100 Things I Learned in Switzerland: Sights and Sounds

2) The sights and sounds of Europe ~ living, touring, hiking and eating through a good slice of it.
3) Europe, like the USA, is a very big, diverse place.

After graduating college, during those years when we worked any job while trying to find our way in the world, a few girlfriends of mine decided to date their passports.  Every time things didn't work out with a man of interest, they took off for Edinburgh, Paris, Cinque Terre, and put another stamp in their little books. 

They talked of Euro rail passes and hostels, and came home with stories of sleeping on trains and the guys who hit on them during siesta in Rome.

Meanwhile, I was nannying during the week and touring the US interstates from church service to youth coffeehouse on the weekends.  It was exciting, but let's just say doing a show in Auburn, Indiana didn't have the same mystique as playing for tips on the streets of Prague.

I had the dream of European travel, but circumstances and the contents of my bank account never added up to a plane ticket.  At 26, when Doug proposed, it was my only regret…I never got to backpack through Europe.  A year after the wedding bells, pregnant with our little surprise blessing, I thought it was all over.  Life of adventure, done.  But...

What no eye has seen, nor ear heard, nor the heart of man imagined,
this God has prepared for those who love him.
~ Paul's first letter to the Corinthians 2:9

Only a few months later, Doug accepted a position at the University of Zurich, Switzerland.  The little guy was four and a half months old when we moved across the ocean.

"You're taking a baby to live in a foreign country?" so many people probed, surprised that we would even consider this adventure, let alone do it.

For me, the answer was simple.  I wanted to see Europe.  This was my chance.  I wanted to kiss at the top of the Eiffel Tower and hike the Cinque Terre.  I wanted to sit in a street-side cafe, eat croissants and sip espresso.   I wanted to people-watch, and listen to them laugh in foreign languages.  I wanted to study the beautiful architecture of any random street  with no need to rush for a tour bus, no hurry for a travel schedule.

Before the landing gear hit the tarmac, Doug and I made an agreement: we would see one new place every month.  We didn't want to settle down and forget the beautiful places around us. 

Now four years later, we've surpassed our goal.  Sometimes we planned a major trip, other times we just took an afternoon to see a little town outside the city.  All counted, we've seen 68 cities and towns, and we've still got a month to go...a hiking trip near St. Moritz, Switzerland. 

We haven't so much "backpacked" through Europe, as much as we've "stroller-ed" through it.  Our Baby Jogger City Classic, loaded up with kid(s), diaper bag, and travel gear, has strolled from the trails of the Black Forests all the way to the halls of the Vatican Museum. 

Though only 4 years old, Abe has enough stamps in his passport to make any of my old girlfriends jealous.  Ella Grace is just 15 months, and she could swap some stories, too.

So, dream come true, right?  These places, the sights and sounds of these 68 cities and towns are the backdrop for 100 Things Learned.

*    *   *

Here's where I must enter a small caveat for #3.

Europe, like the USA, is a big place.  Most things/people/places look simple from far away.  You hear folks on both sides of the Atlantic say, "Oh, in America, it's like this....and in Europe, it's like that."  But all this become more complicated as one gets closer.  

As an example…and most people don't know this…Doug is an expert in his field concerning the immune defenses of amphibians.  He is interviewed and quoted, his research sited.  He recently published a chapter in a textbook on the subject.  Still, he'll be the first to tell you there is so much he doesn't know about how the little critters fight disease.  Days and weeks and years of study turn up some answers and a lot more mystery. 

It's the same with travel, the same with Europe.  London, Prague, Paris, Rome, Edinburgh, Zurich...these are all very different places, with their own languages, their own cultures...not to mention all towns and countrysides in between.     
 
Same goes for the USA.  I ask my American readers, would my Swiss friend have a complete understanding of America by visiting only 68 places?  She might have a good overview if she saw NYC, Miami, LA, and Dallas, but what about Boston, Nashville, Austin, and Seattle, and all the places in between?  Sure, she saw Detroit, but Holland, Michigan is way different from Detroit.  And what about Mackinac Island?  Sure, she saw Washington, DC and the Shenandoah National Park, but did she walk the rest of the Appalachian Trail, or see the Smokey Mountains of Tennessee? 

