Lost in translation

Initially, for this post I had planned to say:

'The few days of skiing in Klosters was the same as the week before at Amden, with the notable addition of two Infotech Central Employees, an even larger tantrum from DS, and the notable absence of Prince Charles'.

However, upon consideration, I have decided that's not entirely accurate.

For starters, we drove there, instead of catching the train (much easier on the Hausfrau's muscles). And we also stayed in a fellow Dear ICE's apartment, which turned out to be an oasis of comfort. I'd even go so far as to say it was gemütlichkeit, a phrase used by folk around these (and German) parts to allude to an atmosphere of warm friendliness, amicability or cosiness. There is no literal translation in English, but whatever the case, this place had it.

Me: (sitting on comfy sofa with tired ski-legs and hot tea in hand) [thinks] Hmm. I'd love a blanket for my knees. Oh, look! There's one right here! And it's so soft and snuggly!

(moments later)

Me: [thinks] Hmm. I just need to put my tea down but there's no side table, and the ottoman is too soft. It might spill. Oh, look! There's a tray! I can put it on that on the ottoman! And I don't even have to stand up!

(moments later)

Me: [thinks] Hmm. A bath might go down well... Oh, that's right! There's a spa-bath in the other bathroom!

So as you can tell, we were well-sheltered from the elements: all we had to do was ski!

Our first afternoon was spent on the 3.3km Gotschna sledging run - and that was the short run... the other run across the way at Madrisa is about 9km (!).

If you've never used a wooden sledge/sled before, let me tell you it's an acquired skill. There's no steering: just your feet and your weight. DH and I had a similar experience - we just started to get the hang of it half way down the run, but not before a couple of good stacks, and a lot of screaming and exhilarated whooping from DS and DD... oh, alright, from DH and me too.


When we finally hit the slopes for skiing in earnest we had clear days and awesome views. Daily Hausfrau-dom was left far behind for a few glorious days of carving snow, and flying (ahem, literally airborne a little too often than originally intended) down the mountain-sides.

There really aren't any literal translations from my brain to English or German to try to express how the clarity of the air, and vast expanse of snow, and abundance of happy skiers lifts the spirits.

What a privelege to be able to take time out to have an adventure like this one.



PS I couldn't say for sure if Prince Charles was lurking, but I didn't spot him.

The bus that got away

Another train trip south past Pfäffikon - oh how the Hausfrau loves this hazy stretch of Lake Zürich - this time on to Ziegelbrücke and then by bus to Amden.















Question: How many buses can one Hausfrau miss?

Answer: None at all... unless accompanied by DS.

DS: I just can't think why my legs won't work.

We excitedly watched the snow appear as the bus wound its way up the mountain roads. When we reached our stop we hauled our gear up the hill to the hotel and then had a quick turnaround and managed to - just! - catch the hourly bus (we'd already missed two buses and one train by this stage) further up the mountain in time for our ski lessons.

The children cheerfully waved me off as they joined their respective classes, and I skied off into the wild white yonder with my Dear Local Ski Instructor, who also happened to be the Local Postie.

I can really only loosely call her my DLSI, as she was quite sure I was 'very sporty' and didn't need her guidance (Ha! to Pedro at the ski hire place, at this point).

Therefore I am happy to report I had a highly entertaining afternoon being shown around the village which is peppered across the mountain-side, and greeting what seemed like just about every other instructor and Dear Local on the slopes.

She has been skiing since she was two, as have her boys, who are now both ski instructors themselves. She said when they were little she used to put them down for a nap after lunch and tell them not to move until she got back from teaching ski classes.

DLSI: I go and they fall to sleep, and then I come home and they stand up again.

She showed me her grandmother's house as well as her childhood home, and we had a rather relaxed afternoon shooting the part-English/part-German breeze as we cruised up the T-bar and chair lift.

It doesn't get much better than flying down a snow-covered mountain on a sunny afternoon: Mission accomplished by 2.30pm on Day 1. How impressive is that?!

So on the first night, after missing the hourly bus twice (despite my best efforts to motivate a mostly horizontal, snow-scoffing DS with encouragement, bribery and eventually screeching) and hauling skis and other paraphernalia back up the hill to the hotel, we descended upon the local pizzeria and watched the sunset fade behind the mountains as we sucked back icy-cold lemonades.

