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.

Temptation

Genevans are daily shoppers it seems. With little bench space and mostly tiny kitchens, they like their bread fresh every day and purchase what they need for dinner that evening so that it fits into one shopping bag that can be carried on board the tram with minimum hassle.

Except for toilet paper, that is. These same small shoppers seem to like buying their bog rolls by the gross and I've often seen a passenger struggle to fit through the bus doors when tugging a plastic-wrapped multi-pack larger than our sofa.

Perhaps it's to reduce the public shame of flaunting one's personal brand of bathroom butt wipes to a once-a-year event.

Whatever the reason, on most occasions when I'm at Migros with my nanna cart and fold up bags I'll be standing behind someone purchasing a single croissant, two courgettes and - Whallumph! - the strength to lift and bung 144 toilet rolls on the conveyor belt.

My own method of shopping is proving to be rather difficult in this environment because I don't particularly want to spend every damn day at the supermarket and prefer to get it over and done with once a week. Or twice, if we're entertaining and want everything super-fresh.

The checkout staff aren't used to this. Nor are they used to using their arms beyond scanning each product and flinging it to their left. Don't be mistaken; I'm not expecting them to pack my bags but they're beeped through at such a rapid rate that it sees me panic slightly. An automated tennis ball machine operates more languidly than these Migros Mammas do.

I find myself bending over-and-up, over-and-up, over-and-up like an enormous pecking emu as I wildly fling everything into the nanna cart before the pile up falls over the edge. The checkout lady just sits there staring at me like I'm mildly entertaining but not actually a three-dimensional human being in front of her, sweating profusely and hearing several eggs crack in the carton when three tins of tomatoes are thrown in on top. As I'm trying to ignore the slow trickle of yolk over the half-price raspberry yoghurt six pack she'll address my arse: "Vous faire a une carte de migros?"

With sticky egg fingers I'll turn around, smile weakly at her disapproving face before wiping my hands on my jeans, rummaging around in my now pick-pocket (and Kath) unfriendly hand bag for the credit card.

Steak doesn't feature. At 60 francs a kilo and usually wrapped in single pieces we just can't justify buying it. Minced beef, I've sadly discovered, is not beef at all, but some form of hackfleisch that consists of three types of meat - one of which is usually horse. Pork gets a look-in when it's half price (26 francs a kilo) and chicken very regularly (22 francs). Proscuitto, at 9 francs per 100 grams, goes a very long way to adding flavour and interest to many meals - most of which feature a tin of tomatoes.

I'm aware that the prices are high in order to subsidise the non-sustainable swiss farming industry but can't comprehend why non-Swiss things such as shampoo, ball point pens, five-pack underpants and dog crunchies are eye-wateringly expensive as well.

And thus, this morning, I thought I'd bent-and-flung, bent-and-flung, bent-and-flung all of my groceries onto the conveyer belt before rushing to the other end to bend-and-fling, bend-and-fling, bend-and-fling them back into the nanna cart before Chuckle Trousers the Checkout Chook started catapulting the next customer's groceries into my pile when I noticed, nestled down in the dark depths of my fetching brown and pink flowery canvas cart a bottle of olive oil and three school lined writing pads.

The oil cost 6 francs and the pads 4 francs. For three very long seconds I contemplated leaving them there. Pretend I didn't see them. I'd never had my cart checked before, so why would it happen now?

But I didn't. "Je suis desolee madame," I wheezed and put them back on the conveyor belt to the annoyance of the woman behind me who'd already flopped down her vacuum sealed packet of rabbit kidneys and container of quark.

The temptation was there, though.

May the first and last time I steal anything be the last truffle left in the fridge*** and the second issue of the Official ABBA Magazine that I 'lost' after Barry H lent it to me in 1977. Sorry, Barry, but you'll be relieved to know that my evil ways are no more.

*** it doesn't count as stealing when:

a) it is chocolate or chocolate-related

b) it's in my own home; and

c) my family are aware of my addiction.

First day - for the third time

Yesterday was supposed to be Sapphire’s first day at school, albeit an ‘info session’ in the afternoon before starting for real today.

