Once more unto the breeches

Back in Zürich once again, and I was very excited to have Dear Cousin and Dear Cousin-in-Law-To-Be arrive from London for the New Year festivities.

I can't say it felt like a homecoming after being in Paris, but there is no doubt Zürich is a beautiful city.

DS, fuelled by a recent post-Christmas swords-and-shields Lego fest, was easily convinced to accompany us to the Swiss National Museum, which houses a huge collection of arms (swords, muskets, helmets, jousting equipment to name but a few attractions), as well as clothing from various centuries, and artefacts from prehistory and the early modern era.

[Bat Girl: What are you doing for New Year, Ginny Weasley?
Ginny Weasley: I dunno. Probably just hanging out on this flying horse or something.]


DD was at first less than enthused ('Why would I want to do that anyway?'), but probably because she was still sporting a miserable cold from before Christmas, which wasn't helped by late evenings in Paris spent jumping on mattresses and consuming chocolate, vacherin, chèvre and other dairy delights.

I particularly enjoyed the clothing exhibit, which contained various displays of folk (stuffed puppets, really) in garb from various eras: in their drawing rooms, playing cards, at the market, and so-on. The clothing from the 1700s was quite something: ornate, with subtly coloured fabrics and beautiful detail. This goes, too, for the army uniforms which, while they were bolder in colour (so the enemy couldn't miss you in all your splendour), of course would have been hand-made and -tailored. The work!

One uniform in particular DC and I found amusing: the chap wearing it looked more like a court jester than a soldier, with striped, ballooning knicker-bockers and blousy neck-tie. We wondered if today's equivalent might be Morrissey-designed Army greens. (Hey, if the Qantas airline crews can do it...)

We also couldn't help feeling slightly itchy knowing that the veneer of rich brocades and puffy wigs would have in fact disguised seething, multi-generational lice families and other entomological delights.

By the way, we had a fun New Year's Eve in Horgen: fireworks in the city could be seen from the vantage point at the top of our Hill, and the locals got into the spirit of it, exploding mini-rockets in their front yards from 10pm onwards. Let me tell you, those rockets aren't quiet. I'm amazed our children didn't stir, since it sounded like we were under attack. (Even though that's kind of unlikely in Switzerland of all places...)

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.)

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!

A Never-Ending Sunday in the Theatre of Life

After half a day water-sliding my way through life at Alpamare, you'd think I'd've been on the couch recovering.

Not so. I did have a reviving cup of tea, but then realised we should think about heading into the city to see the annual Santa parade down the Bahnhofstrasse.

So off we set, into the Kinirtaq (!), and on the train to the Hauptbahnhof, where floods of kids and parents were making their way into the city.

As we got off the train at the Hauptbahnhof, we were a little surprised to see a Harry Potter mural along one side of the train parked on the very next platform (or Gleis).

Not only that, but there was a queue of people lined up to go on the train. DH and I cast excited looks at one another and, without further ado, swung into action.

He and the kids joined the queue as I headed for the nearest 'Hogwarts Security' guard, who explained that we could go on the Hogwarts Express (read: ZVV train all Pottered up for promotional purposes). He told us it was an exhibition which included costumes from the most recent movie, as well as props and partial sets (read: the launch of The Order of the Phoenix DVD).


We really couldn't believe our luck (remember how DD was reading all those Potter books in parallel?), especially when we boarded the Hogwarts Express to see the real live robes of Harry Potter, Lucius Malfoy and Luna Lovegood, as well as a reconstruction of part of Umbridge's office complete with pink cat-plates.

DH was rather taken with the rows of ingredients for making potions and frankly, even though this sort of blatant promotion aimed at children makes the cynic in me cringe, I couldn't help feeling somewhat excited and more than a bit interested in the costumes and theatre of it all.

And we even had time to get to the Santa parade! (Which we privately and totally undeservedly congratulated ourselves on...)

In fact, the parade was just about to get underway as we arrived, and I must say I rather enjoyed seeing all the Elves and Santas in costume, congregated in the just-rainy night with their various floats and horses and Christmas lights.

Brass bands played very oom-pah stuff as the procession worked its way down the Bahnhofstrasse, but even though it was very Euro and Christmassy and all that, there were bucket-loads of people lining the street, and the kids were starting to get cold and hungry. Plus, I suspect seeing approximately 37 Santas could have been a mite confusing for DS.

PS. I took a few photos of the parade, but after the HP adventure my camera kept shutting down and telling me I had zero charge. So I had to keep tricking it and quickly taking a photo before it shut down again.

