Just pictures this week

Zurich at night

Mountains viewed from Uetliburg outside of Zurich

Miss Audrey Tucker herself

Bern, capital of Switzerland

Bern bears

Lausanne from the train (I need to go back!)

Les Genevois

I know most sculptures in Europe are nudes, but still.

Happy belated Thanksgiving, everyone!

Someone asked at one point what I thought of Geneva so far.  "It reminds me a bit of Boulder, Colorado - it's surrounded by mountains, and everyone is much more outdoorsy and laid-back than in Paris."  It's interesting how much Europeans, who have either gone to New York City or San Francisco or dream about it, know so much about American history and politics but know nothing of the geography.  "Colorado?  Hmm, well I've been to Lake Tahoe."

I've been trying to put my finger on the concept of Genevans, but I think it's just about impossible.  The entire city is made of people falling in and out of place - most seem to have been
somewhere else last year and are already planning out their escape next year.

But one thing that's consistent (and certainly different from Boulder) is that everyone smokes.  A lot.  I'm used to holding my breath in the States whenever I pass by a smoker, but, here.. well, I have to breath.  I don't know how many times I've left work and had to get through a line of smokers, who move over slightly and look at me like, wow, thanks for being in the way.

Another, less surprising characteristic is that Genevans have lots of money.  Certainly, there are lots of banks around here, but I guess foreigners working for organizations here also make above-average salaries.

I've come up with a rule here that everything is twice as expensive as in the States - small bottles of name-brand lotion are on the order of $24, as is chicken biryani at a restaurant (normally around $12 in the US), and a well-priced meal is usually $20-30, while a "snack" of a small dessert and coffee is $8 at a chain.  I went to McDonald's just to see if this rule was consistent - sure enough, medium fries were about $4.

But, randomly, grocery store food is well-priced.  And the chocolate is dirt cheap and delicious.  I can't complain too much!

I was surprised to see this random display of PacMan characters up for the holidays (I don't know what holiday has to do with PacMan, but I'd like to find out!).  I don't know how many times in a given shopping trip someone hits me in the rear with their shopping cart.

Likewise, others will leave their cart in the exact center of the aisle and run off to get something.  Somehow, in 3-weeks' time, I've become that little round yellow thing trying to gather up my food and avoid getting hit in the aisles!

Likewise, due to the foot of snow we got in the last 36 hours and because the city was so late in getting salt on the sidewalks, all walkways have been burrowed down to narrow pathways.  Every time I've tried taking pictures, I have to watch out for the bundled-up people stomping their way in the snow toward me and continue on, lest I step in over a foot of snow.  Always on the chase.

Lately in the trams, the conductors have been saying over the intercom that trams can no longer arrive on schedule due to the massive amount of snow.  That's another thing about people here - very time-conscious.  It doesn't bother me too much that I can't know down to the minute when a tram's coming, especially when it comes every 10 minutes.

I totally agree with her - it's darn cold!

But all in all, Genevans are much nicer than I expected, since I had been warned that the Swiss can be a bit rough around the edges.  I imagine this is a consequence of a huge mix of people stuck in a relatively small city (some 200,000 people).  Despite my carefully drawn-out maps, I often get off the bus completely disoriented.  Other than having an SLR on me, being lost is a great conversation-starter, and people are always willing to help.

The first snow day, I asked one lady for directions to the building where I was going to have my French-English language exchange meeting.  After going out of her way to make the route simple for me, she took off.  A few minutes later - I must've looked pathetic walking through slush in my tennis shoes - she pulled up in her car and gave me a ride there (don't worry Dad, this isn't a habit!).

Well tomorrow I'm heading off to Zurich - the first in a string of weekend traveling adventures!  My friend Audrey, who studied in Paris with me, is flying in and we're going to check out Zurich and Bern on our way back to Geneva: Audrey & Val Take On Europe, Part II. :)  Which is perfect timing, there's no better way to get out of the holiday slump than to have a visitor!