We couldn't get her into the city campus - the one close by, near all the UN buildings like Love Chunks' workplace - because it was full and they sniffily informed me that they needed a years' notice instead of the paltry five weeks we gave them.

Therefore, we resigned ourselves to having Sapphire placed on the waiting list. "There are six kids ahead of her," I was told, when, against my better judgment, I rang again just so they'd know that we were still 'out there' and still keen.

In the meantime, we accepted a place at the very-difficult-to-spell (and even harder to pronounce) La Chataigneraie, a fair way out of town that would involve an hour long bus trip both ways for Sapphire at an additional cost to us of CHF 4000 per year.

Anyhoo, yesterday was the ‘info afternoon’ for new kids and their families and so she and I had already taken the tram into the central train station (whose reeking urine smell is a shocking contrast to the pristine streets everywhere else in Geneva) and were then waiting to take the train out to Coppet.

This journey was to be followed by a bus ride to the school and therefore cover all facets of public transport - tram, train and bus - and give me a much clearer idea of how much fun it was going to be for car-less me to get there should Sapphire ever be sick or miss her scheduled school bus or be called in for an evening parent teacher night.

Dreary thoughts of this were bogging about in my brain when LC rang. We’d been offered a place at the Nations campus *the very second* the train arrived – whoo hooooooo! My excited cry even scared off the sparrows who have been brave enough to land on my knee on occasion.

Several hours later, we arrived home. Sapphire’s head was swimming - seeing a high school timetable in her hot little hands for the first time probably frightened her more than the idea of being a 'new kid' but I was stoked. We can actually walk to this school and it's a more laid back campus that is only six years old, full of UN kids and nowhere near as posh. Put it this way: when I put in a rental limit of an already-scary CHF 5,000 per month for the La Chataigneraie school zone, nothing came up.

On the way to school this morning, I was sternly lectured the entire way and made to swear that I would NOT be funny or embarrassing, too friendly, weird, too loud or - heaven forbid - *be witnessed trying to kiss her goodbye*. And on NO ACCOUNT was I to walk inside the building with her.

So, just as I did as I was told and casually said 'see ya' and turned to leave, she grabbed my sleeve and whispered, "But you WILL be here waiting for me when school finishes, won't you?"

Yep and it'll be with Milly the dog. Just like in primary school.

She turned again. "Mum I have no idea of how we walked here, there are so many roads to cross, I'm going to forget, it's all so confusing and what if I get lost and my phone has a flat battery and-----"

Being mindful of the not-being-embarrassing-or-too-loud promise, I whispered, "I'll walk with you every day for as long as you want." Without a word, she turned and was lost in the throng of kids, parents, teachers and support staff.

I couldn't help but smile at this unexpected parental bonus of a smidgen more time to spend with my nervous, irascible, moody, smart, funny, hormonal, perceptive, beautiful daughter.

Let us eat cake

Oooheer it's been a while since I've blogged. Or visited a blog.

Somehow the last few weeks of the Swiss summer holidays has taken over and any time left has either found Sapphire on the computer skyping or me too tired to bother.

And that's not a bad thing. We've just hit the 'three month mark' and it finds us in pretty good shape. A few more French words and phrases are in the repertoire thanks to two 1-hour lessons a week; the tram timetables are now very familiar and the apartment, whilst still most appropriately described as 'Minimalist meets 1970s perfectly preserved' feels like home.

But there are some things, in these remaining few days before Sapphire starts her new school, that I'll never get used to.

Are you ready?

..... because it's not always pretty. The Swiss may have a reputation for being serious and spotless but there seems to be a widely accepted exception to this rule.

The loophole applies only to men who use public transport. It is in this situation that they are allowed to openly and languidly pick their noses. They do not do this furtively or with any sense of shame, hiding behind a newspaper or fluffed up hanky; no - Sapphire and I have seen far too many examples of blokes entertaining themselves for the duration of their journey by thoroughly investigating the contents of what they fished out of their nostrils with their pointer fingers. One man's face looked as though he had frenzied eels swimming under his sinuses he was mining so hard.....

