It is the official Day of Rest and judging from the silence of our enormous apartment complex, residents are either attending church or lying mutely in the dark for the entire day.

Despite this, there's enough Swiss influence to ensure that public transport runs precisely on time; recycling depots are on every street corner and just moving to a different suburb requires you to notify and register with the local commune (council).  Cafes stay open "non stop" which is not 24/7 but means that they don't close for their own lunch break.

This is not the case a mere five kilometres away.  Where the edge of CERN's enormous underground Hadron Collider borders France, things change.  Prices of food, shoes, clothing, pharmaceuticals, gifts and furniture are markedly cheaper.  Same goes for meals at restaurants and bistros.

Kate and her daughter Imogen took Sapphire and myself out for a little excursion to Val Thoiry; a well known shopping destination for frustrated Genevan Meat Tourists* and for those tiring of only being able to buy their clothes from H&M and therefore match the 99% of the population who are not Rolex-wearing multi-millionaires.  I can spot a striped H&M t-shirt, one-pocket stud jeans and funky trousers a mile away these days.

Trudging through the snowy car park, we found ourselves in a northern hemisphere version of a Melbourne 'Home Maker' centre: enormous shop fronts, oodles of free (outdoor) parking and all manner of things for sale.  We'd been living in Geneva too long and had forgotten just how much choice is on offer if you're permitted to purchase items that aren't necessarily grown, invented or manufactured by the Swiss. 

Prices had me gobsmacked. "Kate, look at THIS! It's only ONE EURO! How on earth.....?"  A fellow shopper looked over at me in a kindly manner. She recognised a new recruit; a Meat Tourist now given the keys to purchases and choices beyond beef mince and deodorant.  "WHY is this two Euros here but eleven in Geneva, Kate? WHY?"

With shoes, birthday presents, Vag Fresh mints, kitchenware and chocolate purchased, our rumbling stomachs informed us that it was high time for lunch.

A cafe beckoned; its winking lights, front bar filled with warm-looking patrons and an extensive blackboard menu bragging about daily specials, two course deals and burgers cementing our decision. "Let's go here. Look how cheap the food is!"

Not so fast, the waiter seemed to say as I pointed to a large, empty booth inside the restaurant and he instead grabbed my elbow to steer me away. "Your table eeez outside."

Er, what?  

Admittedly, it was undercover and warm, but the cafe itself was empty except for the front bar.  Perhaps they were cleaning all the table tops?

The waiter returned. Sapphire asked in tentative French for the advertised burger, salad and fries.  My language skills were limited to understanding only his "Non."  She then tried wood oven pizza. "Non," he said again, pointing (with some force) at the laminated menus that also served as place mats on the outdoor table. "Just zeeeze," he said in English.

Kate nodded, finally understanding the waiter's lack of enthusiasm. "It's 1:45," she said, pointing to her watch. "We're too late for lunch and they wanted to close the kitchen."

Ohhhhh. The front section was full, but not of eaters. They were all busy chatting and slurping coffees, beers and wines, pausing only to flick their cigarette ash out behind them into our section.

All four of us dutifully pointed to the least offensive items on the menu. He nodded, relieved that these tardy clowns had got the message.  "Four lasagnes, eh?"

"Er, Oui. Please."

When our meals arrived - and they were good - the waiter sidled past every couple of minutes or so, meaningfully staring at our table in a very clear Hurry the Hell Up manner.

This, of course, had the opposite effect. We took our time and, somewhat ironically, had an interesting conversation about how often we must offend other cultures/countries/people unthinkingly.  

* Meat Tourists:  Frustrated expats who drive to France to buy cheaper meat and groceries.  Border control can stop your car and ask you how much meat you have. Maximum permitted is 500 grams of red meat per passenger in the car. I've been stopped twice in two years and have only ever had two kilograms of chicken breasts which they weren't even remotely interested in.

Pants. Seat of

So the tumour is 4.4 millimetres which is genuinely micro in terms of what is allowed to live behind your eyes at the base of your brain. 

Blood tests are imminent, as are some acupuncture sessions to persuade Mr Migraine to bother someone with a 'macro' tumour who is not a nice person, or Tony Abbott; whatever's easiest.  Nothing unfamiliar for me to worry about, but I won't be upset at not having to wake up with a faceful of Exedrin and go to bed with a codeine nightcap.

On to nicer things.

As regular readers would have guessed, we Locketts are not known for wild and crazy purchases.  Darling DeLonghi coffee machine was Love Chunks' essential buy, as was my treadmill (used for hanging damp bedsheets on when my Achilles is playing up, but gratefully used again today after the flu symptoms have largely gone); and Sapphire seems pleased enough with her H&M threads that are, thankfully, viewed as acceptably cool by even the rich kids at her school. No, she's not one of them.

