We have a station wagon. Let's start there. It seats 7 people (our family plus one more skinny-tushed individual). The two little boys, now ages 9 and 11, climb through a flipped down seat in the center of the middle row to reach the back row. One might wonder: Why would such a large family choose such a relatively small car? Why give up the comforts of a minivan? One day I will write a sonnet for my old mini-van...luxurious spacing, cupholders galore, enormous trunk, removable middle seat so I never had to hear about the injustices of sitting in the back row. But back to now...We chose this car because the parking spaces here are teeny tiny, the public garage height requirements are super-low, and this car was available when we needed one.
Next oddity: My kids have mandatory ski camp each year. Yes, they have to go away to ski camp and learn to ski because that is what you do in Switzerland. I don't know if the local schools have such a requirement, but the international schools do. Come to think of it, the local schools likely don't have that requirement because the locals learn to ski when they are 2. Not even kidding. Smallest skis you've ever seen. But back to this morning...We extracted ourselves from our clown car station wagon, pulling out all of the backpacks and extra luggage skiing requires. I may have been [definitely was] muttering some swear words under my breath as I attempted to dislodge Jack's skis and poles from between the seats. Good bye kids, have a great day!
I headed for my annual exam. Which I haven't had in 2 years. Because finding an English-speaking female doctor who is accepting new patients in Switzerland is akin to finding a unicorn. But I finally found one. And I got in! In my broken French, I bumbled my way through the receptionist's greeting, was lead down a maze of hallways into an exam room, and was fairly sure the nurse told me to get undressed. It's too bad the support staff didn't speak any English. Luckily, I was right, as she didn't bat an eye when I started to disrobe. Speaking of robes, there were none. She just handed me a towel. Awkward.
After my exam, I realised I was very close to the garage that had changed our car's oil. This ain't no Jiffy Lube. You have to take make an actual appointment (in French), take it to a real garage, and leave it there. For an oil change. Recently, our car has been making a terrible noise when I pressed the brakes. Clearly it needed some work. I tried to reach the bi-lingual leasing agent for weeks to help me set up an appointment. He's ignoring my emails. So this morning, I decide to take a chance and head to the garage.
After playing charades with the receptionist, I was directed to an English-speaking technician [cue the Hallelujah Chorus!]. Let me stop here. I realise I am sounding very negative about the French language. I am trying y'all. I take lessons every week. I listen to the news in French. I have a French conversation group on Monday mornings. It's just plain hard. Back to the car...The dude takes a look at my wheel well and tells me I need to leave it with them to fix today. It was in such bad shape, they didn't want me driving away. That's good news and bad news. Great that they can fix it today. Bad news that I have no ride home. It's one degree Celsius, and I don't have a hat or gloves. I hadn't been expecting this detour.
I walk to a tiny train station, buy a ticket on the Swiss transport app, and wait in the freezing cold. The tiny train takes me to the big train station in Nyon, where I call Aaron to explain what's happening and cross my fingers that he can give me a ride. Nope. Full day of meetings for him, but I could pick up some coffee while I'm in town, he tells me.
I walk to our favourite cafe for the beans and some very late breakfast. Sitting alone in the bustling cafe I catch snippets of conversations in French and English (it's a popular spot for expats). I'm alone but don't feel lonely. It feels so strange to be riding trains and walking through cities and surrounded by foreign language and feel okay. That's when I realised, this is my new normal. As strange as it is, this is my home for now.
I finish eating and head back to the train station where I ride into a town called Rolle and catch a bus to my village. The last walk is up the big hill, winding past the old chateau and the vineyards. The wind is whipping my hair around my head. Reaching our drive, I check the mailbox and come inside.
I don't even fully understand why I felt compelled to write this today. Maybe because I think deep down we all have a desire to feel understood. My life here is so different from the one back home that I guess I worry I may never be understood. That when I want to share about what's going on here, it is not for the sake of complaining. I'm okay. It's just really weird sometimes. And it's even weirder when it starts to feel normal. That's all.
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