Sunday 28 April 2013

20 km de Lausanne



I paid a flying visit to Lausanne this weekend, trying to take in all the mayor sights, whilst running a twenty kilometer race. But what sounded like a brilliant plan some weeks ago, turned out to be a tough endurance test. Thanks to the relentless rain.


Let me start by telling you that until yesterday, I had not run twenty kilometers ever before in my life. So, I was more than a little apprehensive on the train that took me and my fellow sufferers K., T. and S. down to Lausanne. They foolishly let themselves being talked in to doing this race. By mid March I told them I was booking a hotel and they would have to confirm that they were coming, within a couple of days. They all did. Bless them. That was of course long before we knew it was going to rain and rain and rain and the outside temperature would not get above 5 degrees celcius.
Anyway it was still dry on arriving in Lausanne around three 'o clock. And still dry when we it all went pear shaped. The first drops were hitting the tarmac as we were send on a wild goose hunt round a rather nondescript athletic stadium in search for our free t-shirts, some available toilets and a place to leave our bags. We of course crossed the invisible line from German Switzerland into French Switzerland a couple of hours ago and boy did we know it.
There is no signage what so ever and allthough my American friend K. speaks fluent French noone seems to be able to give us adequate directions to any of the above mentioned pre race necessities. Left to our own devices we eventually manage to find two rather obscure toilets and a little shelter in which to cut our specially bought huge American bin liners in a bid to keep warm and dry.
We also manage to locate a nice heated building with ample toilets, only to be told that those toilets are reserved for the sponsors of the race. It is at this point, just being send out in the driving rain again, that we decide that instead of waiting around for our 18.25 allocated start, we should run with the first group at 18.10. My hands are going numb. If I am going to run at all, then I need to start moving as quickly as possible.
Of course I loose sight of my lovely friends K. and S. within the first couple of hundred meters. Never mind, they are very experienced long distance runners. No way I was ever going to keep up with them.
My poor Ozzie friend T. suffers with an awful stitch and rather bad stomach cramps straight from the start. She and I keep overtaking each other during the race. And every time I see her the cramps seem to have gotten a little bit worse. Even so, she manages to finish the race in a good time. She is one though woman.
After about a kilometer or so into the race I feel the blood returning to my fingers. The running is quickly heating up my body and I start to notice my surroundings for the first time. We are running along a nice tree lined boulevard, bordering Lausanne's beautiful lake. This could be such a nice place to enjoy a quiet sunset. Instead I have to make do with my imagination and a swishing bin liner.
Soon we start to climb. And alltough I dreaded this climb, it is not nearly as bad as I imagined it. The fact that K., S., T. and I scaled our local mountains, running through snow and ice, surely proofs to have been adequate preparation. I am not going fast and it probably is not a pretty sight, but I manage to keep going up without stopping. Victory!
And allthough it is rather a long uphill trek, the fact that we run through beautifully laid out parks and along Parisian like boulevards, more than makes up for the relentless climb. It also helps that there are some flat bits to recover. A balcony full of yelling students, beers in hand, barbeque going at full blast, cheers me up no end.
At the top we are rewarded by a marvellous church. The winding, cobllestoned, narrow streets around it are a welcome distraction from the fact that I am still running. Luckily it also turns out to be an exellent place to window shop and once dry and warm again it turns out we all saw at least one pretty dress or a pair of killer heels that we would like to go and purchase.
From kilometer fourteen onwards the route starts to descend towards the lake again. My right hip hurts, as well as my left knee, I am soaking wet and getting really cold. By this time the elite runners are probably allready boarding the train to go home and I have been passed by at least fifteen thousand fast runners, but hey, guess what, I am still moving.
I manage to finish my race,  in just under two hours. Unbelievable. After the finish, with only a medal to keep me warm and dry, trying to get my bearings, I luckily bump in to my Ozzie friend T. again. Shivering and to wet to laugh about it, we manage to make our way back to the barely covered area where we left our bags. Our experienced friends K. and S., make us strip off outside (!)  and put on some dry clothes. They need to help me to unzip my jacket, because my hands are to numb to manipulate any fastenings. I do not think I will try and climb Mount Everest in the near future.
A good twenty minutes walking through the still pouring rain, we reach the little Malaysian restaurant that we booked for our celebrational dinner. Instead of the prosecco that we fantasised about on the way down, we drink tea to get warm again. And one by one we disappear into the tiny toilet cubicle to get changed. Oh to be dry again. Utter bliss. Our wonderful friend M., who recently moved from our part of Switzerland to Geneva, joins us for dinner. How wonderful to catch up and hear about her new and exiting life.
By Sunday morning all we can do is laugh. We did it. We came out at the other side of the very cold and wet tunnel. We are even going to do it again. Next year. When it no doubt will be warm and sunny.
















