Hello Europe

Gifts from the fantastic camera on my new phone (graduation gift)

I was considering calling this post “Hello Geneva” after my older post “Hello Shanghai” (when I moved to Shanghai), but I’m not really living in Geneva. And when you’re living in one European country, you’re basically living in all of them anyway.

Layover in Amsterdam. Watching the sun rise over the land of my ancestors 🙏

I’ve switched continents again and am getting acclimatized to those typical new-continent things (ie. French keyboards that switch the Y and the Z. So frustrating). This time, I’ve accepted a traineeship at the ICRC (International Committee of the Red Cross). I actually applied for this job back in February but forgot about it during the oncoming COVID mania, treeplanting, finishing my MA (subtle brag – I’m kinda proud of this one), and backpacking around Vancouver Island. IT TURNS OUT the ICRC can still hire internationally because they’re an essential international organization. I don’t have the exact details, but got an impression of “We’re the Red Cross – pandemic or not, if we go down, so does a whole lot of armed violence worldwide.” They even hired me despite me failing to wake up on time for the interview (time zone mistake). But the interview went well and we all seemed to “click” pretty well. Next thing I knew, I was moving to Switzerland for the year!

My fabulous manager leaving his book "When Machines do Everything" in his place when he's out of office. Get it? A machine is doing his job...

But I’m actually living in France in a tiny town called Saint Genis. It’s about a 20-minute walk to the Swiss border and a 1-hour bus ride or 45min bike ride to the ICRC in Geneva. The border is essentially non-existent; there are buildings and I’ve heard rumours that border guards do occasionally come out of them, but I haven’t seen one yet. I’ll update if that changes. Apparently, there was a brief moment during the height of COVID when the border was actually closed, which was a stark reminder to many that these are in fact two separate countries.

French hedges (as opposed to Swiss hedges, which are less... this)

So I am a frontalier  - a cross-border worker. This is mostly because Geneva is really bloody expensive – the second most expensive city in Europe actually. After Zurich. Friggin Switzerland. A fellow intern commented, “I’ve come to the realization that a moderately priced meal is anything under 70 francs” (which is roughly $100). On an intern’s salary, this will not do. Thankfully, it’s significantly cheaper to live in France than in Switzerland – like, thousands of dollars cheaper. The paperwork’s more complicated, but finding wonderfully welcoming friends with a spare room and no interest in paperwork can alleviate this. Also, this small French town next to the countryside is wonderfully breathable compared to rich-and-stuffy Geneva.

Here's some beautiful photos of said rich-and-stuffy Geneva:

Old Town

This is Abbie. We do shit together.

Lovely old church in Old Town

This one's actually in Ferney, France

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CHEESE, BREAD, AND CHOCOLATE. Ahh there is the most abundant selection of all three at remarkable prices (here in Saint Genis – not Geneva). In the Carrefour (France’s version of a Food Basics or Zehrs), imagine an entire aisle lined with cheese on both sides! And what a selection of blue cheeses – I could try a new one every week and not finish until the end of my year here. Of course, my town has multiple boulangeries (bread shops), a fromagerie (cheese shop), a chocolatier (guess), and a patisserie (pastry shop). Wonderbread does not exist.

HOWEVER, I have to say, there seems to be a slight drawback of all the delicious boulangeries and patisseries. These shops must have to order their ingredients from fancy places because the baking section of the grocery store is sorely lacking. It’s about one-tenth the size of the cheese section and mostly contains cake decorating supplies. I also couldn’t find vanilla extract but a did find a surprising amount of raw vanilla bean, vanilla sugar, and tiny vials of vanilla-flavoured bourbon. After re-converting the oven in my house from an extra storage space for plates into an actual oven, I managed to make a tasty apple crisp from all the wild apples growing everywhere. The apples are, ironically, called “Reignette du Canada” or, colloquially, “pomme du Canada” (transl. Canadian apple) but it’s actually an older French cultivar that pretty much only grows in France.

I have started a cheese list of ones I’ve tried and ones I hope to try.

Oof the way this camera captures the light on the paper and the wooden table...

A cool fact I’ve learned about French cheeses is the policies in place designating the origin of traditional specialties. No longer does “AOC” only refer to Alexandria Ocasio Cortez; it also refers to “Appelation d’Origine Controlee.” All AOC products are made in their traditional locations following traditional methods with traditional ingredients. And the regions are very proud of their AOCs. Apparently, wine AOCs are an even bigger deal, but whatever - cheese is better than wine anyway.

Apples, blue cheese, and honey - slowly becoming more European!