Sapphire was almost in danger of breaking the code of silence when she gasped in shock one morning. A young, well-dressed business man, maybe late twenties, had had enough of inspecting the glistening globule resting on top of his left digit and flicked it away. The offending object splatted against the glass partition in front of us.

We both reeled back in horror and distaste yet his blank expression did not change.

I blame the lack of cake for this travesty.

You see, it is impossible to buy self-raising flour anywhere in Geneva. Plain flour yes, and apparently you can - if the phase of the moon is right, the gods of bureaucracy and importation are smiling in their raclettes and all opportunities for setting off fireworks have temporarily been suspended - find some baking powder.

But clearly it is a task that causes most people to give up in despair and settle for eating tarts. Yes, tarts. Now, tarts are perfectly fine to eat and look rather good with glistening slices of apple or big spoonfuls of fresh berries ladled on but not every day, every meal or on every bloody counter of every cafe as their 'dessert selection'. They're the only sweetish thing available in bakeries, cafes or supermarkets apart from meringues and brownies with the appearance and consistency of roof tiles. I quickly found my heart sinking at the sight of them and kept hankering for a slice of cake. Any kind of cake; even the dry old sliced Balfours 'teacake' rectangles that nannas buy from woolies. Hell, a mere muffin would do.

I decided to search for this much-discussed but seldom seen baking powder.

It doesn't come in tins like in Australia but sachets.

Of course those sachets are written only in French and German, so one day I danced home in what was surely a victory stance to find my dictionary only to discover that I'd found yeast instead.

Then powdered gelatine.

And something called Raffermissuer. *sigh*

I then heard that desperate expats have been known to drive over the border to France to find it at the obscenely overpriced Jim's UK Foods for Overpaid and Exceedingly Homesick UN Diplomats Shop (or something like that). Seeing as we don't have a car and are still getting over the fact that the only red meat we can afford is 'hackfleisch' mince that has 'trois meats' that aren't named, it wasn't likely.

I'll keep on searching because the last thing I want to witness is Love Chunks blending in as a local undertaking a big-thumbed booger hunt on the number 16 tram.....

Up

For weeks her gaze has been pointed directly towards the earth. Endlessly sniffing, running crazy zig zags and doubling-back across the garden; always making sure that her nose is never more than a centimetre away from the ground.

Her tail is naturally kinked in a permanent question mark and this now seems appropriate. Milly’s been here for three weeks now and is trying to solve a mystery: what is that strange smell?

Wild strawberries grow in carpet-like abundance in the part of the building’s grounds reserved for exercising dogs, punctuated by mouldering chestnuts and green baby acorns. Black crows strut around with insolent confidence, only sometimes bothering to make the pigeons whip-whirr up in flight.

A grey tabby sits in the planter box by the sliding doors, cooling itself from the surprisingly hot Swiss sunshine, presumably waiting to be let back inside when her owner returns. Monsieur Frattiani putters by on a mini-tractor carting several linked garbage skips behind him, odour and noise combining to produce an inviting distraction.

Milly ignores all of these potential diversions in her pursuit of the great unknown. Every time she’s outside in the garden or for a big walk in the local park she’s possessed by it, literally having her route planned by where her nose leads her.

Finally, today, she receives her answer. It’s 7.30am and during the first bladder-emptying visit of the day four Siberian chipmunks are caught by surprise at the base of two enormous oak trees.

They’re tiny little creatures, like rats with luxuriant bushy tails. Four black stripes appear to be painted with great care down their backs. All of them immediately scoot up the trees to safety giving our dog no chance of seeing them up close, let alone touching one.

For the first time in four years, Milly sproings into the air with glee: arthritis, smarthritis. AHA! So THAT’S what you are! Sproing Sproing Sproing – are you going to come back down?

She cocks her head to one side, bouncing now over, tail wagging more slowly. So, what are they exactly?

That question is yet to be answered but now, on every walk or visit outside, her head is always pointed upwards, looking, sniffing, hoping.