Thursday 25 April 2013

Sankt Gallen



I am on a countdown. Only twelve or so more weeks to go till I leave Switzerland. So in between work and the preparations for the upcoming move, I try and see as much of Switzerland as I can.

Luckily my good friend L. very obligingly consents to accompanying me to Sankt Gallen. I don't know why, but ever since I first looked at a map of Switzerland, I have wanted to go see it. And thank God, when I google it, just minutes before we set of, it looks very charming.
The built in Volvo satnav, which has a mind of its own, decides for some reason that I am not to drive on a single motorway to get to my destination today. Which is really rather nice, since we get to see a part of Switzerland that is as far removed from wealthy suburban Zurich where both L. and I live, as is, let us say, Northumberland from the London commuter belt. Time really has stood still in the villages we pass on our way to Sankt Gallen. Tuesday morning distinctly feels like Sunday here. And allthough they would be far more useful out here, than in smooth surfaced Zurich, nobody owns a four by four.
It is almost dissapointing when we get to Sankt Gallen to see the place filled with luxury shops and Ferrari dealers. I kind of liked the time warp we found ourselves in earlier. But as soon as we park the car and locate the historic centre, all is well again. Much to my - and L's - surprise Sankt Gallen boasts a Unesco World Heritage site. A beautifully laid out convent, built in the eightteenth century on the site of an old monastery dating as far back as the eighth century.
The cathedral with its gleaming polished gilden candle holders and intricate woodcarvings strikes me as very Swiss. I do not think I have ever set foot in a church before with so little dust, of so little need for repairs. In fact the whole place looks like it was build just last month. Despite the fact that we are not the only visitors enjoying the splendour, the place is eerily quiet. Noone even dares to whisper inside.
After we soaked it all up L. and I continue our amble around the church. It is a good thing that we do so, because otherwise we probably would have missed the best bit. The convent turns out to be the home of one of the oldest libraries in the world. It is a baroque delicacy, completely decked out in intricate woodcarvings, beautiful plasterwork and stunning painted ceilings.
We can only enter the library if we wear a pair of felt big foots over our shoes, so we shuffle along the various glass cabinets filled with sixth and seventh century biblical texts, beautifully handwritten and decorated with delicate handpainted scenes. I am in awe. It all feels so very exotic and  far removed from 21st century Switzerland that I could easily make myself believe I crossed a border at some stage today.
Tragically, the magic quickly disappears when we walk around the centre of Sankt Gallen a little later in search of a nice place for lunch. Allthough the town seems to have a number of lovely looking restaurants, they are all completely empty, except for a place called Bierfalken. This restaurant is possitively heaving. With great difficulty the waitress manages to find us an unused corner of a big table and two chairs.
One look at the menu and we instantly understand Bierfalken's popularity. 'Gerstensuppe', 'Schweinschnitzel mit pommes', 'Apenmacaroni' and 'Bratwurst mit Brot'. The Swiss do like to stick to what they know. I have no choice but to fill myself up with the umpteenth alpenmacaroni since I moved to Switzerland. But then I imagine Swiss monks, eating alpenmacaroni, whilst scribing those beautiful books. What's not to love?

Sunday 21 April 2013

Bathing Suit

Since the weather heated up so dramatically last week, I have been thinking about buying a newbathing suit. The elastic in my old one is so far gone, that it easily fits me twice these days.