Bundling up

Franglais

Two weeks ago, I headed out to the tram stop close to where the interview for the Geneva Environment Network was going to take place.  Central Geneva is very intuitive, with street signs everywhere, but, all of a sudden, I was in the suburbs with very poor directions.  Great.

"The Smurfs" Apartment Complex

I started asking people at the stop if they knew where the street, building, anything was.  A few had no idea.  Several others, "parlez-vous anglais?".  Still others, after trying both French and English, would shake their heads - "espagnol?" or not even offering another language, knowing I wouldn't know it.

This seems to be pretty normal.  Geneva is a bit like New York City, surrounded by a completely different state / country and a bay / lake - in the same way, the culture and the people are different from anywhere else in Switzerland.  This being the European UN headquarters, most people are from somewhere else, and, most people speak English, French, and usually at least one other language well (intimidating).

On Thursday, my group went out for a farewell lunch for a fellow intern.  My boss, Diana, who always mulls over her words before offering what's on her mind, turned to me as I was looking over the menu.

Diana: I invite you.
Me: To what?
Diana: I invite you.
Me: Thank you, but to what?
Gianfranco (co-worker): She's inviting you.
Me: Oh, ok...

Me to Gianfranco, when Diana wasn't paying attention: Does that mean she's paying?

Most people I've met at work have already labeled me as "English-speaking" and have stopped talking to me in French entirely, forgetting I can.  Often, they'll have an entire conversation in French and afterward synthesize it for me, leaving me wondering, was I not supposed to hear the whole story?

The person who most consistently talks to me in French is my office-mate, Dimitry, a Russian who grew up in Utah, of all places. (But after he defended the Mormon faith by telling me that Glenn Beck practices it, well... best avoided)

I finally got around to taking some dance classes here.  On Thursday, I arrived early for the modern-jazz class, got ready, and sat down in the lobby.  From one of the studios, I could hear a class in session, apparently dancing to the Pussycat Doll's "When I Grow Up".  Exactly on the hour, the door opened... and 6-year-olds came out... in leotards and ballet shoes.  I mean, I guess the song has a decent message for kids, but.. it's the Pussycat Dolls.

Dance classes in French scare me.  I'm always afraid I'm not going to understand the directions and end up doing something stupid.  But the class ended up being a carbon copy of the typical jazz class in the States, and all her qualifying statements were exactly the same.  I guess all dance classes really are created equal.  And, of course, we ended up learning a small routine to Michael Buble's "Georgia on my Mind".

So far, this has been a great place to practice French.  When I was in Paris, I got to a point where every new French word replaced an English word.  Here, switching back and forth prevents that from happening again (yay for remembering my own language!).  And never knowing what's coming up next is pretty fun.

Out for a Sunday stroll

Stretch!

Geneva, Take Two

I added a page count at the bottom of this page a few weeks ago and it makes me wonder who all is reading my blog!  I guess I'll find out once I get home.  And according to the little graph next to it, people enjoy it most when there's lots of drama going on.

View of Geneva from Mont Saleve (UN building in upper right)

I was sitting in my room on Sunday morning, prepared to get through a long list of things I've been meaning to do once more settled, and I randomly remembered someone mentioning an aerial tramway that gives an amazing view of Geneva and the Alps.  I looked it up online and, sure enough, November 14 was the last day it would run until January.

Two hours later, I was at the top of Mont Salève, getting a picturesque view of a city that's really been growing on me and the mountain ranges I can't get enough of.

I don't know why I place so much significance on things that happen out of chance.  I've already been disappointed by the things that haven't worked out in my favor - the macaron course being closed before I could register, the au pair job.

I <3 organs

But when I met Nemecia, the landlady who showed me a room in her apartment, I knew I had to take her up on her offer.  One of the first things she said when we met up was "is it fine if we address each other as tu?"