F**k the Cistern

We've had cause for a few sniggers and guffaws at words and signs that tickle our internal Benny Hill bones. Or, as Sapphire reminds me, I have.

Take douche, for instance. Not exactly a compliment in the English-speaking world, but it means a shower over here. Douche gel is everywhere and still makes me chuckle. Yes, I'm the kind of person who laughs 'til I fart at Australia's Funniest Home Videos.

Or consider our tube of toothpaste, invitingly named Candida. Why on earth shouldn't your oral hygiene regime not involve filling your mouth with something named after a vaginal infection?

Even something as innocent as pastry caused Love Chunks and I to double over when we were last in the chilled food aisle. I was supposed to grab a couple of rolls of pizza dough and found a new brand imported from Germany. "LC!" I gestured him over, "It has extra dick!" Considering that it was already 40cm long and on special it was a clear contender for our shopping cart....

We saw the above bloke at Nyon Castle. "The French clearly invented the comb-over," LC said.

However, Nyon, as scenic and quaint as it is, has nothing on Geneva for nude sculptures. Any free space available has someone in the raw doing things as strange as putting bridles on rearing stallions, flying two kites at once, gazing longingly into a primary school pond (!) or advertising the side entry to an insurance company.

In their version of the mall (Rue de Mont Blanc), there are two Sphinx statues on plinths. The mysterious Egyptian connection was immediately left unanswered when we walked closer and discovered that both of them seem to have visited Beverly Hills recently and sought a date with Hugh Hefner:

..... could those grapefruit be any faker? Or set further apart....?

I haven't the guts yet to take a photo of the stone carving that tops the Cornavin train station; the bustling heart and centre of the city. Not only are both my hands already busy firmly gripping my handbag in the area's busiest spot for pickpockets but I don't want to be seen taking a shot of a man with a donger that's roughly the width and length of a loaf of bread. "Maybe it's a self portrait of the artist," Sapphire said, with a dry maturity that both surprised and frightened me.

Not only that, but he has two busty (and completely nude, of course) female companions directly behind him, arms folded back in a strange double-jointed pose, gazing earnestly at whatever he, Mr Super Schlong - is looking at. Why this was considered a good image for the train station is anyone's guess. Here's mine. "No time to put your clothes back on girls, we've got two minutes to get to platform nine!"

LC bravely ventured into Swiss e-bay and bought himself an electronic piano. He knew he was successful because he was sent this message: "They delivered your price proposal? Now it is because of the salesman whether it accepts it. We press you the thumbs."

Further out of the city, towards the German-speaking population of the Switzerland are the Ausfart signs. These appear at every exit from the motorway said my friend K. "But we thought why not, we're Australian, we can always wind the windows down...." The pastry from her delicious home made spinach pie got stuck in my windpipe as I laughed too loudly and inhaled instead of swallowed - you find your jollies where you find 'em.

Three times the price of beef

The vet tells me that Milly the dog is seriously under-weight after being away from us for six weeks. Sapphire is seeing a child psychiatrist to discuss her emerging anger about moving across the world and I’m on anti depressants, neglecting this blog terribly.

These are all good things.

Firstly, the pooch. She arrived on Wednesday morning after a twenty seven hour flight that was endured without sedation or food. The thocka-thocka-thocka of her tail against the hard plastic shell of her container was the first sign we had that our furry one was to join us again. “Voila,” the customs bloke said, wheeling her out on a trolley and abruptly departing.

Her container was impossible to open, having been doubly, triply, quadruply fastened with plastic ties commonly used on boxes of paper reams. Customs guy was already gone; another example of a service provider doing the least possible. We eventually flag down a forklift driver who offers us a Stanley knife; Milly’s nose pressing up against the bars eagerly.

The whiff of fear and wee emerges as the door flies open and we’re shocked to see such a bony animal emerge. It’s clearly our dog, but her ribs are painfully visible and the vertebrae on her back protrude like a line of gravel stones. She doesn’t even protest a few minutes later when the taxi driver insists that she be placed back in her container for the drive home.