I absolutely can not think of anything worse to shop for than a bathing suit. The horror of getting completely undressed in a too brightly lit changing room only to try and wriggle yourself in some hideous swimming costume is something that I try to avoid at all cost. But I reckon that in a month or so, we will be back at our local 'Badi', a lovely beach at the shore of Lake Zurich, so I can not procrastinate any longer. But how to go about it in yet another country?
Years ago, whilst living in England, I was ok. English women are a normal size and once I had myself fitted for a bra at John Lewis by a matronly, middle aged and very stern woman, I sort of understood the alien sizing as well. I managed to find a lovely black and mint green bathing suit, that served me well for a number of years. I could have worn that suit forever, if it weren't for my husband who, the minute he discovered how see through it had become, forbade me to ever put it on again.
As soon as we moved to lovely Italy I knew shopping was going to be extremely difficult. Not only do most Italian women have no bust, a fair few of them manage to keep the figure of a teenage girl well into their forties. Oh dear, where to even start looking for a swimming costume in the land of gelato?
I opted for the easy way out and power shopped for new swimwear whilst visiting the Netherlands. In exactly six minutes and thirty-two seconds I managed to grab a sort of ok looking suit off the sale rack. I took a deep breath, tried it on, and -small miracle - it fitted me.
Needless to say I have been wearing the vaguely raspberry coloured bathing suit for around three years now. Untill I recently wore it, visiting a spa, and noticed it has grown at least two sizes over the last year.  Too stop myself from ever wearing it again I covered the costume in shoe polish, tried to set fire to it, before finally cutting it in half.
Now I am faced with the daunting task to buy a swimming costume in Switzerland. Not a mean feat, considering that Swiss women seem to either like very sporty bathing suits, or bikini's. I am not a good enough swimmer to justify a sleek Speedo and I absolutely deteste bikini's. It is difficult enough to keep myself smothered in sunscreen lotion without adding my very white tummy to the burden. So, there is nothing for it but to buy myself a new bathing suit.
So today I took the plunge and shopped online. I am a big fan of internet shopping, but have never risked to order something that needs to fit so perfectly as a swimming costume should. But desperate times call for desperate measures. I am holding my breath till it arrives. Will it fit?
Knowing myself I will wear the new cozzy anyway, because by the time it has arrived and I have paid the destested Swis tax, I will not send it back. So if you see me fully clothed in the Badi next month, my experiment has obviously failed miserably. In which case I will have to come up with a very plausible reason to make a whirlwind visit to the Netherlands. Fast.

Monday 15 April 2013

Playdate


Oh to be ten again. Old enough to have a very grown up conversation about global warming, nuclear energy, or Hinduist traditions, but still young enough to be totally submersed in imaginative play.

,,I need needle number two''. My daughter and her darling friend N. have built a complete animal hospital in my daughter's bedroom. The girls - sensibly kitted out with hairbands and plastic gloves - are operating on a teddy bear. The bear is lying down on a makeshift table. my daughter and her friend are cutting him open and stitching him back together again. All the while pretending of course.
Both girls are at that wonderful transitional stage where one minute, when talking about their homework, or gossipping about some girls at school, they make you believe they are almost sixteen, where the next minute they are crafting themselves paper wings, because they are going to fly.
Watching them makes me wonder about my own life at the moment, which seems to be all work and no play. It is quickly turning me into an impatient, stressed out person that I do not like much.  I am never great when I have to move again, but this time I find it especially hard.
Technically we have to move in about twelve weeks, but we have not found a house yet. A fact that my husband W. handles so much better than I do.  I so like to be in control. At the same time I get a bit overwhelmed with the prospect of saying goodbye for the next three months.
But there is no avoiding it. It is all people want to talk about with me, ever curious as to how I feel about going back to the Netherlands. I tell them that I am ready to grow some roots again. That it is going to be really good for the children to reconnect with their culture and that it will be wonderful to one day own a house again.
Inside I am not so sure though that I am ready to say good bye to Switzerland, to the wonderful friends that I have made here, to the mountains that I have come to love so much and to my smallish house with the big barden that fits me like a glove.
Every Thursday - or Friday in good weeks - I reach the point when I get totally stressed out. I never get to the bottom of the to do list that I dilligently wrote down the weekend before. I also never manage to feed the children as healthily as I imagined I would. And then I wanted to read and play more with them. And be more involved with their homework. The list is endless. On top of it all I am the sole tidier, cleaner and organiser of our household at the moment.
Luckily W. comes home every weekend to sort me out. He tells me ready made pizza's are ok and also that nobody is going to really mind if the house is a little less clean. He also suggests that I make  more time for my writing and running. And best of all he orders me to enjoy Switzerland, while I still can. So playdate anyone?