Me: I'm parched. I could drink a lake.
DD: It's probably from yelling so much.
DS: Yeah. Don't worry, mummy. It's probably from yelling so much.

At that point I began to let go of any hopes I'd had of DS meeting any external timetable.

And therefore, on Day 2, when DS - in absolute, total and utter exhaustion after his ski class - had the Mother of all Tantrums, the Hausfrau resignedly followed DD to a nearby rather large mound of snow and waited for the storm of flailing arms and ski-booted legs (and the bus) to pass.

Not so bad, all things considered, when you have not much else to do that day other than contemplate where you might acquire your next hot chocolate, and to admire the sensational view from atop a snow-capped Swiss mountain.

Eventually DS arrived back on earth, and we made it back to the hotel in time for dinner - with a sunrise, a hot bread-and-jam breakfast, and one last day of amazing snow to look forward to.

Vive la Hausfrau!

Giving Salvador Dali a run for his money

I was greeted by an email the other morning issuing a warning to local residents of nearby Adliswil not to drink their water supply, as there had been a sewerage leak into the drinking water supply. (Ack.)

Then I was warned that there would be country-wide air-raid-like sirens going off after lunch on Wednesday, just for practise... (In fact they did, and the hooter sent the kids running around the house and hiding under their doonas, with much dramatic screeching.)

Call it holiday fever (next week marks the beginning of the two-week Sportsferien, or 'Sports holiday' - yes, there is a holiday dedicated entirely to being healthy) or the impending Zürich Carnival due to kick off this Friday night, but as the week was drawing to a close I wasn't surprised to find myself standing in front of an enormous pile of skis, boots, stocks, helmets etc. after I impulsively booked myself and the kids in for 4 days of skiing at Amden next week.

The departure discussion with the ski-hire guys went as follows:

Pedro: You want to pick the rest of it up tomorrow?
Me: No way, dudes! What you see on the floor is what I have to carry on the train next week.
Pedro: You?
Me: And the kids. Make it so!
Pedro's boss: You want to hire Pedro? He can carry to Amden. Hahaha!
Pedro: Ja! I come free if you buy Ski Tarife (lift ticket) and hotel room.
Me: Ha. Very funny. Find me some bags and help me pack it all up, silly boys.

Preceded by:

Pedro: You ski before?
Me: Yes. A long time ago.
Pedro: How long?
Me: Er... nearly twenty years...
Pedro: (hysterical laughter) Oy! Very different! Look at the little skis! You beginner now I think!! (More sniggering.)

Anyway, they dutifully helped me pack up all the stuff, including back-protectors, the wearing of which DS is convinced makes him eligible to join the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (hmm... Michelangelo, Donatello, Leonardo, Raphael and... Dali?).

So we lugged it all fairly uneventfully onto the train and then bus, where of course we were greeted by a bus-driver completely dressed in clown garb.

DD and I cast slightly confused looks at each other as our Dear Clown - after announcing the bus stops - cracked jokes followed by a slightly manic 'hahaha'. We could only assume we were in fact on the right planet because - truly, even with my newly-acquired Deutsch A1 Zertifikat under my belt - I had a snowball's chance in hell of understanding any of his microphone-distorted Swiss-German.

Nobody seemed too bothered by the streamers and random hoot of the party horn, however, so we decided to relax and go with the flow. Plus, the jokes must have been pretty funny, because the Dear Locals were all giggling.

One more thing: as I was just now cooking dinner for the troops I chanced to look out the window to see a chap sauntering along the street wearing wrapped around his torso an enormous white tuba.

At that point I confess I was compelled to check and make sure he wasn't also walking a lobster.

The embassy of animals

I'm usually not a fan of zoos - I'll say it straight up. In fact I can't even remember the last time I went to a zoo. (Probably in Canberra.) But, having thought about it with my ex-pat goggles on, I decided that if you thought about it hard enough a zoo could be seen to be the embassy of the animals. And maybe if the general public see and know animals, they're less likely to want to harm them.