So, when LC suggested we pop into the city to get him a skiing helmet and then a coffee, I was only mildly interested in going.  Enjoying his company was the only reason that got me onto the tram, as Manor in January Sale mode is not a fun activity.  Rich Genevan women are just as aggressive when fighting over cheap knitwear as pensioners in Harris Scarfes.

But then, we saw them.  Vertical lines of gleaming new skis, column after column after column.  Prices were reduced by fifty percent and nearby the helmets lurked, the perfect size for LC's rather compact-sized noggin. In a split second, he shoved one on my small-sized skull as well. It fit like a glove, even if I did resemble a black billard ball with green boogers for eyes.  Damon came over and pointed upwards to a sign dangling from the ceiling. "Take another twenty per cent off everything."

We were hooked.

An hour later, we farewelled Damon, our new best friend, and sidled rather awkwardly out of the sports section and up the escalators to the tram stop, laden with two sets of skis, poles, boots, helmets, waterproof pants (LC), goggles (moi), carrier bags and gloves.

"I'm frightened now," I whispered to him on the tram. "This means that I'm committed, doesn't it?"

He answered only with a big, smug grin.

And so, Sunday saw us get up at the crack of seven AM to meet up with four other crazies in Crozet to ski.  My fumbling fingers nervously tried to zip up my warm boots, idly noticing the appropriateness of the brand......

...... and hoping that the rest of my gear would somehow camouflage me so that when I invariably fell people would only see a foolish beginner and not some clueless knob in brand new clobber.

Having endured several weeks of migraine, flu, uncertainty, unfair disagreements and friends suffering all manner of awful accidents and undeserved misfortunes, I wasn't feeling particularly brave when Steve pointed down the very steep, icy hill and said, "Yes, it's a shocker of a way to start, but if you can survive this, you can survive anything."

Off he whooshed, grace and style packed into a six-foot-four fifty-something frame.  Twenty year old Chrissie bravely jumped off next, youth and confidence instantly remembering the first and only skiing she'd done in year eight; and Pommy bloke Tim and LC stood next to me.  "Just follow us and take your time. We'll wait for you."

And wait they did. All four of them. They must have desperately wanted to go for red runs over my sedate green and blues but not once were there any obvious signs of boredom or impatience or eye rolling.  My skills were the bottom of the barrel to their shiny apples floating on top but they generously peppered me with praise, provided some useful (and non patronising) tips and truckloads of encouragement.

It wasn't the horizontal snow storm, bracing winds or lingering cold that caused my eyes to fill with tears; it was the realisation that I was gliding down what was a summer road now all powdery white, edged with nothing but Christmas card pine trees and silence.  Tim saw me get out the tissue. "This is what we all moved here for," he said, Russian hat-flaps flying like beagle ears in a BMW as he slid past.

By lunch time and eight runs down the hill with Lake Leman glinting in the distance, I was triumphant: not one fall.  Even light-on-his-feet Love Chunks had almost gone for a gutzer but miraculously managed to save himself by doing a rather good version of the splits in his polyester pants. He swiftly recovered to zoom ever onwards. 

Sadly, as in all good stories, my reckoning was yet to come. With a belly full of hot chips, raspberry tart and pineapple juice, my nemesis was waiting: the six-person, open air chairlift.  This souless set of mechanical seats was encrusted in ice physically and spiritually, accepting no fumbles or clueless newbies. The other four were standing on the right mark, butts poised, ski poles in hand. I can't honestly recall where my feet, arse or poles were positioned but obviously not correctly.  

WHAM! the foot rests of the chairlift smacked me flat to the ground and somehow my brain had enough functioning cells to force me to stay lying there as the cruel metal contraption ran lightly over me and continued on its merry way, my four faithful companions now swinging over the peaks and waving frantically at me. "No worries," I croaked, "I'm fine."

Queueing onlookers may not have cared so much for my well-being as my clumsy collapse caused the entire lift to shut down when an attendant hoisted me to my feet, found my left ski several metres away and shoved me onto another one with a taciturn Italian snowboarder. 

"You eez new to these sport, eh?"  Er, yes, as it happens.  He pointedly started the other way for the remainder of our journey to the mountain top.

Reckonings continued as I discovered just what veterans of the slopes mean when the body says 'no more, even if you think you've still got the energy for it and the light is still good.'  By 3pm, my legs and arms refused to obey even the simplest of commands and my considerably-large rear end ballooned even larger as  my pants filled out with fresh scrapings of snow after each skidding cartwheel.  LC rescued me many times, my limbs now actively declining to function - let alone assist him - to lift my reluctant weight out of the side of the mountain and back up onto two thin planks of forgiving plywood.

With a slightly dented right-hand pole and ice shavings in my eyebrows, it was time to call it a day.

"I was so proud of you up there," Love Chunks said, swishing over in his waterproofs to try and fit his arm around my goose-down-packed parka-clad waist. 