Secondly, my daughter. Mood swings that include insults, sulking, accusations, heightened versions of old events and heart rending tears. Loneliness, puberty, boredom and fear with behaviour and unpredictability to match. We empathise and sympathise but the lashings are harder and harder to bear.

Our Welfare Officer, assigned by LC’s work, finally shines. This is what she’s good at: people problems, not finding us a good land agent or a bus timetable. She hears LC’s concerns and recommends a child psych who is American and available.

Dr S listens to me, he listens to LC and then he speaks with Sapphire alone. A white noise machine is turned on by his office door so that we only hear murmurings in the waiting room outside. An hour later she emerges. “He understands me,” she says quietly, “and says that things are going to be all right because I’m a smart kid.”

We can see how hard she's trying and I get a small shock when I see her walking around the corner with her father and realise how tall she's becoming. There are bumps still ahead in her road, but mostly progress.

Same with me as issue number three. Frustration and isolation was rapidly turning to despair and self-loathing; feelings that were familiar and unwanted. This time I wasn’t going to suffer needlessly or any longer than was necessary. This move to Switzerland is our life, not a brief holiday and I want to take my full part in it.

I know exactly what medication to ask for and the doctor recognises it. No bumbling French is needed in the pharmacy as I hand over the script. Like beef, the 28 pills cost three times what they would in Australia but I don’t wince.

Two days later my old self returns. Shopping is an outing and not a nightmare. Milly takes to apartment living like a native New Yorker. Sapphire draws this

.......... freehand and sings as she does so. My Achilles behaves itself as it is gingerly tested around our local park and I realise how much we’ve all achieved in a short time when I’m taking a friend-of-a-friend around Geneva and know where I’m going.

That’s all any of us want isn’t it?

Peu choses

Don't worry dear reader: future blogs will not have French words in them and today's should really be called 'little things.'

Forty two-and-a-half years out of the womb and five weeks with my favourite man and child in a new country and I'm finally starting to understand the importance of little things. It's a torturous process that needs constant updating and reminding especially during the dozen-or-so times a day when the urge to droop and feel sorry for myself by conjuring up the aching pangs of homesickness is waiting in the wings, telling me that it's the safest way, the easiest way.

Stuff that. My best buddy Jill wrote to me from her own personal Peu Choses Challenge in Adelaide telling me that she strove to find some joy every day. With a serious brain injury taking a year to heal and her world suddenly becoming as small as a short visit to the shop and an afternoon in bed to get over it, noticing and appreciating the tiny wins has been vital. It was ironic that I too felt as though my world had shrunk - tiny routes to LC's work, the shop and home as the language barrier, confusing directions and lack of confidence melded into a churning gut and a big case of The Sads.

Despite the Oprah-influenced idea, it stuck with me. Why was I feeling so afraid? Why was I so worried about Sapphire and her own ability to settle in and cope? Why was I thinking so negatively about everything?

"I like that idea," I typed back to her. "I'm going to find my joy every day too." And it's been surprisingly simple. Easy, even:

The coffee made by Love Chunks from our brand new, better-than-Mrs-Krups sixty six percent off-the-retail-price Geneva-sourced DeLonghi every morning.

Attending the second get-together of LC's older, wealthier and worldlier workmates and - admittedly with the aid of some good Gamay wine - not worrying about my innate dagginess and lack of sophistication and actually enjoying myself.

Buzzing in the postman and receiving a Care Package from Australia full of Asian spices, vegemite memorabilia, obscure French word cards and several books in English.

Completing three French lessons so far and discovering that Sapphire and I are testing each other and actually retaining it. "You're my best students," our teacher said, "Because you practice and you're taking this seriously." If I had a tail, it'd have been thumping loudly against the chair leg.

Finding our way to the local farmers' market this morning and asking an old lady for directions. With an 'Excuse moi' and a 'Bonjour' and a bit of pointing to our nanna carts and 'marche' she could indicate the beautiful old building nearby. "Voila," she smiled. The produce inside was worth the bumbling around and we had a bowl of fresh raspberries for breakfast.

