L'Américaine en Suisse

It was the best of times… it was the worst of times…

While I don’t believe that Fall of 2019 is a lead-up to the second French Revolution (though the global wealth gap might indicate otherwise), my first season in Switzerland is, as fellow writer Charles Dickens once wrote, a time of light, darkness, hope, despair, and most importantly, foolishness.

 And my foolishness isn’t limited to calling Charles Dickens a “fellow writer.”

I thought quitting my job, subletting my apartment, packing my bags, saying my goodbyes and signing up for French lessons constituted “preparing for the move.” My dear fiancé Andrew (bless him) thought that making room in the closet, buying another bedside table, planning lunches with new friends, and stocking up on warm women’s clothing fulfilled his preparation duties. We were both woefully unprepared for the change to come. As obvious as it is in hindsight, arriving in a place where one doesn’t speak the language, is moving into another person’s apartment, is without a job or income, and is in an environment approximately 40 degrees colder than they are used to is, indeed, a culture shock (it’s not just a clever trope!)

Shocks can be good, too. Winding around the Jura Mountains on the back of Andrew’s motorcycle with Lake Geneva below us, eating the most exemplary velvety fondue—and cheese, period—that I have literally ever put in my mouth (the town of Gruyere is a potato’s throw away), meeting lovely people from all over the globe (Switzerland is full of foreigners that I assume once felt like me, especially Brits, Portuguese, and Dutch) and meandering hand-in-hand around the most picturesque town this side of a postcard is pretty mind-blowingly phenomenal.

Feeling paralyzed to query about health insurance, a gym membership, a hair appointment, or a croissant without the help of one’s significant other, aka full-time translator? Less empowering. Asking a dozen times what I am and am not allowed to recycle, trying to use Google Translate to read letters and signs (step up your game, Google Translate, the camera component does. Not. Function.), trying to find freelance writing work and broaden my network, when my French renders me at the eloquence of my cat, Dennis? Less enchanting, still.

Oh yeah, and Dennis. My Stateside kitty cat of eight years, who was in the care of my renter until we returned for the holidays, died nearly immediately upon my arrival in Switzerland. That story, in full bittersweet detail, is for another blog post down the road, my friends.

So imagine me, in a beautiful apartment, in a picturesque village on the expansive shore of Lake Geneva, editing my novel manuscript that continues to bedevil me, or querying magazines, or surfing expat group sites online, weeping into my perfect cup of coffee or gorgeous glass of local white wine (both of which the Swiss execute perfectly, like most things). Or better yet, running into the nearby woods like a blonde Blair Witch to call my best friends in Key West, because a frozen stream bank seemed to be the closest thing to Higgs Beach.

And what did those friends say? “You’re in Europe honey, go for a weekend in Paris or Milan, live your fabulous expat life.” And they were right. I didn’t go to Paris or Milan. Not immediately, anyway (but will be in Edinburgh this weekend).

But they did give me the guts to go to the bakery by myself and say:

“Je voudrais un croissant, s’il vous plait.” And not resort to English.

And sometimes, a little courage—along with a damn fine croissant—is just enough.