"Me too," I replied, feeling the beginnings of a bruise on my knee and elbow.  "When are we doing this again?"

Pee on Lyon*

* Lyon is pronounced 'Lee-On' which is why I thought 'Pee on Lee-On' would be a witty title until the realisation that it would require an explanation and thus remove all forms of cleverness from it entirely. Oh well, it's done now.

Anyone who has travelled with me - and that means any journey from a half hour dog walk to weeks and weeks and weeks - knows that my biggest concern is always toilets. Where they are, what condition they're in and if they'll be in ready supply when my bladder all-too-readily bellows. You'll be climbing the light house; my head will be impersonating one by swivelling in all directions looking for the ablutions block.

With Love Chunks back at work and Sapphire starting her new school year, my folks and I decided that a further foray into France was not to be missed. Lyon, an hour and a bit's train trip away, was our starting place.

Situated between Marseille and Paris, Lyon is second only to the latter in terms of size and population and seemed like the obvious place to start.

At the impressive and beautiful Place Bellecour, the brand new tourist office beckoned; a bright and beacon representing the famous city. Inside it was even better with funky seats, loads of brochures in an array of different languages and touch screens galore.

It was 10am, so my two morning coffees and glass of orange juice courtesy of the all-inclusive continental breakfast buffet were signalling their intention to depart my being.

"Where are the nearest toilets?" I asked politely, assuming that they were somewhere inside or close by the almost-packed tourist office.

"Across the square, in the underground car park diagonally opposite," the lady said, waving her hand dismissively in front of her.

We walked confidently across the square, dodging the builders pulling down scaffolding and their ubiquitous ciggie smoke and entered the rather acrid bowels of the car park. No matter where you find yourself in the world, the cement cavern of an underground car park is never a spot of beauty or for lingering, and this one was no different.

Twenty Euro cents was nervously inserted into a door that looked as though it had been kicked in on a weekly basis. Alas - or maybe not - it refused to open.

Back at the parking toll booth, the attendant shrugged. "Use zee male."

Unlike the women's, it required no coin as a gap large enough to insert my hand was where the lock mechanism should have been. Using the toe of my boot, I gingerly eased the door open.

It was an ancient porcelain squat job, not seen by me since the privations of a no-star outer-Parisian caravan park stay thirty one years ago. Unlike then, this one was not clean and had been splashed all over in sour-smelling urine. How even the high up flush chain was dripping in the yellow stuff was beyond me and any further thought on the matter was forgotten in the age-old tourist trial of trying to lower myself down to decrease the chances of splashing my ankles; my jeans pushed down but not so far as to touch any part of the floor, walls or door as well as keeping tabs on my jacket, backpack and sun hat slung over various parts of my body.

The door was almost wide open but I didn't dare butt it shut with my head, hoping that my dear parents would shoo any pee freaks away.

Mum and Dad waited for me outside, noting that my face was even paler than usual. It seemed prudent to leave the description for another time but to thank my mother for her sterling advice of always taking a spare breakfast serviette and keeping it in my pocket for paperless cubicles.

Hoping to clear my nose of the pungent smell of piss, I found myself disappointed when we emerged back onto the streets again. The whiff of wee was everywhere. Pavements were streaked with it; corners were splashed in it and gutters were washing leaves further down the drains towards it ....... Didn't men have toilets at home? And what did women do..??

Our bus tour was informative on a number of counts, including the ceaseless stench of secretions about the city.  It was explained that some building owners placed half-sized pyramids of bricks and building debris in corners. "It's not for appearance but to prevent men from using it as a restroom.  It is designed to splash right back at them."  We also took note that the more style-conscious-but-still-anti-urine owners had metal shields permanently installed in previously piss-friendly places. Their shiny surfaces were at the perfect height to return the piss to the pisser, or shield cats from the rain.

After the tour and a walk through the intriguing silk makers' traboules, moody Mother Nature was moaning again.

"Look there," Dad said helpfully. "There's one of those Techno Toilet thingies."

Ah yes, those metallic rounded edge tiny buildings that give you ten minutes to do your business to piped classical music before the door automatically opens out to the world.

I pressed 'Ouvrir.'

Well smack me flat with the lizard gizzard entrails of Tony Abbott's brain.....  The tiny room revealed inside was a hell hole of excrement, the now-expected Lyon wee and a swarm of large and well-fed blowflies. "SHUT THE DOOR!" we screamed in unison, before hurriedly covering our mouths and reeling back from the shock.

"No wonder the homeless lady outside washed herself down in the fountain," Mum said.

Further along, we spotted Techno Toilet Number Two. Needless to say, Number Twos were sadly the main decorative feature as it was thickly and generously plastered all over the walls, ceiling, floor and hand basin with a handful of ancient loo paper sheets stuck to slightly wetter areas as profane embellishments.