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There are a few little things I have to get used to (aside from the bloody Y and Z switch on my work laptop’s French keyboard). For example, I’m used to waiting to cross the street until there’s enough room to run across between cars. Here, it seems like everyone stops for you whether crossing or not. It’s strange overcoming a guilty feeling that I’m cutting someone off by just walking across but, alas, they will stop anyway and probably get annoyed if I wait for them.

Apple-picking buddy

Funky birdboxes built into barns

This camera can catch BEES

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Banking is such a pain! Warning: this paragraph will be long, sarcastic, and grumpy. It took multiple trips to sort out my bus pass but at least that was able to sort out; opening a Swiss bank account is a complex ball game and half of it depends on which bankers you talk to. With COVID, you need to book an appointment online rather than just show up (understandably). The first time I call the bank where I want to open an account, they tell me I can’t open I bank account unless I give proof of residence in Switzerland, or a French tax number if I’m living in France. Terrified that I’ll have to either register for taxes in France or move to Geneva, I start researching French taxes and exclusions for frontaliers. In exasperation, I message the ICRC Associates WhatsApp group. Their response: there are two locations of a particular bank where previous ICRC interns reported opening accounts with just their passport and copy of their ICRC contract. I try to book an appointment but don’t receive the confirmation so I rebook at the other location. No confirmation. I’m not going to traipse all the way to the bank for an unconfirmed appointment, so I call the local branch.

Now let’s have a moment dedicated to European bureaucracy. We exchange pleasantries in French, but when I ask to communicate in English (I’m mean c’mon, banking is serious and I don’t want to risk my poor French), she immediately responds in clear Standard English “No, sorry, this is a French-only line, but I can give you the number of the English line.” Sure. She gives me the number. I call. The man who answers the line has a thick German accent – the English line is based in Zurich. I have Geneva-specific questions, so he puts me on hold while he calls to check with the local branch I had just called. Questions answered, he asks what time would work best for the appointment. I respond, and he puts me on hold again so he can confirm with that local branch again. Appointment booked (thank God). Two hours later, I get a call from the local Geneva branch asking, completely in English, to change the appointment time. Sure. I just want that appointment and I want it in English so I know what I’m signing for. Jesus bloody Christ.

OKAY back to nice things. THERE IS AN AUTOMATED COW in Saint Genis. Fresh daily milk from a tap, just remember to BYOB (bring your own bottle).

Automated cow

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Silly Anneke Moment Turned Into Adventure: During Week Two, when I was feeling pretty comfortable with my route to and from work, I let myself fall asleep on the bus and woke up in a completely different place. Luckily, it was still within the zone I’d downloaded in offline Google Maps so I just wandered through the Swiss (lol I didn’t even make it to France) countryside for a bit until I reach where I’d started again. On the journey, though, I passed around the World Health Organization; fascinating to think how central this organization has been throughout this entire pandemic while walking around it (it’s very large – lots of time to think about this while walking around).

Stumbling upon the WHO, the centre of all this madness...

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Silly Anneke Moment Turned Educational: I went to a café while working from home one day (living with a family with a baby can be less-than-quiet). This meant gasp speaking in French with an actual French person! The woman who owns the café is very kind and often helps foreigners with their French, but there’s still the minor anxiety of “I’m about to immerse myself in a language that no my own,” which feels kinda like trespassing on someone else’s property/language while also being very bad at it. That doesn’t make much sense but neither does the anxiety really.

So I enter the café. I’m the only customer (thank God). We greet each other but I don’t catch what she says except “voulais.” S’all good – probably asking what I want.

“Une café au lait, s’il vous plait.”

She responds with something else I don’t catch while gesturing to the chairs. I discard the second phrase I’d been mentally repeating to myself (“est-ce qu’il y a une table a la bas?”) since the café is empty. I sit down. All goes well, the coffee arrives, and smiles all around. Time to ask for the wifi password.

“Es-ce que je peux aller au l’internet?”

She starts gesturing and describing the way somewhere so I follow, only to realize she’s directing me to the washroom. (Anneke mumbling “l’internet” sounds a lot like “le toilet”).

“Non… le… l’internet… le wifi? …Le wifi?” I stumble my way around.

“Ahh le mot de passe?” she laughs.

“Oui,” I breathe a sigh of relief, the not-actually-traumatic trauma passed. She follows me back to my laptop and spells out the password in English. Fifteenish minutes later, I consider asking for the password again to connect my phone. But this has been a lot of social interaction with strangers in French for one day.

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Before the new lockdown (worth another post in itself), I met a French friend and we were able to go on bike rides to explore the area. He showed me where to find some amaaazing old castles and ruins.