Another joy - they actually do say 'voila'. All the time. Here's your meal: voila!

Our tea chests arrived. Almost unrecognisable, torn and filthy and scattered with broken glass from several picture frames that died in transit but full of our photos, ornaments, treasures and extra clothes. All we need now are a few hooks in the wall for our home to be filled with faces and memories.

Finding a doctor, a hairdresser and a vet without deferring to official UN lists or the expat websites. All within comfortable walking distance.

Knowing that Milly arrives next week. Her brand new bed, blankets, lead, dry food, frozen bones and 'toilet mats' are already waiting. Whizzing on the balcony will be an interesting training opportunity, not something to dread.

Most of all, hearing the shared laughter and chatter of Sapphire and her new-found friend N as they play Wii, drag their scooters outside for a spin and generally get to know each other.

I know that IKEA will eventually deliver the (lost/forgotten) furniture we paid for over three weeks ago. School will start for Sapph in September after an unforgettable summer with her fascinating mother. At school she'll not only lap up the mental stimulation and knowledge but also make friends and I'll be able to read more than just 'sortie' and 'interdit' on menus and street signs.

Voila - there it is. Finding my joy, one step at a time.....

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.

In three months time.....

I’ve been crapping myself every day.

Now there’s an introductory sentence you’d probably wish I hadn’t written, right?

But it’s true. Moving to Switzerland has utterly thrown me. Yes, off course – as it should considering the change in seasons, time zones and countries – as well as off line (struggling to find the energy or will to write) and well, just off.

Sapphire is struggling too and summed it up the other day when she said, “Mum, Dad, when I smile you know it’s just fake because I’m trying really hard, don’t you? The only time I really laugh or feel happy is when we watch some ‘Raising Hope’ episodes on the iPad.”

All I could do was hug her in response because I feel exactly the same way.

And I hate that I do; hate that I haven’t the strength or energetic positivity to see this experience for what it truly is; a rather challenging settling-in period. My Melbourne-based brave words and dinner party bluster about it being a fantastic experience for travel and new culture now clogs the back of the my throat; a lingering effect of the cold we all got on arrival here. No amount of coughing will clear it and every time I try to speak I have to Ah-hem several times which tires me before trying to ask, “Je suis desolee – parlez vous Anglais?”

The morning crap-fest is the first reminder that I’m frightened of being here and unable to relax. I’m afraid to fully examine how I’m coping or how Sapphire sees me deal with new and puzzling situations as her sole companion and source of entertainment. I can’t remember the last time I laughed without considering it first or being aware of the smaller person observing me as I did so.

Once the toilet is flushed, hands washed and body showered, things improve. Firstly, we’ve moved into our apartment which is roomier than our little Melbourne house. It echoes with emptiness that IKEA furniture can’t yet soften but is a haven from the challenges I don’t always want to face outside. Language, traffic, prices, loss of direction.

Sapphire got the dream room she wanted but the realities of a bunk bed and desk combo are quickly revealed when trying to put a fitted sheet on a mattress only two feet from the ceiling as the metal support structure holding things together creaks and wobbles. “It’s not home yet Mum,” she cries later that night, “I hate it here.” She sobs so hard that my chest thuds in sync and I don’t want her to see that my eyes are filling up too: I’m supposed to the strong one.

I stand on the floor about a foot below her, feeling useless, my arm stretched out to hold her hand. “It’ll get better love, you’ll see. In three months’ time….”

I’m sick of saying that, to her and to myself.

And yet we’re able to buy groceries without any unfortunate incident, smile at our fellow neighbours in the lift and correspond to a French teacher via an expat website. Lessons start next week and all niggling repairs have been completed by varying Swiss tradies that don’t speak a word of English. A hearty “Bonjour” and pointing to the offending powerpoint/cistern/wall vent seems to suffice.