OK, enough rationalising. I want to say I won't rave on about the architecture (even though I was struck by the very sturdy building which housed the penguins and other lives aquatic), but there was something about the feel of the place that made the adult in me feel nostalgic.

You see, my memories of being a child in the 1970s are occasionally back-lit by some of Canberra's then-'new' buildings like the National Gallery and the High Court - great thundering pieces of modernist architecture replete with yawning walls of concrete and shades of Frank Lloyd-Wright-ish-ness. (And brown.)

So it was a little disconcerting to be so very distracted by the building as we followed the children up and down wide atrium walk-ways and stair-ways, to a background screeching of monkeys and finches, and an unbelievably designer-looking collection of frogs.

Never mind the occasional zoo attendant with swarms of children 'patting' an orange snake. Yes, the Aussie Hausfrau in me was cringing: I guess I've always taught the children to steer well clear of snakes and spiders - a fundamental lesson which I doubt would cross our Dear Local Neighbours' minds. (Maybe they're more occupied with stories of bears and wolves.)

Even more surreal was the Zürich Masoala Rainforest. We had a bit of a walk to get there - the zoo is 'zoned', and we had to go through 'Africa', past an African-themed playground, past (read: on) a big slide, and into 'Madagascar'. (Note Swiss House behind African Hut in photo.)

The Zürich Masoala is inside a huge 'greenhouse' of sorts, and I confess it was more than strange: it was completely bizarre. We had to strip off puffy jackets and jumpers in order to cope with the 22-degree humidity after the 4-degree outside temperature.

DH and I of course gazed into each others' eyes across the chameleons and busy German chatter, wistfully mouthed, 'Queensland,' simultaneously, and made an instant pact to get to the Daintree Rainforest one day when we get back to Oz.

As we plunged back into the near-zero late afternoon, we realised of course that there had been one thing happily missing from the rainforest: mosquitoes.

So to celebrate we went to get some dinner at our favourite vegetarian restaurant in the city.

(Where DS flopped sideways on his stool with exhaustion and, despite lentils and cous-cous and other international yumminess, refused everything but a hot chocolate.)

A question of balance

Ever found yourself musing about wearing a pair of white chiffon jeans with a side zip? Stop right there, sister (and brother - definitely brother). As of today I know about style, and the new-found stylist in me says NO!

I say No! to jeans without back pockets. No! to jeans with side-zips. No! to thin fabric for white jeans. And No No No! to tight-armed t-shirts unless your upper arms are fabulously toned.

See? It's amazing the stuff you can learn if you put your mind to it.

Yes, today saw me heading over to the apartment of a fellow SP ('Spouse or Partner of...' in case you've forgotten) to attend an afternoon tea with an ex-pat Zürich Stylist and a Dear Jeweller (who is also an SP in her spare time).

Just to make sure we weren't all fading away to nothing, our hostess had put on a wonderful spread of hors d'oeuvres, wine and cake. This Hausfrau felt it was her duty to sample most of the offerings, plus the Greek dessert wine, which another Dear (Greek-speaking) SP informed her was often drunk at communion. (Not her, the wine.)

I was interested to see the clothes our Stylist had assembled to show us. (Pink, according to her, is the colour to be seen in this summer.)

I can't say I would have naturally gravitated toward anything she had on offer, but I am rather in awe of someone who could get up and, without batting a mascara'ed lash, tell the doubting Thomases among us that she could make slim-cut or wide-leg jeans or even halter-neck dresses work for anyone - it's just a question of balance.

Yes. At that moment, communion wine in hand, I had an epiphany: This woman knew halter-necks. I may have been in the presence of a Guru.

Happily the epiphany lasted a little longer than expected (I don't get epiphanies very often, so it was good to settle in with it), because it extended to the Dear SP Jeweller, who clearly enjoyed her passion for jewellery in all its various guises. (Plus she was wearing pink.)

She talked about gold and silver and platinum, and the various mixes with copper and other metals, and she talked about diamonds (why not: we are in Zürich after all). And she also talked about how hair-spray and perfumes are Death to the Pearl, which had never before crossed my mind (perhaps because perfumes and hair-spray are also Death to the Hausfrau).