"Why on earth would the council have a huge sign saying 'Public Conveniences' and a large arrow pointing here? Surely they're not proud of it," I moaned, struggling to walk with the need to pee and the lingering shock to my visual and nasal sensitivities.

Three was my all-time favourite number, so surely Techno Toilet Number three would not let me down? After all, a normal-looking bloke had just vacated it and didn't appear to be visibly flinching or running away.....

Nope. Shit city with the tang to match.

We found ourselves back at Place Bellecour, seriously contemplating a second visit to the underground car park when Mum spotted a McDonald's: the patron saint of desperate lavatory lovers the world over. "Yessssssss!"

Dashing up the stairs, I saw the sign, pushed through the door, had my jeans halfway down and then stopped in shock. The toilet was filthy, paper was strewn everywhere but on the roll and the seat was liberally dripping wet with waste. But this was McDonald's, a place that had never let me down in Bali, Egypt, Amsterdam, Perth.... Obviously in Lyon it was Pee On.

This time, my squatting skills were not only extended to increasing my chances of aiming correctly and staying dry but also to keeping my large arse aloft over a wider bowl area.  Quite the challenge when my undies were clamping my knees together.  As I exited in dismay, a gorgeous young lady sashayed in: all long straight hair, skinny jeans and the ubiquitous Chanel ballet flats. She was busy talking on her mobile phone and paid no heed to my rather well-acted  - and kindly - 'don't go in there' charade.

She CONTINUED to speak on her mobile phone when she closed the toilet door behind her! Did she have eight hands to maintain a conversation, keep her suede jacket from touching any part of the wall, her leather shoes dry, the oversized designer bag urine free, the hair exclusive of moisture, some toilet paper or alternative wiping material and a method of keeping the hem of her jeans from trailing in the puddles?

We didn't buy a coffee on the way out.
After lunch (not at McDonalds) we trekked up the hill to the cathedral.  Every old city has one.  Toilets too, if the French are feeling generous.

They were, but not for toilet seats or toilet paper.  Just the bare metal, hospital-like commode was installed, in faint deference to the monk-like, no frills lifestyle of the dark ages perhaps. No absolution, just ablution. 

It isn't exactly fair to claim that Lyon's bouquet is wholly whizz-scented; cigarettes vied for top billing as well.  We were staggered at the volume of people with lung darts hanging from their lips and despaired of finding a spot not clouded in second-hand snorted smog.

Toulouse might be famous for violets and Nice for the refreshing scent of the sea, but for my money, Lyon's signature fragrance would be this one: Cigs et Piss.  One squirt (or stray dribble down your trousers) and you'll be instantly transported back to the second largest city in France....

And it was all capped off perfectly when we left Lyon on the train.  As I pulled my tray table down, there was a poem in French, written in beautiful, swirling hand writing. How appropriate then, to see the word 'l'anus' in amongst it.

Procrasto-exhaustion

Yep, this 'break' from blogging has been the longest I've taken in seven years and 945 posts.


It was due to a combination of house guests, international travel without crossing any oceans, hostessing, tour guiding, thirteen year old-wrangling, achilles heel hurting, paid writing, travel planning, crap food eating, dishwasher unpacking and a hell of a lot of time waiting on train station platforms.


And what have I learnt during this time away from the blogosphere?

1) Owning a dog gives me instant knowledge of all geographical locations within a 20km radius and earns me new friends and impromptu conversation wherever we go.

To prove this finding, I'll give you just one example. As I walked with Sapphire and my parents to the UN - and discovered that it was on the day where not a single flag was up (annual washing day perhaps?) - I'd no sooner given a stricken intern some directions to the Number 15 tram stop than it was time for the obligatory pose. Everyone who stays at Chateau Lockett must stand in front of the UN flags. Or bare poles, in my parents' case.



"Is she friendly," they asked.

"Of course Sapphire is," I responded, slightly offended. "We've had our moments of course, but she's a good old stick mostly."

"No the DOG. Can we pat her?"




"Absolutely."



2) The only people you'll see in Europe wearing broad-brimmed hats and sunscreen are Aussies.

'Stretched Leather side saddle' seems to be the look that most Europeans prefer, whether it be sprayed on and pongy or grilled in over hours, days and years of rotisserating on a beach towel.  I'd be interested in finding out their skin cancer statistics when there's a spare moment.

3) Fondue is a legitimate meal.

Each and every visitor and house guest has been treated to fondue ala Lockett. Scorchingly hot bubbly cheese and stale bread is speared on long prongs and is best eaten outside on the balcony for Milly to hoover up the debris. Simple, perfect and delicious. Sort of like Love Chunks. Even in this beanie, worn on the day his beloved Crows narrowly lost to Hawthorn in the preliminary final. Results were texted to him on top of the Matterhorn, with Kate writing, 'Get to a TV now!'