Get my point?  Anyone could spend years traveling these vast areas, even write 100 things she learned, and still not have a complete understanding.  There's always more to see, always more shades of a place and it's people to discover.    

In case you're wondering…the 68 cities and towns include:
The 26 Cantons of Switzerland
Paris & the Alsace region of France
London, England
Prague & Bohemia, Czech Republic
The Highlights of Italy as far south as Naples
Western Austria
Southern Germany
Abe & I also traveled to Oban & Edinburgh, Scotland.
Doug also did some research outside of Madrid, Spain.

Still looking forward to/hoping for:
Amsterdam and The Netherlands
The rest of France
Spain and Portugal
Vienna, Austria

More of Eastern Europe

100 Things I Learned in Switzerland

1) What to do when the pastor drops the F-bomb.

I was fresh off the plane from the USA, eager to get settled in this beautiful country,  when I was invited to sing in all the services at ICF, a Swiss church of 2,000 mostly young people and families in Zurich.  On the day, I was warmly welcomed by an excited staff, obviously full of passion to reach the city, and the rest of the world for Jesus. 

I don't quite remember how it happened…some things are still a blur…but I was talking with Pastor Leo between services when he began telling me a story from his time in Australia.

Toward the end of his weeks-long trip, Leo and another pastor were on the golf course when Leo said, "Man, I can't wait to get home and fuck my wife."  The other pastor was flabbergasted.  "You can't use that word!" he said.  "Why not?" Leo answered.  "No!  You can't use that word," he insisted.  "Are you sure?" Leo replied.  "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…!  See?" 

The other pastor didn't know what to do, and neither did I.  I had never heard the F-bomb dropped 20 times in a row, much less by a pastor. 

My jaw was on the ground.  I wanted to throw up.

But there was something special about Pastor Leo that kept me from judging him.  There was an authenticity about him, and the power of God when he spoke, and 2,000 people crowding into a warehouse to be a part of this church that he was leading;   loads of fruit growing right here in the hard spiritual ground of Europe.  It's hard to point the finger at that. 

It was many moons later that I realized, Swiss people view our cuss words like we view theirs…as funny words.  Saying "scheisse" can be fun even for Evangelicals, and it's the same the other way around. 

Also, when speaking in a foreign language, one often doesn't fully understand the weight of certain words.  For example, I might say "I am angry" in German, which would come across too strong when I only mean I am a bit frustrated or perturbed.  

Furthermore, there is no church culture here.  Only Jesus culture.  Meaning, there is no Christian sub-culture with a list of do's and don'ts'…do act like this, don't say that.  There is only the directive to follow Jesus and be authentic.

Even now, I am moved by Pastor Leo's willingness to preach and live his life without any pretense.

This was one of my first experiences here of looking beyond a person's actions to see their heart, understanding cultural differences enough to realize…it's the heart and God's presence that counts most.

We ended up attending ICF for the rest of our time in Switzerland.  We were small group leaders, and helped for a while with the English/Spanish church which was just beginning, and I got my start leading my first Creative Community. 

When I worked in the church office, my stomach still sunk into my shoes whenever I heard someone shout a cuss word. 

Now I just giggle. 

I'm sitting with the worship team at lunch and one of them says "Shit!" and, hey…I'm still an American.  I was raised a goody-goody, so smoking and cuss words and a glass of wine may always for me have a certain air of excitement. 

So I giggle, and they giggle at me, and we understand one another.  And I'm grateful to these people for the first chips at breaking me out of my shell. 

A new project: 100 Things I Learned in Switzerland

In just a few days, the Woodhams family will celebrate 4 years of living in Switzerland.  It's our "Swiss-iversary". 

Our small flat is about to be filled with boxes and bags for our move back to the States; my laptop is already a hub for to-do lists and travel arrangements. 

Outside it is another glorious Swiss spring – the magnolias are in bloom and the fields are yellow and, when the sun breaks through the clouds, the whole country will be one beautiful sea of green. 

I keep thinking of all we've experienced here – all I've learned here. 

It's been an exciting, challenging, rewarding ride.  Sometimes the learning curve was so steep, I could've had a nosebleed, but we kept going.  I've decided to document my education in a little project…

100 Things I Learned in Switzerland.

This is my way of remembering and honoring the things I learned in this beautiful, efficient, "land-locked island" country. 