Bike ride views

More bike ride views

And MORE bike ride views

Wandering through abandoned buildings

Hiking along rivers

With abandoned buildings alongside

And castles built into cliffsides

And there you have it. Hopefully my next post has more entertaining life and COVID things rather than boring explanation. Hope you enjoyed the update!

Rapunzel Fabliau

Author's Note: This version of Rapunzel is a fabliau intended to be a lower-class parody of both the classic tale of Rapunzel and the Disney version “Tangled”. While fabliaux started as French, this was mostly inspired by Chaucer's "The Miller's Tale" chapter from The Canterbury Tales. Two important archetypes in a fabliau are sexually active women and foolish, cuckolded husbands, all of whom are “punished” in some way at the end. They also have a lot of bawdy humour and crude slang, so beware.

Rapunzel

There was a tiny town called Rived

In which a happy couple lived.

Though blacksmithing was the man’s trade,

Hardly any income he made.

For every day he drank his fill                                    5

Until he could not work the anvil.

Then joking he would take a break,

Fall fast asleep and hardly wake.

The woman laughed her life away,

Hiding affairs by light of day.                                    10

Their lack of wealth was no concern,

For she had ways with which to earn

From other men collections

In exchange for her affections.

Her blund’ring husband never guessed                       15

Another’s wealth to her been blessed.

And so the two lived merrily,

Though quite extraordinarily.

The man: a blust’ring, drunken fool

And she: happy with their life to rule                           20

Until one great problem interfered

With all their jolly atmosphere.

In time she found herself with child,

For all her exploits reconciled.

She riled and roared at the news;                                  25

Her other life she’d have to lose!

Her husband knew not what to do

During the fits of wrath she through.

Since this behaviour was so strange,

Was his darling wife deranged?                                    30

Was not a child a dream come true?

To help earn money as he grew?

“I want a child in this house

As much as I would want a mouse!

By God, by Jove, I want it out!”                                    35

The town around could hear her shout,

“What good would e’er a child do

When his own father has no clue;

Could never be a champion.

Now bring me an herb called rampion!”                       40

           

He froze, stunned by her sudden rage

And not too eager to engage.

He stared straight in her stormy eyes,

Cow’ring before her angry cries.

Then whimpered under glow’ring gaze,                         45

“My dear, my love, why all this craze?

While I may not be a champion —.”

“I ASKED FOR FUCKING RAMPION!”

He stumbled back. He could not fend.

He knew not how to comprehend.                                  50

“Rampion I’ve never heard of,

Do you mean something else, my love?”

“It’s a type of bellflower plant,”

She growled, breath like fire-ants,

Though ‘neath her glower, she was pleased                   55

At this strange knowledge she’d conceived.  

He fled the house to find the herb,

Though partially in fear of her.

Of a farm the townsfolk told him

That did grow the herb in question.                                 60

Owned by an old lady whose spouse

Had died and she took over the house.

Gothel was this widow’s name,

And to her farm this poor man came.             

“Please, ma’am, I was told of an herb,                            65

Of which you own the most superb.

Some rampion my wife requires

And without it, I fear hellfire.”

But when Gothel named the price he cried.

’Twas far more than he could e’er provide,                     70

But Gothel understood his pain

And made a deal for both their gain:

“One handful you can have for free,

But any more is twice the fee.”

Delightedly he took the deal                                            75

And brought the herbs for his wife’s meal.

They soon discovered its foul taste;

Bitter, biting, swallowed in haste.

Yet sooner would she kiss a snake,

Then e’er admit to her mistake.                                       80

She smiled and forced a pleasant sigh.

Sent her husband again to buy

This foul herb they both deplored

And (greater still) could not afford.

With no money, he did appeal                                         85

To Gothel with a brand new deal.

Age 10, Gothel could have the child

Till all the debts were reconciled.       

Gothel agreed to this deal too,

For she needed a summer crew                                       90

To harvest crops and work the land

And save money on the farmhands.

Day after day, he bought more greens

Along with peppers, corn and beans,

Racking up considerable debt                                          95

For which his child would pay by sweat.

Eventually the child was born.

From a peaceful womb, cruelly torn.

Instant rejection the child faced,

Since both the parents were disgraced.                            100

For though her parents’ hairs were blonde

Young ebony curls brightly shone

And, after months, intensified.

Yet still the mother further lied:

“The wood stove was too hot for me,”                             105

She mourned the loss, explaining “See,

Look how it has burned our daughter,

Turned her hair black as an otter.”

Though instantly the husband thought

Of the dark-haired man his wife had taught                    110

To read and write for near a year,

He instantly shut out these fears.