4) Restricting your daily fluid intake inversely increases the need to locate and use a public toilet.

The state of such necessary facilities have left a lot to be desired during our recent travels. Despite now perfecting my squatting and impromptu cleaning skills with a stolen breakfast serviette, if a loo block is spotted, I invariably end up saying, "Don't look a gift toilet in the mouth," and use it immediately, even if my bladder is not yet calling for it. 

Alas, I've also discovered the hard way that the 'anticipatory whizz' doesn't factor into the bladder's future storage capacity or prevent an uncomfortable walk less than half an hour later when your mother says, "I don't care how lovely this market square is, if we don't find a toilet soon, I'm going to change the colour of the water in that fountain." 

5) If you smoke in France, you can make a cup of coffee last for two hours.

Unfortunately - no, not really, it's very fortunate - none of us suck on ciggies, so we can't make an overpriced and small hit of caffeine last for as long as it takes to nonchalantly smoke twenty cigarettes over a stone cold espresso cup. It'd be interesting to see the stats on lung cancer as well....... Instead, my father lacks any sort of capacity to sip a beverage no matter how hot it is and chugs it down and usually eats his croissant in a single mouthful, so our butts barely touch the seats before the waiter whips our cups away and we're back out on the streets again. 

6) Undies dry out really well when hung from cupboard handles.

We Reads (that is, me and my parents) love a good batch of hand washed clothes in an already-cluttered hotel room. Jocks on (door) knobs, t-shirts hung from the thief-proof coat hangers to drip on flattened plastic bags carefully set out on the carpet below as well as damp socks on window sills means that a small cabin bag is sufficient for a fortnight on the railway system instead of having to drag a 23 kilogram behemoth whose left wheel was popped off by a cobblestone in Nice.

7) Germans don't age very well.

Now I'm aware that this statement comes from someone so aged that even a coffee, followed by a hot shower and intense moisturising does not erase the pillow folds from her face, but the middle-aged Deutschlander is a sight to behold. Still, there must be a 'best before' switch that God flicks over at, say, age forty. The previously blonde, nubile and slim German male and female then get to see the shocking results of two or three decades of worth of stealing sunbeds at dawn, scoffing down various fat-filled offal products and cheeses and bingeing in beer gardens. When the switch is activated, the faces turn to dour scone dough, the butts widen to double-door entry only and hairs sprout where once only dewy beauty lingered. Trust me.

8) It's what's NOT said that's important. 

Is it lying if an important fact is omitted?  For example, Neuschwanstein Castle. We'd booked a hot, more-like-fifth-class second class train that saw Love Chunks hoon ahead to push aside a dozen old ladies and thrust his foot out of the carriage door in order to 'reserve' some seats that didn't have gum on them or be situated in the 'Bikes Only' section.  

Enduring a crowded and sweaty ride from Munich, we told ourselves that the discomfort would all be worth it to lay our beadies on the famed, Cinderella-like vision plonked amongst the stunning German hill tops.  From the information we'd gleaned from many sources, I anticipated seeing this:

...but instead was presented with this:

....which made us all firstly stop in shock; then laugh uproariously before being shocked again at the thousands of tourists swarming around us who were still happy to take photographs. Me included I s'pose. It would have perhaps changed our day trip plans if - oh, I don't know - the website, ticket seller, train station or tourist office had told us that the ENTIRE CASTLE would be covered by scaffolding and gauze....!??  AND that horse and carts took lazy farts up the hill and I'd invariably put my sandalled feet into a freshly-dropped frisbee of moist manure.

Same goes for the famed interior of Lyon basilica.  Not manure, but Lord knows what the poor tour guide was telling her group in Russian when the entire interior was hidden behind the world's largest Meccano set.

.......Or the cable car trip up the mountain to Saleve for the breathtaking view of Lac Leman, Geneva and the French hills beyond.  We'd booked the posh restaurant on top of the peak for 7pm and arrived at the bottom to discover that the cable car's last run for the day was 6pm.  If we'd been any earlier we'd have caught the last ride, enjoyed a terrific panoroma and meal and then been stuck up the top until the telepherique cranked up again on Sunday morning.

As it was, as we trooped back down to the bus stop we phoned the restaurant to cancel our booking and explained why.  "Didn't anybodeeee tell you zzat zee cable car was not running?" 

No they didn't, buddy.

9) Items presented over and over and over in souvenir shops are rarely seen in the real world.

Take Edelweiss.  Switzerland's national (and protected, which should have given me a hint) flower.  It is to be found on key rings, the fabric bands that hold cow bells, place mats, coffee cups, earrings, hand soap, snow domes, stickers, pencils, gingerbread, fondue pots and army bags but I've yet to see one in the wild.