Some items will hopefully be funny, some a bit more serious, some learned once and for all, others still works in progress.  Some may require explanation, for those on one side of the Atlantic or the other.  Remember, it's just one gal's perspective, and I will do my best.  

Weasels

We have screaming weasels nesting in the walls/roof of our house, waking us in a fright twice last night. The burly, cigar-smoking, Swiss forester came today to tell us: 1) It's their mating season and it's illegal to exterminate, and 2) He must first put out bits of chocolate and dates to see if, indeed, we have weasels. Apparently, if the dates and chocolate disappear, it's weasels.

Is my testimony of screaming vermin running through the walls in the night not enough to verify the existence of weasels? and could not the disappearance of dates and chocolate also indicate the existence of bears, foxes, or perhaps Wally the dog?

We called our neighbors next-door (with whom we share a roof) immediately to inform them of the weasels. They said…Oh, yes. We know! Apparently, they had the vermin first on their side of the house, and treated their half of the roof with odor-repellents. It worked…for them…for now the weasels have come to our side of the house to nest.

Brüschtli

Doug and I went to a birthday party. No big deal, right? Maybe not, except for the fact the birthday boy was Swiss, and being asked to the birthday party of a Swiss is like receiving an invitation to his inner circle – a relational Holy of Holies, if you will. We got a babysitter and felt super special.

The greatest part of our evening came at the toast. We all lifted glasses of champaign, toasting according to our own cultures. "Cheers!" we said. "Pröschtli!" said our Swiss friends. In an effort to join in, I echoed, "Brüschtli!"

"What did you say?" Oscar said, laughing uncontrollably.

"Brüschtli!" I repeated, with gusto.

He then explained to me, now doubled over with the giggles, that "Pröschtli" means "cheers" but "Brüschtli" means "little breasts."

"Little breasts!"

Neuchatel and Stroller Placement

After dropping Abe off at Chinderinsle for his Wednesday afternoon playtime, I hopped a train to the Zurich main station. Where I was going, I had no clue…only that I needed to get out of Zurich, preferably to spot where they don’t speak German. After standing for a while in the middle of Zurich HB, staring at the departures board, I glanced at a map and discovered Neuchatel, a town in French-speaking Switzerland only 1.5 hours away. Bingo.

My express train caused only minimal motion sickness, and by 2:20pm I was gliding by the glistening Lac de Neuchatel. At 2:30pm, I disembarked in search of a WC and a cup of coffee.

A short walk around the city proved the people very friendly, and not at all upset at my lack of French skills. I thanked the helpful madame behind the information desk and complimented her on the quality of the tourist center. I smiled at shopkeepers. And here in this lakeside bistro, I just had friendly conversation with the waitress who brought my café au lait. The afternoon experience reminded me of what a generally nice person I am.

Such a refresher course was necessary after yesterday’s encounter. Not feeling too well, I decided to go home early, and boarded a bus with Abe and Wally in tow. We pulled away and, within a minute or two, I heard a woman speaking in English behind me: “She doesn’t speak German,” she said. “That was rude…some people are just in their own world. I try to be nice when I am in a foreign country.”

Are they talking about me? I wondered. I was sitting at the bus stop…I got on… I retraced my steps. Surely not. I had no idea what had happened. She continued to go on about the rudeness.

A minute more and the woman got off the bus. As she did, she turned to me and rebuked, “You know, you really should be more considerate of people!”

Shocked, I replied, “I really don’t know what you mean.”

“Well! Think about it…you blocked the sidewalk with your stroller! Just think about it!”

I guess I just wasn’t feeling well, and didn’t realize the angle of Abe’s stroller. It wasn’t completely blocking the sidewalk of the little side street, but apparently it was too much for this lady.

She walked away and, immediately, I thought to myself, “I’m just going to brush this off.” I made it up the hill and three flights of stairs with Abe and Wally, put Abe in front of Veggie Tales and laid down to rest. Doug got home; only a few words were said before the tears came.

