Portraits of one kind and another

Our Dear Aussie Hosts had booked tickets for us all - four biggies and five littlies - to see the Arcimboldo (the 16th Century Fruit & Veg Portrait Guy) exhibition at the Musée du Luxembourg on Boxing Day.

For those of you who have neices or nephews or children of your own, you'll know that trying to organise five children under nine out the door to catch buses which won't wait can be a challenge. However, we were determined, and skated in to the Musée at the eleventh hour (literally) with tickets clutched firmly in hand. (A stroke of brilliance on the part of our DAHs, as it meant that we didn't have to wait in the very long queue in the rain.)

The exhibition was a corker and extremely busy, which meant that a certain amount of child-swapping and entertaining was required in order to maintain a level of interest which would allow us to see all the paintings and other artifacts without the kids totally losing the plot.

Nonetheless we managed to see it all, and subsequently congratulated ourselves as we consumed roast duck and pink lemonade among other things cheesy at a nearby café (hey, when in Paris...), having lost not a single charge in the melée, nor had to endure any meltdowns of substance.

Thus, substantially revived, we plunged again into the cold and spitting rain, to perambulate through the Jardins du Luxembourg, which were mostly deserted, though we were reliably informed by our DAHs that come spring and summer you'd find barely a free seat, and students taking tutorials and engaging in discussion in the park. Ah, Paris!

I must just say at this point that I'm extremely grateful to our DAHs, whom DH and I left standing at a rainy bus stop with all five kids for fifteen precious minutes as DH and I ran full-pelt to the former home and formidable Paris salon of Gertrude Stein, in nearby Rue de Fleurus.


I was a little envious of the residents of Number 27 who politely excused themselves as they unlocked the gate and nonchalantly slipped inside, as though going nowhere in particular: Just another day in the Rue de Fleurus.


DH and I had places to be, though, so we flung ourselves back into reality. DH ran like lightning, laughing at the slow Hausfrau, but the fact is one does have to watch one's feet on the streets in Paris, as there is much merde to dodge.


In fact, DH reckons he could still smell Paris on our return journey to Zürich, even under the chèvre and camembert which we were pasting onto baguette as the train carved its way through the Swiss countryside. I'm not so sure, and one doesn't like to leave Paris thinking about merde. It just leaves a bad taste in the mouth.

(Ha. No more bad jokes, I promise.)

A day in the sun

Our first days in Paris were in fact the first time in a couple of weeks that we'd seen sun, so DH and I made the most of our Dear Aussie Hosts' kind offer to sit on our children (they have three of their own, so it was quite a gang), and sank into seats in the full sun at a café in the Trocadéro, where we eagerly awaited the arrival of Quiche Lorraine and Croque Monsieur in all their French finery. (Another record-breakingly long sentence from the Hausfrau.)

They did not disappoint, and DH and I found ourselves sharing an amusingly rare moment of bliss: sitting in warm sun; uninterrupted conversation; good food; hot coffee; in Paris...

... having just visited the amazing public toilets at the Trocadéro for no other reason than to see the Art Nouveau carving and stained glass.



Photographs were not allowed for obvious privacy reasons, so of course I took some. But only from the inside of my 'cubicle' - really a self-contained room - the plain tiled interior of which was somewhat disappointing when compared to the ornate wooden carving of the 'foyer'. I was still a very happy Hausfrau to see the glasswork, though, and became rather smug after I discovered that DH's Monsieurs' experience had been somewhat more public and somewhat less Nouveau than mine.

Christmas in the city of light

A couple of days before Christmas we jumped on a train bound for Paris.

I'm almost tempted to just let the photos do the talking, but I had a slight camera problem so couldn't use the viewfinder which, for me, is kind of like rock-climbing with one hand tied behind your back.


Regardless, no amount of fancy camera equipment could possibly capture the sublime light as we approached Paris through dusky, wintry countryside with a blushing full moon on the horizon.




I'd stayed at the Oz Embassy in Paris when I was about twelve, and have memories of the proximity of the embassy building to the Eiffel Tower but, as Heaney says, the past is another country, so it was with fresh eyes that I copped the view from our Dear Aussie Hosts' lounge and kitchen windows.

'Hideous!' I shrieked. 'Shut the curtains now! Vite, vite!'

OK, that was me trying to be funny; it really was stupendous.

It took us four days of juggling kids with colds, and much fortifying cheese and baguette consumption to reach the tower, but we did manage it - just the Hausfrau and DH - on our last night in Paris.

By this stage it was night, the weather had changed, and we were swathed in mist. But this didn't deter us, and somehow the floodlights and fog forced our attention to the tower itself and the feat of engineering that brought about its existence.





















Here is the view from the top:



Not as I'd anticipated, but then life never is.

A morning im Wald

This week I was rostered on to join DS and his classmates for their monthly excursion to the local forest, or der Wald.

So after a quick Swiss sing-along accompanied on guitar by Frau Amazing Kindy Teacher we loaded up the wagon and headed off, observed by several chocolate-y sheep (who incidentally looked - 3 hours later - as though they hadn't moved a muscle).