Friday 12 April 2013

Removal Companies




Three surveyors from three different removal companies came round the house today to see what we have lying around. A lot as it turns out. Especially on the floors.

Not only was the house incredibly messy, it was also quite dusty. Of course I decided to go for a run this morning, rather than spending my precious time cleaning. So that when the first guy showed up I was still in my sweaty running outfit, looking rather pink.
To his credit he kept a straight face as he plonked his folder down amidst the remnants of our hasty breakfast. He then lulled me into a false sense of security by not opening a single cupboard, or drawer, contenting himself instead by asking me what was in it. 'Just clothes', I lied. 'Books', was another one that I used frequently, routinely overlooking the tons of dried out glue sticks, mouldy clay, unsorted papers, baby photo's of the children still waiting to be glued into a book and half finished jigsaws that I knew where lurking inside.
He almost go a heart attack in our cellar, which is so full you cannot walk into it anymore. 'Our camping gear and skis', I waved. Oh and of course the brand new washing machine from Italy that we never even unpacked in Switzerland, a few bikes, a micro wave and about three dozen of plastic boxes containing God knows what.
As soon as the second surveyor sets food inside my house, he asks permission to have a look in every closet and miscellaneous drawer in sight. Oh dear. Hopefully he is not married to an impeccable house wife. Following his gaze, I start noticing the dirty underwear contricting the entrance to my daughter's bedroom. Her 'floordrobe', as we have come to call her room, is strewn with every item of clothing she possesses.
While surveyor number two came in telling me W's company pays for the move of a pretty large container, ten minutes into his visit he starts to look worried. It might just about fit. But then again, it might not.
I know we you should sift through our belonging and start throwing things away. But I really don't want to do that in Switzerland, the toughest country in the world when it comes to chucking stuff. You can not just drive to the tip and fill up the containers placed there for your convenience. You really can only put things on your driveway with a sign that says: 'it is free, pleace take it', which of course noone ever does. Or you can drive to big recycling plant where they weigh your car before you enter and again after you leave to charge you an astronomical amount of money for your worthless things. So the disposing of old beds, bicycles, sun loungers, plastic slides and ugly garden furniture we would do in the Netherlands, we decided a while ago. May be not such a good idea.
I seize the opportunity for a quick shower between guy number two and guy number three. Only to have the latter call me to say that he is a bit early and should he wait. The second I tell him it is ok if he comes a bit early, he presses the doorbell. Only in Switzerland they telephone you from your own front door.
I let him in, hair still dripping, with bare feet. At least I am dressed. He looks around for a good five minutes before he worriedly asks me wether or not I plan to empty the thirty flower pots, scattered around the garden. I suppose so. He also wants to know if we really plan on moving a pile of old mattresses. Yes of course, it is the children's most prized possession.
He is catching me off guard when he asks me wether or not we have much alcohol in the house, because I tell him no. I know it is always tricky to bring wine and spirits when on the move. Custom officers do not seem to like it much.
Ah well. At least W. and I can be permanently drunk when we start sifting through our stuff this summer.

Tuesday 9 April 2013

Pancake Test



If you investigate a possible new friendship with people from another country, then make pancakes together. I've done an awful lot of bonding, while mixing eggs, flower and milk in different parts of Europe.