We decide to take our lunch down to the shared garden because it’s a sunny day. The concierge dashes over and all I understand is ‘sun’ and ‘eat’ but it’s clear that we’re not allowed to sit on the grass or eat there. It’s all for looks, not actual use. I feel like kicking him in the nuts and ripping out a rose bush as I stalk by but instead I smile, gather up the plates obediently and walk back upstairs with Sapphire. “He thinks he’s important, doesn’t he?” She squeezes my hand and comforts me as my mouth wobbles slightly.

Money Schmoney as we venture back out again and wheel our two nanna shopping carts the shopping centre and buy airlifted US and UK magazines in our hunger for something to read, sewing gear in anticipation of the machine arriving in an eagerly anticipated tea-chest and a selection of supermarket chain paint brushes, canvases, sketch books, pencils and acrylics. “Why don’t you create your own pictures for your room and help me do something for the lounge?”

For the first time I see a real smile in Sapphire’s eyes.

We’re going to a BBQ for fellow Aussies tomorrow night and are off to a tour of the United Nations on Sunday.

Love Chunks has just walked in the door and is already messing with the wireless control box so we’ll have UK telly and news available soon. The fridge is full of nanna-carted food and Sapphire’s first two works are drying on the parquetry floor as she runs a pre-dinner bubble bath.

It’s long past time for me to count my blessings, but how come tears are still so close to the surface?

Second

My hand always rests – no, tightly grips - onto the top left-hand-side of my bag now when I’m out in the street. This only serves to make it look more obvious that I’m a tourist and not a particularly confident one.

Despite this, we achieved two huge wins this week – a place at the English-speaking International School for Sapphire and a home. A home!

The relief is huge but the disappointment that both were our second choices is also there buzzing in my head lurking, threatening to sour things. The waiting list for the city campus was so long that the coordinator told us that it was ‘nearly impossible’ for Sapphire to get in when school resumes on 1st September, but there was a space at the Founex campus, at La Chataigneraie. It’s a fair old commute unless we secure her a place on the school bus at an additional cost of three and a half thousand francs (and that's only if I can contact the bus coordinator to explain my location and situation. The power here seems to rest with the providers of the services, not the customer. We are to grovel and hope that they will decide to help us it seems).

“I don’t want to go there, we went last week and I hated it. It’s stupid.” My relieved smile faded when I put down the mobile phone. Ticking one huge thing off our ‘this is our life now, not a holiday’ list wasn’t going swimmingly. Her head was buried in the two enormous, uselessly-squared European pillows that have cricked all our necks. I decided it was best to leave her for a while, have a shower with the ridiculously short hand-held hose and rinse out some knickers in the bath at the same time……

“Mum, you were right. I’m just…… scared. I don’t want to go to high school….” We hug and talk and cry a little. What kid does look forward to joining the big, grown up kids who look like adults?

Our home isn’t the one we ached for; Karen’s place a block away from Love Chunks’ work and fully-furnished. Modern, inviting, fully set up. She recommended us and only us to the land agent as lease-breakers need to find their replacement or pay extra rent. We had the right paper work – the official Letter of Attestation for LC’s employment, specified monthly salary declaration and copies of our passports.

“Sorry Monsieur, but the regis has concerns that your salary is marginal for this rent,” she sniffed when he rang to inform them that we’d been offered another apartment (three bedrooms instead of two) at the same monthly rate. “I suggest you take it.”

So we have. Orange seventies tiles, two bidets that are likely to have boxes placed over them in order for some surface storage area, a balcony, dog-friendly, large shared garden and heating included.

What surprises me is how people yank out the light fittings when they move, leaving bare wires hanging from the ceiling. Same goes for curtains too. What’s the likelihood of their new home having the same sized windows?

Setting up this bare space should be exciting. That’s what I keep telling myself, but the sheer enormity of the expense involved has taken most of the joy away. Everything – EVERYTHING is twice the price and I feel the skin on my face dry up and tighten with anxiety at the price tags in front of me. I’ve never paid AUD 1799 for a much-smaller washing machine but the thought of rinsing and wringing more loads by hand in the bath isn’t an enticing one.