Back when I was still an au pair, after having yelled at Andrea, I was downstairs trying to collect myself.  The concierge, seeing me crying, asked what was wrong.  After listening to my story, she told me that I shouldn't let the kids treat me like that and that, when it came down to it, I could always leave.  Later, after thanking her for her kindness, she mentioned that I should post ads in grocery stores.

Right.  Grocery store ads.  Right before leaving for the Alps with the Ho family for the weekend, I put up ads close to where I'm now volunteering, hoping to catch people on their weekend grocery run.  Sure enough, by Sunday I was getting phone calls.  Nemecia's 23-year-old daughter, who also lives here, saw the ad and told her mom to call right away.  What sheer luck.

In a much larger sense, all of this has happened through chance.  Choosing to go to Cornell was a bit misguided as far as the program and timing went, but that's how I met the amazing friends I'm going to be visiting later in the trip and where I heard of this gap year idea in the first place.  It was at Cornell, too, that I finally took a course in sustainability, on a whim, a subject that I'm planning to explore more through my volunteering and hopefully apply in my work when I get back.

It's weird how topsy-turvy life can be, but somehow some things just fall into place.

Still alive and well

And that's not to mention the fact that, on this photographic journey around the world, I managed to pick such a photogenic city.  I originally chose Geneva because it's French-speaking, has a lot of great environmental organizations, and seemed very culturally appealing.

But, coincidentally:

1. 1. I'm spanning Fall and Winter, two gorgeous seasons over here.
2. 2. The sun never seems to be directly overhead.  I still don't understand this phenomenon - it certainly doesn't do wonders for this pale glow I've been working at - but it means that it's almost always great lighting.
3. 3. The city is nestled between the Alps, Mont Blanc, and several other mountain ranges.
4. 4. The clouds here are amazing.

And now here I am, living in Geneva, volunteering at a really cool organization, the Geneva Environment Network, and enjoying going to work everyday, even if it's unpaid.  My co-workers are great, I can pick what I want to work on (like taking pictures for events), and I can take time off as I please.

I am so happy for how things have turned out.  Being at the Ho's house has made everything since so much more enjoyable and the fall just that much more beautiful.  It's a relief to know, if nothing else, that I have learned what I'm willing to put up with and that I can get out of such a bad situation with such ease.

I could stare at the Alps for hours....

An interesting start to Geneva

I've done two very uncharacteristic things since I arrived in Geneva (to the tune of Geneva leaves and Alpine snow, since that's primarily what I've taken pictures of so far).

1. I blew a fuse.

I arrived in Geneva on Sunday afternoon and met the two kids.  By all appearances, they were sweet and well-behaved, always on top of the time (a Swiss thing, apparently).  They did their homework when they were supposed to, ate everything, and went to bed on time without being asked.

My original intent with being an au pair was to save money.  The mom said I'd get my own studio downstairs from their apartment, I'd get a good amount of money for 3 months' work, and my tasks would only involve speaking in English, light housework, and helping with homework.

But things changed when I got there.  As she originally expected me longer, the studio "wasn't available", so I had to set up my room in the office, which the mom still used for work and the kids used for playing video games.  The money?  Oh, I'd get that at the end (conveniently in Swiss francs, of course).  The light housework?  Making their beds, setting out their clothes for the next day, setting up their meals just so, cooking, etc.

And the kids... that's another story.  I should've known better, showing up in an apartment clad in Prada and Gucci, that I'd be dealing with the nouveau riche.  Apparently, Dior makes teddy bears and kids' jackets, Hotel de Vendôme makes ashtrays, and  Roberto Cavalli makes kids' jeans.  And, honestly, what 10- or 11-year-old boy wears cologne?  And Guerlain, Hermès, and Chanel, for that matter?