Berne bears.  Three live ones are currently living a peaceful life by the river's edge and all were imported from Russia.

Lac Leman 'filets de perche,' found in every restaurant in the Geneva, Vaud, Valais and Haute-Savoie.  It has been revealed that over ninety percent are caught in Norway, and snap frozen before being sent to Geneva for deep frying and charging CHF 44 a plate.

10) Never underestimate the power of IKEA.

When extra guests arrive, there is nowhere else that sells pillows, sheets and serviettes cheaper.   On a rainy day with cobwebs in the wallet it's also the place to get the afore-mentioned 'filets de perche' and chips for CHF 4 francs and a bottomless glass of diet coke complete with the endless entertainment of watching other patrons eat, fight about furniture selections and accidentally spritz mayonnaise instead of topping onto their soft serves.  Mum and Dad loved the place.

And so, it is now time to drape more wet sheets over doors, towels over the outdoor chairs and muster up a skerrick of interest in collating the documents for our long overdue Australian tax returns.

Then again, I could just have a little rest before reading other blogs, making a coffee and patting my dog....

Tapping out a tantrum

I've met a few inspirational people in the past couple of weeks and despite their differences in age, humour, interests and circumstance, a theme has emerged: give yourself permission to say 'no'.

So I've decided to say 'no' to formally learning French. There. It's out, finally: like a satisfying session on the toilet, it's a big load off.

Before arriving in French-speaking Switzerland, I bought a couple of DVDs, two textbooks and researched online. There was no way that I was going to be a 'Garcon? Garcon? Geez you can't get good local help here' kind of harridan. Au contraire; I was going to immerse myself, blend in, be at one with the language, culture and people. Learn and absorb, gather and grow; suck it and see.

But plans and assumptions are like market-stall underpants - they disappear up your butt when you least expect it. Once Sapphire started school and our holiday tutor selfishly returned to her law studies in English, my French learning ended.

Then Sapphire got sick and I missed the two-second window to enrol in the UN French courses for 'epouses' for the 'bargain' cost of 800 francs. When the new year arrived my attentions were on snow skiing, holidaying, eating, drinking, socialising and dallying with The Fratman, all thoughts of learning online for an hour every day crumpled up into a smaller ball than the screwed up foil on a family-sized block of Cailler chocolate.

Getting some new freelance writing gigs has also filled up the tiny space left in my brain for active thought or expansion. When I'm out walking Milly and thinking up different ways to describe farts, French people and bread rolls, how can there possibly be enough remaining mental energy to remember the seven different ways to say 'I am, you are, we are, they are', let alone describe what the people depicted in the 'I am, you are, we are, they are' scenarios are actually doing?

Which brings me to yesterday. The plumbing firm finally arrived to check out the pong in Sapphire's bathroom and the leaky kitchen sink. "We 'ave found one who speaks Anglaise," Monsieur Steiner told me over the phone. I thanked him effusively which always tends to help. Exceeding gratefulness makes even the most stern-looking Swiss person thaw themselves out to crank out a vague, smug smile.

I was ready. On Love Chunks' iPad I had written a thoroughly absorbing and accurate account of what we'd done to clean the pipes/combat the bathroom smells and where the leak was occurring in the sink.

"Bonjour Monsieur! Parlez vous Anglais?"
"Non."

Oh. Bugger.

I showed him the iPad, noting that stale BO, cigarettes and cheese seemed to be at war under his coat. He grunted to indicate that he'd finished reading and I pointed to the kitchen.

This is when I knew that he must be The Fratman's cousin. He rabbited on and on in French, despite me saying, "Je suis desolee, je suis Australien," over again, smiling, hoping he'd see that I wasn't trying to be rude or obstructive. All my previous gestures and charades were studiously being ignored.

In frustration he shook the tap, speaking louder. I decided to speak even louder - in English - back to him. "NO, THERE'S A LEAK UNDER THE SINK........ Oh wait, let me get the iPad and we'll talk that way............"

When I entered the kitchen with LC's black magical tablet in my hands a few moments later, Ponce Pants the Plumber rolled his eyes and sighed, muttering something quite lengthy that I knew was something about wasting his time, me being an ignorant idiot and him with his fish-finger sized-digits meant that there'd be no way he'd be able to type anything other an 'asd' when he only wanted the 's'.

At his rather obvious impertinence, I decided to keep talking in English, knowing that he didn't understand, "Yeah well I'm sorry this is an inconvenience for you, but you read my explanation; I pointed out where the pipe is loose and yes, it's annoying that you have to wipe your hands on your pants before trying to type something for me, but that seems to be life for us both at the moment, doesn't it....."

Tappita tappita tappita I went, my anger increasing my typing speed.

He read it and sighed, placing the iPad on top of the stove hot plates and slowly s-l-o-w-l-y picked out the letters. 'The tap is loose is not your pipe.'