The expat sites are full of ‘Leaving Geneva – everything in our flat must go!’ adverts but the curse of a little city with big rents is that no-one has transport or the ability to move things, so the triple-seater sofa or big Pax wardrobe that ‘must be dismantled to get through the door’ is a liability not an asset.

Food is doubly terrifying and may even work in my favour because my appetite has dwindled. Paying CHF 9.90 for a ham and cheese sandwich ($11.14 AUD) and upwards of CHF 50 per kg for meat is …….. How do people live here? What on earth do they do? Tinned tomatoes and pasta have become regular dinners for us via the double hot plate in the hotel room. The most affordable meal we've had so far has been lunch at IKEA.

My guts are in continual churn mode as I see our travel allowance and personal savings rapidly dwindle to nothing. Never did I think that we’d be sitting on our pushed-together single beds, LC and I, hugging each other and wondering very seriously just how we’ll be able to afford to not only live but have some form of fulfilling life here. An enormous challenge awaits.

Side. Bright. Looking for it.

The tea cup-sized Maltese terrier on the counter next to us was a cute - albeit brief - distraction from looking at the crowd of people waiting impatiently for their turn to be buzzed in through the glass doors.

The dog's owner was busy with an issue of her own, her orange leather jacket matching both her skin and the long, diamante-studded cowboy boots she wore.

Once let inside, the room everyone wanted to get into was dim and plain; a river of tangled electrical cords and double adaptors on the scarred vinyl floor between the high counter and the computers.

LC and I stood there uncertainly. "Parles vous Anglais?"

"A leetle beet," he smiled.

My eyes filled up with tears - not for the first time that day. This time however it was with gratitude, so I guess it was a first.

My husband started again. "My wife had her wallet stolen about an hour ago....."

It's been a hell of a week. Culture shock, exhaustion and uncaring bureaucratic restrictions have all kicked in, reminding me very clearly what an ungainly and quite literally foreign person I am in such a place, just as I thought it would. What I didn't take into account was my real - not theoretically imagined - reaction to it.

Or Sapphire's. The past few days have seen a stranger inhabit the body of the child that I thought I knew. This person is furiously angry and uncooperative and has said hateful things. On paper we all know that this is classic lashing out due to a lack of power and an understandable build-up of resentment and fear. And yet to be part of it shreds me inside and LC is just as stricken.

Saying 'sorry' a few hours later seems to be her modus operandi and it is hard for me to accept this when I'm still hurting and raw. "I feel frightened," I whispered to LC, "because I feel that my daughter is gone." What is happening to us?

At lunch when I'm too fatigued to be the grown up and let things slide and she is sulking angrily, I announce that I'm going for a walk and will meet them at the hotel later. My handbag is slung over my chest with the zips close to my body and under my hands. I can't help the way I look but I can try to not make things too easy.

The walk soothes me a bit. The sun is shining on my burnt neck and both locals and tourists are in abundance. Eating, shopping, strolling and posing for photos. The tourist centre is in the enormous post office but contains about three brochures. I give in to the thoughts that I'm ashamed of: For the so-called Home of the UN, why is nothing in English?!

With a brochure in hand but not likely to be deciphered I cross the lake and admire a medieval clock tower. Several people are also taking photos of it and I join them. The cobbled alley is bursting with people and outdoor restaurants - how do they afford the prices? what sort of jobs do these people have? where the hell do they all live? - and note with amusement that one of the busiest shops is Uggs Australia.

I take a deep breath and slow down. I know we'll get through this. I know that Sapphire is struggling with many more worries than me. How could she not be afraid of starting high school, let alone one in a new country? How can she not feel anxious as she joins us in our search for accommodation when we get frequently disoriented in the streets? How can she not feel lonely, stuck with just her parents when her friends are on facebook eight hours and half a world away?

Things'll get better with every day that passes. First a home; then a school place. Then French lessons.

Now though, a hat or my nose will burst open like an overripe tomato and make me the first skin cancer candidate of Switzerland.

H&M is across the road so I'll pop in there for a look around and....

Oh no. My bag is wide open. My wallet is gone.