As the days went by, the kids let their wonderful personalities shine through.  While setting up breakfast: "You put too much milk in my glass, it could spill."  While helping the older one with his English homework: "We need to work faster, I have to go to bed soon."  While speaking to him in English: "We don't have the time for that."  And they used to their advantage, time and again, the fact that, if they mumbled and talked quickly enough in French, I wouldn't understand.

It doesn't help when the mother, aptly named Madame Ho (or the mère d'enfer, I coined her), refused to address me as the informal French "tu" (you), but the more professional, removed "vous".  Most au pair ads advertize being a "sister" for the kids, but calling me "vous" places me among the cleaning staff, i.e. someone paid for a service and told what to do, as it seems to be here.  And when she tells everyone I meet that I speak English and "un peu de francais", I know where things stand.

But it got to a point I couldn't handle anymore.  Last Wednesday, the mom suggested I go to the park with the boys.  After stripping them away from their video games and letting them get away with not bringing the dogs, I headed out the door with Jeremy; Andrea didn't follow.  "Where's your brother?"  "Oh, he didn't want to come."

I was livid.  I went back into the apartment and found him, unphased.

"Why aren't you coming?"

"I don't want to."

"But your mom said that you need to get outside for a bit - you need to listen to her."

"Fine, if you want to go outside, go."

"Andrea, you are being juvenile."

"No, you are."

Needless to say, my French has improved because of the kids.  I slammed the door, rushed out of the apartment, and went downstairs with Jeremy.  We passed by the mom, who asked what was going on.  I muttered, "He won't come", which is all I could get out because I was shaking and crying so hard.

In my experience, if a kid is disrespectful, the parent usually comes back with the kid and has him/her to apologize.  Not so.  After a 20-minute walk, she eventually called me and I joined her and the kids for the walk we were supposed to have.  In her usual long-winded way, she said, essentially, that she can't excuse what he's done, but I need to be able to keep my cool and I shouldn't leave them alone.  She told Andrea that he needs to listen to me, but she never got the point across, since he kept fighting back.  No apology.

Point taken.  These kids will always have the upper hand if the mom continues to defend them, if I can't scold them, and if everyone in their life concedes to their every whim.

2. I quit something.

I always follow through with things.  I learned from an early age that if you agree to something - babysitting, parties, dance, soccer - you do it, even if something better comes up or you lose interest.  I remember my last year of soccer (which I was terrible at), driving to the coach's house with the registration forms in hand.  My mom asked, "Are you sure you want to do another year?"  I said yes, thinking of the trophy I'd get at the end, despite not liking the sport.



This morning, I packed my bags and left.

Of course, it didn't go quite as planned.  I got up at 5 am so I could leave long before everyone got up and Maria (the cleaning lady) came.  I got ready, packed my bags, got my backpack on, and was good to go.  Except the door was locked...  I was locked in.


Maria had the spare keys because we had headed out for the weekend and I had no way out.  Great.  But, randomly, she came in and must have gone to the bathroom or something, because I never saw her.  I grabbed my stuff and ran.



I get that this isn't mature or rational - an eye for an eye leaves the world blind; Madame Ho had even sent me a text message saying that this was scandalous and dishonest.  I can't imagine what it would be like to wake up and not have the au pair you once had.  But I had tried time and again to talk to her about the expectations of my staying there - the studio, money, etc. - and she would always pass it off, saying "don't worry about it".

I decided that this is my year, not the kids'.  I have enough to sort through myself without making their manners my personal project.  And, in the end, this was a good experience, making me realize that sometimes you just have to leave a bad situation.

For now, I'm staying at a hostel, where I'll be until Thursday.  I'm checking out a room in an apartment close to where I'll be volunteering and I have several other offers to crash at peoples' places.  And now I'm heading to the Geneva Environment Network, an organization within the UN Environment Program, where I'll help out with projects and events.  I'm super excited to get started!

This next week (and the next blog entry) will be much better, I just know it.  I have lots of great pictures I need to get up (including from my trip to the Alps with the family this last weekend).  I miss you all!