Tappita tappita tappita 'The tap might be loose also but the pipe is leaky too - take a look at how it can pop open - it has done this already and water has leaked all over the floor'

Still he made no move to bend down and peer under the sink. Trying to calm down, I ruffled Milly's ears as she stood by and sniffed at the Ponce Pants' pungent work boots. 'I will order new tap. We call you.'

"But what about the leak?" I said this out loud, before Tappita tappita tappita, this time adding several exclamation marks after the question.

'We call you.' He put the iPad down, indicating that he no longer wanted to use it. "La bains?"

Ah yes, Sapphire's bathroom. Tappita tappita tappita - long story about the terrible odour, the steps we'd taken to use drain cleaner, water flushing, keep things clean.

"Le bidet?"

"Oui. Nous laver le bidet." Tappita tappita tappita - Yes, we flush the bidet regularly because we know that when we don't use it the water can sit there and start to smell very bad.

He shook his head. "Vous devez toujours l'eau de rinçage dans le bidet."

What? I handed him the iPad. He shook his head.

It was my turn to sigh. "Look buddy, I don't understand what you're saying; I've waited three weeks for an appointment to be made and most mornings Sapphire is afraid to open her mouth to clean her teeth in case the aroma jumps in and makes her vomit, so please use the iPad." I thrust it at him again. I swear he was typing even slower this time, just to make me sweat. 'You need to clean the bidet.'

Tappita tappita tappita - 'But I told you that we DO clean the bidet - regularly! I flush it with water all the time!' My furious fingers were flying and Ponce Pants noted my speed with a tiny skerrick of admiration.

Raising both hands up in the world-recognised, 'Ok, whatever you say, lady' gesture, he set to work in the bathroom. I huffed off into the study and Tappita tappita tappita-ed on some freelance stuff. Sounds of monkey wrenches on tiles, running water and Milly's paws on the floor rang out as she oscillated between her Angry Alpha Female and Ponce Pants.

An hour later he stood at my doorway, grunting. 'Termini.'

I brushed past him and swept into her bathroom. The pong had gone!

"Merci! Tres bien! Merci monsieur!" My smile and gratitude were genuine.

He pointed to the base of the toilet and then to the iPad. Yes, he wanted to use it. 'Toilet base is loose. See if this is OK and if not, I come back.'

I nodded. "OK, thank you."

He nodded in response and typed again. 'And back with new kitchen tap.'

"Oui."



The leaky pipe can wait. Sapphire can use her bathroom again; the basin under the sink pipe manages to catch most of the drips and Ponce Pants smiled at me before he left.

Sad tabs

Geneva has several English-language, online bulletin boards for the expat, non-French speaking residents in search of share accommodation, a ride to Italy, dog walking jobs or second-hand IKEA furniture.

Sapphire would not have met her best friend without it. Two weeks after arriving, I responded to an advert seeking someone to take over the lease of an apartment in Secheron: quite literally a tennis ball’s throw away from LC’s work place.

We didn’t get the place – Karen the renter loved us, but the regie (land agent) didn’t. No rhyme or reason behind it other than the power of the landlord is hugely strengthened by cripplingly stratospheric rents and a long queue of eager UN workers to pay them.

However, we did buy a superb dining table, six chairs, blender, ironing board and washing machine from the lovely Karen who didn’t think she’d be able to take much with her in her new WHO role in India. When cash was exchanged and the removalist guy stopped talking to me about Midnight Oil – “I am Swiss German, so I am open to new sounds” and actually delivered our furniture, we received a final email.

Her soon-to-be ex work colleague also had a twelve year old daughter. Also an only child, also attending the international school but at the city campus. ‘Here’s her email and phone number. Both the mother and the daughter are lovely people so don’t be afraid to make contact.’

It took me several hours of humming and hah-ing to write what I hoped was a breezy and inviting introductory email, which led to Mayada phoning me an hour later...

...three months on and the girls hang out with each other regularly, skype incessantly and now find themselves at the same campus, albeit in different classes. All thanks to several sentences extolling the virtues of a large balcony, two downstairs bedrooms and an entertainers’ kitchen.

The same site has been helpful in finding a holiday French tutor for Sapphire and myself. The lovely Roopa – a Sri Lankan lass who is fluent enough in English to now be studying Law there. Another win as I can now at least ask for the essentials like coffee, wine and where the toilets are, and read a lot of the public notices on the bus.

With the big and essential items now in our apartment, I thought it was time to see if G-locals could cough up any little bargains such as a bookshelf, stuff for the study, kitchen equipment or a filing cabinet.

MarkUK68 had several items on offer for not only a good price but – very unusually – was able to deliver them to the buyer. Such a relief after seeing too many ‘Before collecting the two Annebrod wardrobes and Malm king-sized bed with Tromso shelf, the buyer needs to dismantle them all so that they can be taken out of my attic apartment and down seven flights of stairs...’ type of advertisements.