So if you look closely at this last photo you might see one of the old trams all lit up like a Christmas tree, and - at the top - you might also see the vertical Christmas lights which are hung the length of the Bahnhofstrasse (the ones people complained about last year). And I must say they are kind of interesting, but not really Christmassy in the twinkly sense. Another photo later, perhaps, when I have a charged-up camera.

A watery Sunday

This weekend DD was invited to the farewell party of a friend she'd only just met. (Such is the life of the ex-pat.)

This was no ordinary party. It was at Alpamare, home of Europe's biggest indoor water-slide.

Now I don't think I'm an over-protective mother, but I did have a little niggling feeling that it might be best if I accompanied her, or at least loitered nearby, since all the girls were at least two years older than DD, and DD is not yet a strong swimmer.

So at the crack of dawn I jumped on a train to Pfäffikon, with the aim of meeting them there. (DD had joined the girls in the car.)

Oh boy was I glad I went.

Not for DD's sake - she was fine; happy I'd come, but basically fine.

No, I was glad I'd gone because Alpamare has some serious water-slide action, and let me tell you I might have been acting all casual, but it's not every day you get the run of the place without having to keep an eye on a five-year-old as well.

The first thing I noticed on approach was that the side of the hill was steaming. That looked promising.

The next thing I noticed was that, because we were there so early in the day, the car park was rather empty. So far so good.

I located the girls easily, made sure DD was OK with new faces and non-English-speakers, and then went for it.

I can't say I tried all the slides, because there were a few favourites which took up a bit of my time, notably one which was very fast and you had to go down solo: unaccompanied by people or floatation devices.

DD, whenever I passed her, forced me to go down whichever slide she'd just been down, so of course being a good mother I obliged.

But by far the funniest thing about this place was the wave pool.

Every 20 mins or so a siren went off, and people started swarming towards the wave pool (which was really just like a 50 metre pool, if that) to the throes of Hawaiian guitar. Not only that, but as the Hawaiian music subsided, the artificial thunder started up, the strobe lightning kicked in, and then it started to 'rain'! I couldn't stop laughing, and wondered what DD was thinking about it all as she braved the chlorine waves.

I tried to explain to DD's friend's mother why it was so funny, but found myself telling her about Australian beaches and how DD had been surfing last Christmas holidays, and how huge the beaches are...

Even the raspberry (or was it grape?) slushy at lunch couldn't mask the homesickness at that point.

I meandered back to the train station with my hair still a bit wet under my hat, and wondered how long it would be before I felt sand between my toes again.


I felt the solidarity, though, when I got home to find DH glued to the computer again after yesterday's election, eyeing off the electorate figures and ruing the fact that he hadn't been able to go back to the tally room this year.

Boot on other foot

Saturday really began on Monday, when DH and I sat down and with great ceremony filled out our postal votes. (Which way would it swing? Could we really wait until Saturday to find out?)

The Real Saturday began with DH and the Hausfrau glued to the computer, streaming radio and (eventually) ABC TV.

Presently, however, Life in Switzerland intervened: I had to go and find DD some snow boots before her feet froze and fell off, and Real Saturdays are the only weekend shopping days, since everything is closed on Real Sundays.

So off we set, leaving DH still glued to the computer, not knowing if we'd return to a Liberal or Labor government. I had my mobile phone at the ready.

We passed our friend Sheepish on the way, which of course made me think of elections even more, since in the recent Swiss election there had been a campaign involving sheep.

Please, let me explain.

The Swiss People's Party (SVP) came up with the idea of using the image of a black sheep to represent their view that Ausslanders (foreigners) with criminal records should not be allowed to stay in Switzerland. Unfortunately marrying the 'black' concept with the 'we don't want you to stay' concept was wading waist-high into racist territory. And, regardless of what they might say (and they claim they're not racist), pictures speak louder than words.

I guess any press is good press come election time, but I must add that the mug-shot bill-board posters of SVP candidates around the time of the election could be seen not infrequently with extra 'decoration' from the public. (Read: Hitler moustaches and devil horns.)

Not only that, but one weekend some protestors had set up a kind of patting-pen on the Bahnhofstrasse, in which were a number of white and black sheep, living in harmony, one presumes.

Back on track, though: Did we find a pair of boots for DD?

Yes, we did. Not only that, but as she was replacing one old pair of (I could say jackboots, but that would be silly) boots with new black ones, DH called with the news.

Out with the old, and in with the new.

(Now where have I heard that before? I should be a speech writer.)