Hostel Life in Paris

This last week, everyone in France was on holiday for All Saint’s Day which meant two things:

1. Paris was majority French-speaking for once; and
2. The strikes magically disappeared.

The strikes in the news of course had been exaggerated in the news.  Occasionally, I’d pass by a previously lit pile of trash, but otherwise things were back to normal.  I mentioned to a French hostel-mate that I’ll probably be 70 by the time I retire as things are going, so I’m taking a year of retirement while I’m young.  “What’s the retirement age in the U.S.?” she asked.  “Sixty?”  Oh the French are cute.

While there, I stayed in a hostel close to the Pere Lachaise cemetery.  Hostels are an amazing way of experiencing a city - you can meet travlers from all over and get suggestions on what to see or avoid.  They aren't for the weak of stomach, though, as they usually involve at least four beds and communal bathrooms and showers (still, nothing as bad as in the movie, from what I gather).

Taking a shower in this hostel in particular was an endeavor – although it was quite clever in forcing you to make it quick.  Once you push the “on” button, the shower only runs for 15 seconds at a time.  And while you can push the button indefinitely, the water gets little by little more scalding.

Noise is another issue.  My room was right next to the bathroom, so like it or not, I woke up to slamming doors and showers.  On top of that, my 50-something bunkmate snored like a steam train.  After two sleepless nights, I woke up to find her packing her bags.  “Are you leaving?” I asked.  “No,” she said, “I’m switching rooms, this one’s too loud.” 

But in the end, I was in Paris, my old stomping grounds, which involved a lot of catching up with some dearly-missed friends of the macaron variety.  I know I’ve talked about these too much and haven’t made enough to pass around to everyone yet, but they are just about the most delightful treats I know: crunchy meringue-based shell akin to cracking crème brulée with a soft, sweet ganache in the center.

Seeing as the Cordon Bleu wouldn’t let me into the day-long “Secrets of Macarons” course, even when I went in and tried to be as pathetic as possible (“but I came from the U.S. to take this course!”), I decided to make amends by eating as many as possible. 

Some people are into designer bags or clothes; I, on the other hand, am apparently into designer macarons.  By far, my favorite was the Ispahan macaron by the famous pastry chef Pierre Hermé: rose-water-flavored cookies about the size of my palm with a lychee cream filling and raspberries lining the edges.  Pure bliss…

The award for most original macarons goes to Fauchon, which I got after nearly 3 hours straight of bicycle-riding around the city (I had to burn off those carbs somehow): lemon-mint, raspberry-basil, and vanilla-rum (the other patisserie in the picture is a tiny éclair filled with caramel.. yum).  I think I ended up spending more money on pastries than actual food.

Luxembourg Gardens (yes, cliche)

One of the first things that struck me about Paris was how much it had changed from my vantage point.  Three years later, I still can’t help but love this city, but I’m no longer fascinated to the point of being absorbed by it – the culture, the clothes, and the foreign-ness of it all.  Apparently, it takes going back to somewhere from your past to realize that you’ve changed.

I never realized, too, how friendly people can be here – I was always too busy in the past trying to meet people instead of letting it happen.  Of course, there’s the usual curmudgeon (it seems like everyone comes away from Paris with at least one experience of an unpleasant conversation, but then I wonder what it would be like for a French person to come across a redneck in the States).  I decided to spend an afternoon in the Luxembourg Gardens, reading and people-watching.  I talked with a number of passers-by, one of whom was curious about the cake (or, rather, the enormous macaron) I was taking pictures of.

Since my days started to revolve around my meals and snacks, I filled up the time in-between with picture-taking during my walks.  My dad mentioned a photographer who, to show how light and the time of day affects the quality of a picture, took a picture on the hour for 24 hours.  I decided to try this on a smaller scale at Notre Dame, taking pictures on the half-hour (I stuck them at the end since I already have too many pictures).