The best thing about pancakes is that people are very opiniated about how to best make and serve them. Something I learned early on in my expatting career. Almost eight years ago, newly arrived in England, I was invited to come and make pancakes for Shrove Tuesday,  aka Pancake Day. About five women and their children met in a church hall to prepare for the feast.
I came laden with eggs, flower and milk, only to find that all the other women prepared their mixture beforehand at home. They were puzzled when they saw the quantity of milk I was planning to use. According to kItchen guru Dehlia you should also use water, so that is exactly what they all had done, leaving them with pale, limpy fluids that were never going to turn into great pancakes.
I soon took charge of the baking and they all humoured me. That is, until it came to serving the pancakes, that had to be covered in lemon juice and icing sugar. How unusual. When I started eating my traditionally Dutch bacon and syrup pancakes they watched me with a disgusted look in their eyes, way too polite to comment. We all became great friends of course, but never ate pancakes together again.
Whilst we were living in Italy I met my lovely French friend R. who could not even contemplate pancakes, unless they were crepes. She invited me and the children over quite a bit and loved to make crepes. Crepes with cheese and ham, crepes with sugar and - everybody's favourites - crepes with Nutella. We all fell in love with her as well as with her crepes. We were careful to never offer her any of our quite ordinary pancakes.
Those we served up when my son's Spanish friend J. came for tea. He loved pancakes. So much so, that when my children had long since left the table, he was still munching his way through huge quantities of the sugary treat. After a while he would order in advance, to make sure I could shop for flower, milk and eggs before he came round.
Switzerland has so far been a pancake poor experience. That is until my last week, when my very efficient American friend and her children came round. Without ever consulting me, she walked in with a huge bag of fruit and started peeling and chopping away. Every kind of fruit under the sun got it's own little bowl. It soon became obvious why noone wanted any bacon, cheese or apple on their
pancake.
Americans top their pancakes with fruit. Blueberries and bananas drenched in mapple syrup. And also strawberries and raspberries, topped with may be a little cream. It turnes the whole pancake extravaganza  into an almost healthy meal. I love it. Next time my friend tells me I could even include walnuts. Even better.
Now all I can do is hope that our return to the motherland, doesn't mean the end of my pancake adventures. I so love them. And pancakes too.

Sunday 7 April 2013

Life is beautiful



Today I found beauty in most things that I saw. Making it one of those rare days, when all you want to do is smile.

It did not start out as such a golden day. In fact it looked rather grey when I reluctantly opened the curtains this morning. After much manipulating - I had to promise them all sorts of treats - the children agreed to come cycling with me. Of course it is bitterly cold and no matter which way we turn, we have to batle with the wind.
Then, after forty minutes or so of steady cycling, I suddenly notice that no one whines.  No cold hands, or feet, no thirst, no hunger pangs, no tiredness plague my children apparantly. Instead they are all smiles, both of them. My son is racing ahead, very able on his bike, which is rather surprising since he did not get much cycling practise in his life. My daughter more tentative, but still giving the whole cycling thing a really good go. She insisted from the start that she did not want her saddle raised, nor did she trust herself to change gears on the go, so that she, stuck in first gear, knees coming up to her chin, has to give it her all to keep up with her brother. But she hangs in there. All eightteen kilometres of the touristy cycle route that I picked.
Chilled to the bone and tired with cycling, we decide to go for one last swim in the subtropical pool the children have come to love so much. Once comfortably installed at a table, the children on yet another slide adventure, I let my eyes wander.
Where on earlier visits to 'Aqua Mundo', I did not notice much besides loads of rather overweight half naked bodies and way too many tattoos, this time I saw the most touching scenes. Mothers, being hugged by teenage sons twice their lenght, fathers cradling their baby sons and daughters. A guy, his long hair in a pony tail, a falcon tattood on his shoulder blade, entertaining his five (!) daughters with enviable ease. And best of all, a pimple-faced boy of about fifteen, lifting his grandma in the air and putting her gently down on a big rubber float. He pushes her slowly around the pool. After a first few frightened minutes, grandma relaxes, leans back and closes her eyes. I almost burst into tears.
All of a sudden I feel guilty idling my time away, flicking through a magazine that does not really interest me, while I can also play with my two children. I do just that. We play piggy in the middle for hours on end, slide holes in our swimming costumes, eat ice cream and even brave the Turbo Twister together. I have not been this relaxed in ages. Hurray for Centre Parcs!