The day was freezing and grey, and the forest looked distinctly dark and ominous as we approached, but the children and the robust Frau AKT were undeterred. The children took turns hauling the wagon, and were given free rein once on the path down to the clearing where the action was to take place.

Apart from the obligatory mud-sliding and rolling in the soggy-like-cornflakes leaves, the kids were organised into finding pictures of 5 different kind of owls, which I and the other accompanying parent had 'hidden' around the forest floor.

Frau AKT then talked with the children about the differences between the types of owls, and then the children got into pairs and one of them put on a blindfold and was lead by their partner around the forest - to see what it might be like to find your way through the forest at night, like an owl.

By this stage I was pretty chilly, since the reliable puffy jacket was still in the wash after the Great Compost Debacle, but luckily Frau AKT had started the children on a hunt for kindling (even though she brought most of the wood on the wagon since the forest was very wet after a week of rain and snow).

I was charged with the job of whittling sticks into pointed skewers with - you guessed it - a Swiss Army Knife, and the children started skewering sausages of all shapes and sizes, and helping to make 'snake bread' (dough wound around a stick and cooked over the fire).

After more mud-sliding down the embankment and general frivolity, Frau AKT and I boiled the billy and served up hot apple tea to the by now somewhat dishevelled troupe.

And before we knew it it was time to pack up and head for home, shedding children along the way as we encountered their houses or older siblings.

The only down-side to this excursion was that DS, who had been a little under the weather the last couple of days, finally succumbed to croup and spent a good deal of the night barking like a dog. A visit to the local children's doctor tonight sorted him out.

Here's an interesting fact, though: all children here see children's doctors rather than family GPs. And believe it or not there is only one kids' doctor in Horgen, which I found hard to believe when I first found out. What's also amazing is that this one doctor clearly loves his job, and speaks fluent English. Incidentally, he also looks like he just stepped off a yacht, like his counterpart in Zürich city, whom we encountered not long after arriving.

PS. One more fact, which for some obscure reason made me laugh like a lunatic (it doesn't take much these days) is that the taxi service here has no less than nine taxis for our convenience. Unfortunately the guy who owns the service speaks zero English, so I was forced to plunge in and request a taxi in German. (I would normally walk, but DS was too sick to be out in the cold.) I have no doubt that I sounded like a dumb foreigner, but Herr Taxi turned up at the requested time, and even understood that I might call him once we'd finished at our appointment.

I can't tell you the relief when The Taxi Plan all worked: when you have little trusting faces looking up at you and asking, 'Where are we going, Mummy?', sometimes you just have to smile and cross your fingers and hope like the blazes you end up in the right place.

Or if you end up in the wrong place that it looks like you were hoping to go on a bit of an adventure anyway.

How to get your hair to smell like noodles

Remember how I talked about composting, and how we have a green compost dumpster? Well we also have a regular grey dumpster, in which you can deposit only the approved, paid-for, grey rubbish bags.

Here is a story.

The Hausfrau braved the bitterly cold rain last night, dressed in puffy jacket, wielding full grey Horgen bag in one hand and over-full compost container in the other.

She took a furtive look around and plunged recklessly across the grass, flying in the face of 'stick-to-the-paths' norms.

[I should mention at this point that she has received more than one 'tsk tsk' from the Grey Rinse Local in the next apartment block, as DS trotted with gay abandon across the grass, ignoring the Hausfrau's weak: 'Don't go on the grass, dude!'

Also, the Hausfrau lives in fear of The Caretaker, who has on more than one occasion been lurking as she cut corners. Not to mention the time that someone left a huge amount of polystyrene sheets out for recycling on cardboard recycling day. The polystyrene sheets were shortly and pointedly deposited outside the Hausfrau's apartment block door, leading the Hausfrau to believe that The Caretaker thought she was the culprit.]

So, back to last night: The Hausfrau strode across the sodden grass, and promptly slid on her bottom down the hill, spilling compost across her clothing and all across the grass.

She sat there for a few seconds staring in shock at the steaming array of foodscraps, but then quickly recovered herself and heaved the grey bag into the grey bin, and the remaining compost in to the green one.

She raced back to dispose of the evidence, scooping up handfuls of warm rice and old slimy noodles. Then, without thinking, tipped it... into the squeaky-clean, grey dumpster.

She looked at her massive faux-pas in horror, and made a snap decision. She would have to clean it up, or suffer the consequences - someone would undoubtedly go through her rubbish to work out who the culprit had been. (This was confirmed by a local Swiss Hausfrau today, who nodded sagely and said: 'Yes, they would investigate your rubbish, it's true!')

So into the dumpster dove the Hausfrau; legs flailing, lid resting on her muddy bottom, scraping desperately at noodles and potato peelings and half dead lemons.

Then she heard someone coming.

Who could it be, at this time of night, and in the pouring rain? How could she explain what was going on when she didn't even know the German word for 'Innocent', let alone 'Don't worry, I'm just doing a handstand in the dumpster'?