He agreed the child had been scorched

And any other theory torched.

This child who suffered long was named                         115

Rapunzel, who was often shamed.

For her mother desired no kid

And from her father’s drinking hid.

She was in such misery when

Ten years later, Gothel showed again.                              120

When Gothel saw the child, she knew

It was poor, abused Rapunzel who

Would come to help her on her farm

And ne’er return to this home of harm.

Since Gothel had her husband die,                                  125

She cared for loss of family ties

And craved return of this connection.

She’d give the child love and affection.

Rapunzel packed her things to go

Eager to go where she did not know.                                130

Leaving, her parents did not plead,

For she’d be one less mouth to feed.

In fact, they did not call for years,

Promptly forgot without a tear.

Into a woman their daughter grew                                    135

Under the care of the kind, old shrew.

Now despite the pity Gothel showed,

Rapunzel’s lifestyle did corrode.

So unused to outdoor living,

She was cause for great misgivings.                                 140

Gothel’s focused, hands-on teaching

Never to Rapunzel reaching.

For eight long years she slacked and sighed,

Ignoring Gothel’s well-meant chides.

She also loved to brush her hair,                                        145

Grow it long and soft with care.

Gothel loved to see her happy,

But for farm work, this was crappy.

One cannot work in sweat and hay

With mounds of hair all in the way.                                 150

But she refused to cut it short

And always sought for ways to thwart          

Her daily chores by hiding in

The grain silo, drinking gin

And brushing tangles from her hair.                                155

Often a man would join her there,

To the top of her silo he’d glide

And fulfill her wishes inside.

If the silo was not hot enough,

Imagine their actions in the buff!                                     160

All this poor Gothel put up with,

But one day returned the blacksmith.

Older now, Rapunzel could work.

He thought she would be his shop clerk.       

But in his face his daughter spat,                                     165

“I’ll never live with you, you rat!”

Then Gothel kicked him off the land

And from returning he was banned.

For she ensured that on her farm

Her lazy Rapunzel would not be harmed.                       170

Rapunzel’s parents could not take

 “No” for an answer so they made

A floating lantern light the sky

And hoped their child would hear their cry.

“Just one lantern?” a neighbour asked,                           175

“‘It’d be a miracle if she saw that.”

Rapunzel’s parents saw this fact;

The lantern was too small an act.        

They needed something bigger so

Rapunzel could see from her window.                            180

Their conclusion seemed quite sensible;

Not slightly reprehensible.

What could seem more rationalist?

They became local arsonists.

They watched the first house burning down,                  185

Then next month burnt another in town.

Mastering incineration,

They came to the realization

Their daughter still would not return

Heedless of how many they burned.                               190

They needed something closer still,

That she could see from her windowsill.

Meanwhile, Rapunzel was the same

As she was before her parents’ flames.

Up in her silo passing time,                                             195

Aroused when boys could make the climb.

One day, young Colin trotted by

Upon his Clydesdale sitting high.

He dismounted and climbed the tower

Then was greeted with a glower!                                    200

“Wait a minute, I’m almost done,”

For brushing her hair she’d just begun.

“Oh come on, you’ll take forever,”

Colin pondered his endeavor.

But he was so committed he’d wait                                 205

Until her knotty hair was straight.

When she turned and smiled wryly,

He ran to satisfy her highly.

An hour later, they were done

All wet and sweaty from their fun.                                  210

“Sorry I took so long to finish.”

His fulfillment not diminished,

He said “It’s fine, I’ll come again

At any time; just tell me when.”

Suddenly Rapunzel cried out                                           215

And frantically began to shout,

“Do you smell that? I think it’s smoke!”

And presently began to choke.

Colin did smell the sulphur there

And ran fast over to the stairs.                                          220

But a blast of heat pushed him back

To where Rapunzel sat and gasped,

“There’s a fire and we can’t get down!”

The last she saw was Colin’s frown.                                  225

“Was that a scream?” her mother cried,

Running around the silo’s side,

The torch still blazing in her hand.

“Nonsense,” responded her husband,

“This silo’s full of grain and hay,

It must have been a passing jay.”                                       230

“STOP! STOP NOW! RAPUNZEL’S IN THERE!”

Gothel’s shouting filled the air.

Too late she came, the fire glowed

Down fell Rapunzel’s safe abode.

Inside, her dark hair charred straight black;                        235

Outside, Gothel's sobbing body wracked.

But while her mother stood and gawked,

Her father fell and cried in shock,

“From whence she came, so she returned!”

The conscience of her mother burned.                               240