True to his word, MarkUK68 delivered a 7 foot tall bookcase, bedside table and double-drawer filing cabinet not only to our door, but helped Love Chunks carry them inside and place them exactly where we wanted them. How’s that for ninety five francs?

Several weeks later on a drizzly day that found Sapphire happily at her new school and LC in Brussels for a meeting, I opened up our tea-chest of Aussie papers and gathered up the teetering pile of Swiss-related documents and set to work organising a filing system.

Teasing out the old labels with my fingers gave me a glimpse into Mark’s now on-sold old life.
Pension Plan – Petra
Pension Plan – Mark
Budget
Life Insurance
Building Society
Audi
House Purchase
Tax
Mortgage docs
Renovations
Barclaycard – Petra
Barclaycard – Mark
Bills
Dad
University - Petra
Gym Membership – Petra
Sailing Club – Mark
School Info
Investment account – Conrad
Investment account – Annabel

They fluttered to the floor, forgotten for a few hours as I wrote my own labels and saw our loose papers disappear into order behind the drawers.

Sweeping up the detritus, Mark’s words returned. “I’ve just moved from a four bedroom house in Versoix to a one-bed in Aux Vives which is why I’ve got a lot of stuff to sell.” He paused for a moment. “I’m getting a divorce. Petra and the kids have gone back to England.”

I didn’t know what to say to that as he handed over a crinkled envelope. “Sorry about the used tabs in the filing cabinet but I found some spare labels for you.”

With a quick wave, he turned on his heel and strode out of the lift into the car park.

“Thanks...” I called out into the darkness, wondering whether it would have been more appropriate to have given him a big, long, wordless hug.

Don't make eye contact with him, Mum

She's right. If I look up and happen to lock pupils for a millisecond I'll end up getting a French accordian serenade all for me which isn't something that's going to make the trip into the centre of town on the jam-packed number 16 tram any more pleasant.

Buskers are not only on the streets here - playing publicly-available upright pianos chained to fountains for the summer music celebrations or dragging double bases and violins to ATM entry points - but also on public transport. I think we've heard exactly three French-classic songs (whose titles escape me) over and over and over again.

The offender then walks up and down the aisle with his cap. "Bonjour Madame, sil vous plait Madame.... Bonjour Monsieur, sil vous plait...." Only once have I seen one woman hand over a single franc. Most of us look down, jam in ear pieces if we have them or stare determinedly out of the window. We all want to get somewhere and enforced entertainment isn't part of the ticket cost.

"But hey," I poked Sapphire, "we know know how to say The Finger in French now - la doigt!"

She rolls her eyes but also laughs. These are little victories that we share with each other to make the unfamiliar an amusement instead of intimidating. The sun shines through the glass onto her hair. "So should I give La Doigt to the next guy who plays his accordian?"

Rubbing my chin whilst also keeping an eye on the telly screen that lists each stop, I pretend to consider it. "Well, it could mean that Geneve Hopital finds itself with a patient who is begging for a particularly challenging object to be removed from a part of themselves not often seen in polite company but if you're willing to risk it and have the results posted up on Facebook, then go for it."

Baby steps. Find your joy. Think about the positives. Cliches all but boy, they've worked for me this week. I had to laugh when a neighbour informed me that the above sign - a dog in a circle without a line through it meant that they were NOT welcome.

"Oh, I thought that this was the part where dogs could play."

"Red is no, madame."

Ah. This was good to know before our beloved dog Milly arrives and we lodge ourselves further in the concierge's bad books. Every time I've tried to cram a few more IKEA boxes into the communal (and tiny) recycling bin he's been nearby; pretending to sweep the foyer but really watching me through his one good eye, suspicious of this loud Australian ignoramus who doesn't wear make up or heels and parades her big bags of les ordures far too publicly and far too often.

Sapphire and I have quizzed each other over counting to twenty, then a hundred; followed by key body parts and days of the week and are both eagerly looking forward to our next lesson. It serves more than one purpose - it's something that we can do together that will benefit us and gives us two entries in the diary every week until school starts. Outings, moments of time and then recuperation at home; a home that gets something extra in it from every visit outside.

Any English we hear out in the street is immediately noticed. Our eyes meet and we smile - someone else is here. The familiar stands out a mile amongst the indecipherable. Sapphire described it well this morning as we exited Coop store with blankets and towels bundled in plastic bags. "It all sounds like noise until you hear something you can understand."

Oh and whatever you do, don't buy the enticingly-titled 'picnic eggs' in dozen packs. They're hard-boiled and you feel like a right gonzo when they bounce off the side of the frypan instead of willingly cracking open for the start of a breakfast omelette.

Wee glimpses for sure, but the scratchings of a new life are emerging.