At that point, she started laughing, and in fact laughed so hard she fell further into the dumpster. Which was probably for the best, because by the time she got out they'd gone, and she was laughing so hard she could hardly stand, and that wouldn't have looked good.

When she finally composed herself, she returned to scrape the final bits of noodle off the hillside, and hoped that the rain would wash away the last tell-tale lumps of Weet-bix.

Relieved, she picked up the compost container, flicked her now Thai-chicken-noodle-flavoured hair out of her face, and sauntered casually to her apartment block on the path, lest she receive only black coal for Christmas.

PS. This post is especially for you, Mum. It's good to know what your daughter is up to.

Samichlaus is coming to town

In these parts (German-speaking Switzerland) December 5th marks the celebration of the coming of Samichlaus, or St Nicholas - Nicholas of Myra, patron saint of children - and his alter-ego, Schmutzli.

Historically, Samichlaus made his way around the village, stopping at each house to inform children when they had been good, and when they had been bad. Children put out a shoe to receive from Samichlaus the next morning nuts, mandarins and chocolate... or coal from Schmutzli if they have been 'bad'.

Schmutzli is more formidably dressed in dark clothing, and carries a hessian sack, into which - in some stories - naughty children are packed up and carried off through the night into the Black Forest.

The tradition is maintained: the most well-known celebration of this event is held in Küssnacht, where the town's men get out in their white garb and in procession crack whips, blow cow horns, and beat cowbells well into the night.

So to mark the occasion, my endlessly energetic South African neighbour (DSAN) organised a visit from a couple of the local Samichlaus and Schmutzli.

The kids (there were about 8 of them) were a little suspicious of S & S, and listened dubiously to the Swiss-German and courageous attempts at English (which were much appreciated).

Samichlaus opened his Book of Sins and read for each child some good things they had been doing, and some 'challenges' for the year ahead (aided a little by some emailed homework from the mothers in the room!).

Samichlaus told DD and DS that they had been doing a fine job learning German. He even told us he knows DS's Amazing Kindy Teacher. (Oh ja, Frau AKT. I know Frau AKT! She is a good friend!) DD giggled a lot when Samichlaus reminded her to be patient, but poor DS covered his face when advised in general terms that it is good to be gentle.

I had been in two minds about my homework prior to this event - 'challenges' for the year ahead - but in the end we kept it general and in a spirit of a challenge and not a failing.

As they left, Schmutzli gave each child a hessian sock stuffed full of peanuts, mandarins and chocolate. Oh, and a Hot Wheels, of course, for the boys. (Ah, the modern age.)

In the past, DH and I have cracked jokes with DD about giving her some coal for Christmas, and she's often (rightly) pooh-poohed us or waved us away. She knows when we are joking.

But after hearing the Schmutzli stories this year, we might not be so flippant with our words.


PS. 'Samichlaus' told us one of those 'A funny thing happened on my way through the Black Forest' jokes...

Man in Forest: Greetings! The name is Bond. James Bond.
Samichlaus: Glad to meet you. The name is Li. Schmutz Li.

Maybe you had to be there!

I see the sea

We met this beamish octopus at Planeta Magic in Wädenswil. There's not much of a story to tell, except that I noticed there were a lot of American kids and 'moms' there, for some reason or other.

Our Dear South African Neighbour, who has been so inclusive and generous since our arrival, drove us there with her two boys. (She's the one who brought over a home-made cake when my DM let it slip that it was my birthday!)

I was a very teensy bit reticent about going there, as nearly every time DS went to the equivalent in Oz, he contracted the vomits. However, I was relying on the fact that Switzerland is renown for being jolly clean, and I hoped PM would reflect this general state of cleanliness.

It did. I just wish I could say the same for our apartment. Let's face it, you could spend your life cleaning, or you could take flying leaps off the top of inflatable sea-creatures.

Look! Over yonder! A box that looks like a tree!

Because this blog is Hausfrau and not Eurofrau, you will have to tolerate the occasional entry about stuff which happens in the Haus.

That said, I wish to inflict upon you The Making of the Christmas Tree.

After observing the rising numbers of Christmas trees in public and private spaces, ringing around local stores, and lurking on ex-pat mailing lists (and even enquiring about what to do with the trees after Christmas - turns out they can in some areas be picked up by the local composting outfit), I came to the conclusion (egged on by DF, I must add) that we had all the necessary ingredients to cook up our own recyclable Christmas Tree. (Far out that was a long sentence.)



Not only that, but following my first German lesson in a classroom adorned with rather fun murals of a contemporary nature, I had a vision...




Yes, The Tree would be one to kick contemporary art butt.

So, aided and abetted by two small artistes, I set to work with a couple of packing boxes.
















We are very proud of our tree.

Now I just have to market it through Ikea and make a million to support my coriander- and chocolate-eating habits. Which, by the way, should be completely sated by the recent release of the Lindt-Sprüngli Dark Chocolate with Pepper and Coriander.

I know. It sounds utterly wrong. I will shortly force myself to try it.