My last night in the city, after visiting in St. Sulpice and getting dinner in my old neighborhood, I walked over to the Eiffel Tower.  And what should have been obvious is that it makes for the ultimate in long-exposure shots in Paris.

On a different note... I read once about, after losing someone close, it’s common to have a “grocery store moment” – a moment in time where the loss of the person hits you (and usually not in the most convenient situation).  Maybe it's happened to one of you, too, for anyone you've lost.

I took a bus over to meet the mother of the family I will be staying with in Geneva, passing through the Champs-Elysées and around the Arc de Triomphe.  Just then it hit me, a memory so vivid that it threw me off-guard: waiting for a bus and chatting with my mom close to that intersection.  Sometimes it takes having a memory so real, even such a trivial one, of someone that it really sinks in how much you’ve lost.

So now I’m in Geneva, where I’ll be an au pair and volunteer in my spare time.  I've met the mom and her boyfriend and will be meeting the kids soon...  Oh and Happy Halloween everyone! :)  I almost forgot - it doesn't seem to be so common here.

5:00 pm

5:30 pm

6:00 pm

6:30 pm

7:00 pm

7:30 pm

The American Returns to Paris

Before starting this trip, I bought lots of multi-purpose clothing – purple water-proof jacket, pastel blue sun-proof shirts and hats, khaki pants with zip-off legs to make capris … All with the common theme of being feminine but functional.  I’ve long seen traveling backpackers, typically with scruffy beards and beat-up shirts – and that wasn’t going to be me (as long as I avoid frogs’ legs – right, Dad?).

Mad Men dolls at FAO Schwartz.. go figure

I rushed around my last day in the city… I hung out with Kathy, eating at E.A.T. on Madison Ave, perusing high-end department stores, gawking at the Trump Tower and Apple Store, and finishing up by checking out the super-clean (still existent) version of FAO Schwartz.  I also managed to get in some last-minute photo time at Grand Central.

Then I rushed back to Rahul’s place, threw together my stuff and got my turtle on.  I don’t know what travel motto you all have, but I think that travel is most memorable when something goes wrong… and something invariably goes wrong.  Yet something will always go amazingly right, too, perhaps just to balance things out.

I think back to all those family vacations and the parts that stand out, and I can think of all the accidents, near-accidents, injuries, getting lost, and crying because we accidentally drove into Illinois when I was finally going to be one state ahead of my brother!

Playing with shutter speed in Grand Central

With my long coat on in warm weather, I got to line 4, transferred to line A, rushed around the hectic Penn Station, until someone finally told me that all New Jersey-bound trains were cancelled due to a derailment.  I joined the mob of general confusion, and, with great luck, I managed to catch one of the last trains heading to Newark Airport.  I sat down in my seat only to find that my cute ¾ -sleeve top is drenched in sweat.  Well, with the general stench of Paris, I shouldn’t stand out too much. :P

Semi-fashionable traveler tip #1: Wear black.  I guess in some sense travelers are like married couples, looking more and more similar over the course of a trip.  I'm slowly giving up on this nice-clothes thing.  Practicality can only be so attractive.

But, as luck would have it, security was fast (would they really want to pat me down?) and I ended up having all three seats in my row empty.

And now I'm in Paris!  I've gotten so used to having GPS on my phone that (of course) I didn't write down the address or even the full name of the hostel I'm staying at.  Oy.  While I daydreamed about have a bolognese panini for lunch on the long train-ride in, I ended up going to "Chez McDo" for a chicken ranch wrap and internet.

But now I'm here in one of my favorite cities and I can't wait to explore it with my new camera!  On the agenda: macarons, paninis, more macarons, gelato, perhaps going into the Cordon Bleu and begging them to let me into that macaron class...  A respite before my life is taken over by two pre-teen boys.

First order of business: pain au chocolat (chocolate croissant).

Some more pictures of NYC...

Some arch..

Fall colors in Central Park

My photographic partners in crime