“She said I was inconsiderate,” I sniffled. Such a comment is like salt in a wound to an expat. God knows the efforts I’ve put toward fitting in here. Still there’s often some rule I don’t know, a custom I haven’t observed. It is not abnormal to give my best to a task – public transit, laundry, conversation, making a new acquaintance – only to miss the mark.

Yesterday it was stroller placement.

“Do you think you are inconsiderate?” asked my sweet husband.

“Well, I am kinda in my own world sometimes, and I wasn’t feeling well, and I just can’t keep track of all the proper things to do all the time…” I continued, frustrated and sad.

Since then I’ve thought of how people here live more inward, private lives. Where I’m from, folks have a decidedly more outward existence; and I admit I can be especially outgoing even among my own kind. This is bound to annoy some people.

Doug smiled. “But are you inconsiderate?”

A moment’s thought and, “No,” I replied. Tears still streamed down my face.

A bit more processing with my patient love, and I was up again. “I don’t do it perfectly all the time,” I resolved, “but it is in my heart to be good to people.”

That evening I headed out to a girls’ night. On the way, I met Mrs. Aida, my nice elderly friend who lives at the end of our street. We talked for a while and she gave me three kisses on the cheek – a Swiss gesture that means "Hello," "Good-bye," and generally "I like you." Down at the tram stop, a girl asked me for directions and I showed her the street she needed. Then I helped a woman with feet problems get on the bus.

It was as if God was giving me opportunity to see, Jesus is shining out of me.

Still, just like that disgruntled lady on the bus, I have rolled my eyes at people who weren’t doing what I thought they should do. How could they be so ­­­–––? I have thought to myself. We’ve all done it. From now on, I hope I am slower to judge, or don't judge at all. Maybe that person was tired, or sick. Maybe they really are a good person, and they just didn’t notice. Maybe they honestly didn’t know the proper thing to do.

Ok...they've cut the overhead music in this little café for the live entertainment to begin: a pianist playing along with karaoke tracks. His first numbers, “Imagine” and U2’s “Beautiful Day”…sung with a French accent. “Bon soir,” he just said. He’s really good. These moments are best enjoyed with macbook closed, I’ve found, so I guess that’s all for now. Thanks for listening…

Transportation and People Watching

When you’re approaching an intersection, or driving down the highway in Switzerland, and you see a big flash of light come from the approaching overpass, you know you’ve been caught. A few weeks later you will receive your ticket in the mail for 250 CHF, around $220. We know this from experience.

The day we moved into our current flat, we borrowed a University van and managed to get a 250 CHF ticket for running a yellow light. A few hours later, as Doug navigated down our narrow European street, an approaching car clipped our side mirror and sped off. That evening we found a parking ticket under the windshield wiper. This experience, coupled with gas at $8 per gallon, confirmed our decision to forgo owning a car and stick to public transportation.

The Zurich transport system is among the best in Europe. Buses, trams, boats, and mountain cars crisscross the city so you are never far from a stop. At 80 CHF per month for all of Zone 10 (Zurich city proper) it’s a bargain, and a superb venue for people watching.

Wait at a stop, climb aboard, and you will encounter a potpourri of city society. The well-attired woman in Prada sunglasses sits just a few rows ahead of the disoriented woman waving her finger and yelling at no one. Mothers wrestle on and off with their strollers. An old man hobbles to find a seat. A 10-year-old boy boards, unaccompanied, on his way perhaps to his piano lessons. You may even see what my 8-year-old neighbor, Florence, calls “Sheeky-Meeky Ladies” – young women strutting across the tracks wearing $50,000 of the latest styles.

Once I struck up a conversation with an Iranian man who told me of the dangers of the Republican Party. Once I lost my balance as the bus pulled away and bumped into a man who turned around and hit me. It didn’t hurt, but still…

One Saturday afternoon on our way to the mall, a French-speaking woman was playing with Abe. All was normal until she reached into her purse and produced a living box turtle. That’s right…she had a turtle in her purse. “Coo-coo, coo-coo!” she said, and kept trying to give it to us. “No, no!” I said, aghast. We got off the tram and walked away in stunned silence. “Did that woman just pull a turtle out of her purse?” Doug asked in disbelief. Still shocked, “Yes…yes, she did,” was all I could manage in reply.