But back to the extended epiphany, and I must say I agree whole-heartedly with the DSPJ when she said you should really just wear what makes you feel good: things you like to look at, and which make you happy.

Now I don't pretend to understand the 'question of balance' in a wardrobe (especially not after the Greek communion wine, because balance is clearly an art). But I do wonder if preceding that question must exist the question: Which style is your particular style? Stove-pipes or flares? Silver or gold?

And, for the Hausfrau, that particular quest is one on which only the Hausfrau can travel.

I'll let you know when I've found the Holy Grail (also which metal and jewels it was made from and if it's worth its weight).

Haus of the rising son

After another week of being woefully Haus-bound (it was DD's turn to be sick this week), the weekend was shaping up to be a little more social.

Friday night saw four other 'Spouses or Partners of...' (SPs) turn up on the Hausfrau's humble doorstep for the second meeting of the new Book Club.

As the rather long fortnight of Flying Solo was drawing to a close you can imagine how excited the Hausfrau was to receive guests. Yes, folk to talk to in English and, what's more, chat with about books. One of the Hausfrau's favourite topics.

We did indeed talk about the book (Midwives by Chris Bohjalian, in case you're interested) for the obligatory 4% of allotted time, and dutifully ate, drank and were merry for the remaining 96% (figures taken from the Global Guidelines For A Successful Book Club), thanks to the timely recent delivery of the Online Shopping Queen's groceries (read: cheeses, grapes, lychees and of course Austrian wine).

Much fun was had by all present, including my offspring, who punctuated the evening with various impromptu visits.

One of the SPs had brought along her daughter (the Sleep-Over-Friend), so DD and the SOF settled in for a bout of DVD-watching in DD's bedroom.

DS, however - whom I'd managed to get into bed and to sleep prior to the arrival of the SPs, but who was woken approximately 3 minutes later by Very Loud Sibling - was quite keen to rise from his bed occasionally, just to check we were behaving ourselves.

So by the time the S8 pulled in the next morning (one of the two trains from the city which stop at the main station here), the sun was shining, birds were singing (well, I didn't notice that, but they usually do, so I'm sure they were) and two very tired but excited children flung themselves at DH as he hauled off the train much more luggage than he'd left with.


Hooray! Presents!

Of course I mean: Hooray! DH!

Old town, new look

Over the few days DC and DCIL were in town we spent a bit of time wandering around the old town of Zürich on the East Bank, which I never cease to find awesome: the buildings are remarkable and still standing! (At home in Oz, we feel like our house is ancient, and it was built in the 1950s. So you can see how I'm loving the city-scape here.)

I do need to jump forward in time a little bit here (speaking of old parts of the city): this weekend I ventured properly into the 'new' old town on the West bank of the Limmat River in search of my new hairdresser (whom I located by interrogating a dude in a department store who looked like he might know a thing or two about the Zürich hairdressing scene. Well, he had a Number Two and he was a makeup artist...)

As I left the house the conversation went as follows:

DD: Mama! Where are you going?!
Me: To get a haircut.
DD: (dubious) Well... OK, but don't do anything crazy.

It ended up being an interesting ramble, as I looked closely at the East bank and discovered tiny cobblestone streets and some jolly expensive boutiques as well - mostly clothing. The shopfronts were still flush with Christmas decor, too, which was at times no less than gaudy.

I eventually ended up at the hairdressing salon, which housed two hairdressers and a gob-smackingly huge, wall-sized mirror, which enabled me to see myself from head to toe in all my Hausfrau glory. Shockingly confronting. I could only thank my lucky stars that I'd worn some lippy. Shortly after being seated in front of aforementioned Massive Mirror I was served hot tea and croissant to aid my recovery.


Turns out my hairdresser, like many young thangs around these parts, is a mad snow-boarder. I wouldn't have picked it, but her hair-cutting associate confirmed it, and urged me to go snow-boarding as soon as humanly possible.

I've added it to the growing list of Things To Do In Europe...

PS. You might have noticed the blog has a new look too... (This is so when I'm 80 and want to print out pages for my great-grandchildren I don't have to buy up the world's supply of coloured printer cartridges.)