Wednesday 3 April 2013

Flowrider

Centre Park De Eemhof boosts a 'Flowrider'. A develish machine that creates an artificial wave on which holiday makers can learn to bodyboard. Watching novices struggle to keep afloat is the perfect antidote to my (April!) winter blues.

Holding a board in front of their tummies, children and adults alike need to dive down head first, into the white foam. Sliding down, while staying on their board, is something that most people seem to be able to manage after a while. Once the wannabee surfers hit the strong current however, a fair few of them float back up the ramp again. There they get a good tumble in water, so wild it is quite an accomplishment to manage to hold on to their swim wear. The surprised look on their faces, once they find the 'exit' is priceless.
The children could not wait, till I paid good money for them to have a 'Flowrider' lesson. So I made them a deal. They could go Flowriding, if they stopped nagging me about playing another round of freezing cold miniature golf. Needless to say, they took the bait. Winners all around!
Very exited and a little apprehensive the children show the wetsuit clad girl their special armbands. They both look tiny, next to some large teenage boys and their - even larger - dad. My daughter is first up. Bravely she takes the plunge. She gets catapulted backwards to where she just started, loses her board, gets a good wash in the surf, comes up for air and gives me the biggest smile ever. ,,This is epic", she yells at noone in particular.
My son, a year and a half older and infinitely cooler, goes for a more understated first run. He also gets pushed backwards, but does not give in. He pushes his elbows down and all the body weight that he has and - by sheer determination - manages to steer the board back down again. Triumphantly he swaggers back to the line.
Over the next half hour the children are being taught a dazzling array of tricks. They both sit up on their knees on their boards and also manage to turn themselves onto their backs while riding the wave. No mean feat, I can tell you. 

The nice mum that sits beside me and I make all the right noises while our brood is having a great time. We take some pictures, all the while sipping our cappucinos. She has not even changed into a bathing suit, but enjoys the subtropical pool fully clothed. Great idea! Next time I reckon, I could even smuggle in a magazine. Flowrider lessons tomorrow, anyone?

Monday 1 April 2013

Being Dutch


Struggling with a bike, two shopping bags filled to the brim with food, a blizzard and multiple frozen limps, I suddenly feel what it is to be Dutch again. In a former life, I cycled every day, more often than not packing two children on my bike as well. I must have been made of sterner stuff once.

I am not a graceful sight, zigzagging the cycle path, kicking the dangling shopping bags, all the while  swearing under my breath. After some hefty detours, I manage to find the cottage we rented for a week. The children, much better at deciphering road signs, have allready made themselves comfortable in front of the telly.
To enable W., the kids and myself, to spend some - hopefully quality - time together, we have decided to rent a cottage at Centre Parcs De Eemhof, in a windswept part of Holland. Here we are surrounded by our countrymen.
So that for the first time in years, we have to be careful when we talk to each other, because everyone can understand what we are saying. The children struggle the most with this concept and have to be reminded time and again not to say things out loud like: ,,Look mum, that guy is really fat" and ,,Did you see those tattoos?".
But at the same time it is wonderful to be able to make sense of the conversations of the people around us. The things they say to each other, however unremarkable, make me smile. And the fact that we meet children with the same names as our own is a real novelty.
One morning I decide to go for a run. Totally in love with the Alpine scenery I get to look at while running in Switzerland, I find it difficult to be motivated by the rows and rows of holiday bungalows. And allthough I don't mind the cold so much in Switzerland, I really don't like it in Holland. It doesn't help either that I haven't prepared for it and left my hideous running hat at home.
Consequently I feel absolutely miserable until I leave the holiday park behind me, turn a corner or two and let a row of symmetrical windmills, set in the flattest land I have seen in a long time, take my breath away.
How absolutely glorious I find this row of stark metal structures on a stretch of reclaimed land. The fields surrounding me are as flat as a pancake, which give the vast blue sky and fluffy white clouds all the space they will ever need. The vast lake in the distance is greyish blue and the horizon made up of tiny greyish church spires and even tinier brownish trees.
Suddenly it smells like it smelled when my twelve year old self learned how to sail. It smells like long forgotten spring holidays and the endless walks I took with my first born child in his pram. And with some luck, in a year or two, it might smell like home again.