I’ve been the weird one myself a time or two. Everyone is so reserved here, I’m sure more than one person has thought me missing a few marbles when I, in all my Southern eagerness, attempted to strike up a conversation. Once I decided to practice my German and said to my neighbor, “Er ist heiss,” meaning that Abe was hot. I later learned that “Er ist heiss” translates “He is horny.” And, sometimes, I find myself repeating the names of the stops out loud, working on my German pronunciation – the equivalent of a foreigner on the NYC subway mumbling “Brrroooaaadwwaaaaaay.”

So here we are…all of us with our own special brand of weirdness, everyone on their way somewhere, or just riding along wherever the bus will take them.

What a capacity God must have to love, to understand. I can hardly sit with some of these people for 20 minutes on my way to church, but He is with each one of them always, just as He is with me. How wonderfully generous, compassionate, patient, and laid-back He is to go with us wherever we go, and love us all the while.

“The Lord of hosts is with us…” Psalm 46:7a

3 Rooms and a View

When Doug and I got married, we moved into a beautiful duplex; two bedrooms, a large kitchen/dining room, and a nice-sized living room, all on a spacious half-acre plot of land and all for $800 per month. We filled our side of the two-car garage with all kinds of stuff: camping gear, spare mattresses, two extra coffee tables, old dorm room posters of Ireland.

Doug accepted a job at JMU in Harrisonburg, VA and the purging began. We made $400 in a yard sale, and moved into a significantly smaller apartment near the University. A few months later, we cleared even more space for the arrival of our little Abe. And four months after that, we packed our entire household into 8 suitcases and boarded a plane for Zurich, Switzerland.

Our first apartment in Zurich offered barely enough room for those 8 suitcases; only two rooms and a tiny kitchen for us and the baby. Even the fridge was small, about the size for a college dorm room. Two months in those cramped living conditions, and we felt we hit the open prairie when we moved into our current flat: three rooms, a functional kitchen, and one spectacular view.

From our windows, we see everything from Old Town Zurich in the south to the northern border with Germany. On a clear day, we can even eye the snowcapped Alps. We see the sun shine over the city and the rain fall on the rooftops. We gaze at the sunset and watch the city lights light up the valley like a Christmas tree.

We may have a kitchen table in the middle of our living room, and my dresser may be so close to the bed that I must stand to the side to open its drawers, but we look out to a big horizon, a spacious sky, and a big city into which we are called.

The story of our living space is the story of our journey: clear the clutter and enjoy the view.

Here I'll try to give you a glimpse of what I see from these 3 rooms: adventures abroad, revelations in parenting and living in a foreign land, thoughts about God, and whatever else may catch my eye.

80's Helmet Hair

Confession: Jewelry and makeup really aren't my thing. I have worn the same silver cross for 12 years, and the same three Cover Girl eye shadow colors since I was 16 years old. Shocking, I know. Before you report me to Oprah, read on.

My hair....now that's another story. Even as a starving artist in Nashville, I saved my pennies to go see Mark at one of the best salons in town. He knew just how to shape my tresses, and I felt fabulous every time I walked out the door.

Two years after leaving Nashville and my beloved Mark, I have had one bad haircut after another. One lady took a pair of shears and thinned my locks down to nothing. My mom thought my hair had fallen out. Last October I made it back to Mark for a rescue-style while I was in town. But 6 months later, and no Nashville trip in sight, I knew it was time to search out a good Swiss stylist.

A friend recommended a guy she called "one of the best." At $150 for just a cut – not including wash, blow-dry, or styling – he was sure to do the job well. She gave me a first-timer's coupon for 50% off, and I was on my way.

Everything started off wonderfully. He spoke English fluently. I explained exactly what I wanted. "And absolutely no bangs," I said. "Every time I get bangs I regret it." It was Doug's one request before I left the house. He likes my hair long.

We looked at pictures. Everything was set to go. He gathered up a big clump of hair on the front of my head and, shhhhpppp, sliced several inches off the top in one chop. My hair, not having been that short in decades, didn't know what to do. It pinged around on top of my head, refusing to lay down. I sat there shocked and humiliated, feeling all too reminiscent of my 6th grade picture day.

As time went on, I kept wishing he would fix it. I held out hope that, though this was NOTHING like we discussed, he somehow would make it right. But no.

