The Babysitter Kommt

Last night saw me with sponge in hand, frantically trying to scrub Kalk off sinks and collect dust from corners. DS and DD splashed in the bath, peering over the side with interest.

DD: Crikey, Mum, anyone would think the Queen of London was coming over.
Me: Hurry, hurry, people! Get in your Pa-Jimmies! The baby-sitter is coming!

I exited the apartment as soon as the Dear Local Queen of Babysitters had arrived, to the strains of DS's over-tired histrionics. As I scooted away into the night I thought fondly of the oft-used words of my own Dear Brother whenever he exited my cacophonic, food- and toy-strewn house: 'See ya, wouldn't want to be ya!'

In this case, I most definitely did want to be me: I was off to a rehearsal for the Easter Chorale, with my new Project Choir (Projekt Chor). We were to sing Heinrich Schutz's Johannes-Passion and, frankly, I was having the best time being an über music-nerd.

Having just finished reading 'The Architecture of Happiness' by Alain de Botton, I shouldn't have been surprised to be so utterly taken aback at the vast quietness of the space inside the local spired church. As it was, my chaotic, hurried brain was stopped in its tracks, and I was rendered speechless.

The acoustics were as good as the space promised, and by the end of the rehearsal I was exhausted and entirely humbled - partly due to the fact that the choir director speaks about 7 words of English, and none of those are particularly helpful when attempting to tell a bunch of altos they need to put a bit more hatred into their words as they are, after all, singing about crucifying Jesus.

I suppose it was just lucky that I returned to find a quiet apartment with children dutifully sleeping, and a nonplussed DLQB doing her homework.

PS. As it turned out, the concert was sung on a snowy Easter Friday night, and was attended by DH and DD. Notably, DD managed to record with the video camera a few choice moments of Buxtehude organ-work and rather a lot of the final applause. DS was left in the capable hands of the DLQB, and very happily wore his Power Ranger gum-boots.

Whacky Mittwoch

Here is an example of the joys of using an online translator (for a letter I received from the Gemeinde regarding next year's schooling):

"The present kindergarten gutters, training by suns, school lines, members of the school care, the director/conductor of the school secretariat as well as further specialized persons are gladly ready to answer questions."

Currently my own brain's translation without the aid of a dictionary would read something like:

"The awesome Kindergarteners, teachers, schoolies, and other school persons including the school secretary are factual persons, and are going to be able to answer your questions."

All I can say is that between us we have a general idea of what's going on, but I can only hope my German rapidly improves sometime soon because, as you can see, life can seem a bit whacky at the best of times around these parts.

Spring snow

We woke this morning to much squealing and excitement from DS and DD as they ricocheted from room to room opening curtains and blinds.

Turns out the world was completely white. Indeed, by the time DS returned from another Kindergarten adventure in der Wald there was just under half a foot of snow blanketed around the apartment.

DS was entirely covered with mud, as usual, and on the way home he and his Dear Little Kiwi Pal happily fell onto their backs and lay in the puffy snow for a bit, making snow angels.

(DS also slid on his stomach, pushing a path through the snow until he got some down his skivvy-neck, and then he thought it wasn't such a good idea after all and proceeded to strip his clothes off and hand everything he possibly could including three sticks and a pine-cone to the conveniently nearby Hausfrau.

At this point, I also need to add that I have a pile of no less than 27 rocks of varying sizes which I have retrieved from DS's pockets over the past few weeks, thus averting a washing-machine catastrophe.)

Anyway, as the Dear Amazing Kindy Teacher pointed out as they returned with the wagon in tow, this is the first real snow we've had all season.

I'd been in the city during the morning, where the snow hadn't settled. It was just plain freezing.

One of the beauties of living a little further out, no doubt.

Ah, Spring snow!

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.)