I walked out with 80's helmet hair, complete with feathered edges. Just a little teasing and some aerosol hairspray, and I am Bill Champlin, lead singer of Chicago: "Look away, baby, look away. Don't look at me. I don't want you to see me this way."

So how am I coping? Well, I try to use a strait iron and bobby pins to hold down the madness. I tell myself it will probably grow out in a month or two. I fluff it up and sing 80's hits into my hairbrush to make Doug laugh. I've looked for some redeeming lesson in it all, and here it is:

It's just hair.

For so long I've attached my self-worth and self-confidence to my hair; good hair day = confidence, bad hair day = shame. And, of course, God doesn't want me to live this way.

So, while I still struggle to feel pretty, and Doug has agreed to say "you're beautiful, Audrey" thirty times this evening, I see that God is bringing me to a new level of freedom. He always sees me lovely. Styling my 80's helmet hair every day, I get good practice at believing this truth.

Zurich Day 1: Ode to God and Starbucks and Sir Roland the Benevolent

One might read this title and think this is a story of finding familiarity amid a strange and foreign land. Starbucks is, after all, a home away from home for so many – myself included. But this is no tale of mochas or frappuccinos.

The morning spent sleeping off jet lag, our first afternoon in Zurich was filled with warm welcomes from Doug's new colleagues at the University. At 8:45pm, after much decoding and a little help from the locals, we managed to buy passes for Tram 10 and headed down to the Main Station for a late dinner. Our stroller is rather large so getting on and off in the seconds allowed at each stop is a bit unnerving. We barely managed to get on. As we rode through the city, we knew getting off would be our next challenge. The tram rolled to a stop, I grabbed the back, he grabbed the front, and we were off. Awesome. Go Team Woodhams! Until...

"Wait. Where's my…oh, no!" Doug cried.

"What?" I asked.

"The bag! It's on the train!"

That's right. Down the tracks to Lord Knows Where went our money, our passports, and our map, not to mention a load of diapers. We looked down the tracks only moments after the tram left to see only an indecipherable maze of rails. With no way to run after it, we panicked.

Doug began looking on every #10 that came back our way. A passerby said our tram wouldn't make it around for another 40 minutes. She gave a number we could call but, apparently, pay phones don't accept coins or cash here, only cards. Without a wallet, we had no way to make a call.

"Oh, God, oh, God, help us," we both mumbled under our breaths.

Quickly we formulated a plan. There on the corner stood Starbucks. It was the one recognizable place. Doug would keep looking in the trains. I would take the baby, go in, and ask to use their phone. And if we got separated, that's where we would meet.

The young lady behind the counter was less than helpful.

"Can I use your phone, please? It's very important."

"No," she said flatly. (I should note here, in our short experience, this is not at all the norm. The Swiss have been very kind.)

"But, please," I asked. "We left our bag on the tram. We have no card to make a call. Can you tell me where I can make a call?"

She helped another customer. "No, you can't use this phone," she said, and had no suggestions for where I might find help.

Abe, who had been sleeping soundly in his stroller, began to stir. With no other recourse, I picked up my baby, looked that Swiss blonde in the eye, and begged.

"Please. Please help me. Where can I find a phone?"

With a grimace, she finally said, "Wait here."

Moments later, like a knight clad in all black, Roland emerged from the back. He, we soon learned, was the manager, just off duty. Like a sword from its sheath, he pulled a cell phone from his pocket and made the call. He translated my plight to the operator who called all of the #10's, discovering that, yes, they had our bag. The conductor would deliver it to us when he came back around in half an hour. I ran out to tell Doug the good news.

Sir Roland gave us hot chocolate while we waited. Just as he said, at 9:51pm, up pulled Tram #10. The nice attendant handed us our bag – passports, cash, and diapers intact. Ahh, the efficient and friendly Swiss.

"Thank you, God, thank you, God," we both said out loud.

So, with this adventure of a first day behind us, we are pleased to announce that the Woodhams family, plus 12 bags and change, made it safely to the other side of the world. Thanks for your prayers...they are definitely being answered. Customs was a breeze – literally. We walked right through. And Abe is doing well – quite a little trooper.

Much love to you all. More to come…