Lost in Translation

Call me childish, but the name of this place made me smile.  I found it while enjoying the most amazing ski day at Flims.  

Yoga and a Finnish Sauna

Nudity.  Yeah I know - here I go again.  But seriously are things ever different here in Europe.  Years later I am still getting used to it.  This past week tested me again.  

Lets start with yoga, and the fellow that walked in and changed rather comfortably right there in the studio.  How awkward I thought as I made a mental note to myself to NEVER plan to change in the yoga studio.  Ever.

The next moment was when I went to see a massage therapist.  Since it was my first visit with her, she wanted the background story that had led me her.  While I got ready for the massage.  Awkward.

I try though.  I try to appear cool about the whole thing.  I really don't know how some cultures can be so uninhibited.  In response to my recent nudity rant, a friend shared a story of when he was living in Finland and having his work performance evaluation recounted by his boss in the sauna.  Nude.  I am sorry, but I know I will never ever get that cool.  However, my friend said that although he initially balked at the idea - it turned out to be a bonding experience.  "We were in an environment where we were equals which made discussion easier and more productive," he told me.  Personally I think I'd have to resign.  But, IF I did manage to summon some courage to do it - I would likely have to starve myself and spend 8 hours per day on a treadmill starting two weeks in advance of the meeting.  And a board meeting?  All that breathing and sweating with a bunch of people I would be happy to live a life and never see naked?  And happy to also have them never see me that way either. I think we all wear clothes to work for a reason - no?  

Okay, I am done.  Well, for today anyway...

(for those doubters on the Finnish sauna thing, here is a CNN story on a board meeting in the sauna, nudity required... http://money.cnn.com/magazines/fortune/fortune_archive/2003/10/06/350393/index.htm )

And now Imagine Dragons, and yes, this one is for you - you know who you are :)

Happy & Home

Well I am back. 

My only half dead orchids greeted me upon my arrival.  As I had suspected the cleaning fairies neglected to look after the glasses in the sink – so I busied myself and loaded the four of them in the dishwasher.  It took me a mere 30 seconds.

I know, exciting blog.  Get on with the point already.

This time there isn't one.  Except that when I walked through the door I knew that I was home.  Everything felt right.  It seems that one can have more than one "home".  

It has taken me a while to find a fit.  There has been a lot of sacrifices and a lot of hard work and tears along the way – but it seems that I have I finally found what it was that  I was looking for.  (I know that sentence is wrong, but I am not going to change it.) And you know what is most amusing?  What I thought I wanted and what I really wanted were and are two totally different things.  It is amazing what one can find if they take a chance.

..and another Canadian band, Marianas Trench.  Warning though the video is in true quirky Canadian form :)

I have to admit, Desperate Measures ^ shows up on my most played list - but I had to include this one too, because well, you'll know what I mean when you give this sexy, jazzy tune a play...

Thank You

I have a friend here in Zurich that I do not spend so much time with simply because communication is a problem.  His English is good, but he usually misses the meaning of what I am saying.  My German is rocky as heck so I avoid speaking it out of embarrassment.  And to make matter worse for me, he insists that I speak German only to him - therefore I have an abundance of excuses whenever he suggests we catch up.

Until today. And his text.  It read "it is time to speak German Dawn."  

It is relatively easy to live without German here in Zurich. However, I didn't really notice how limiting it was until last night.  I was at an expat sort of Christmas party, and there were many people that I knew which was very cool.  Being surrounded by familiar language and people is comforting.  But I am in Switzerland. 

As I left the party last night, I couldn't help but feel it was just a repeat of another day a week or two before.  My friends also seemed a bit bored with the whole scene.  Even though the expat community here is huge and dynamic, it is also only a small part of what is here.  I don't plan to turn my back on what I have here, but it is time to make my world a bit bigger. 

Sometimes it takes one thing to shake things up enough and make you realize that perhaps you are heading in the wrong direction. And that happened for me.  I had to say bye to my best friend here.  I knew it was coming, but I guess I sort of hoped that fate would intervene and I could keep them close.    I threw myself into anything that would keep me busy - hoping to find something or someone else to fill the void. I know it sounds silly, but you can't imagine how incredibly important friends are when everything and everyone familiar is afar.  

Tonight I cancelled my regular plans.  My friend is right - it is time.  Not just to learn German, but for a bit of a change.

So, to the familiar faces and places, thank you for making it so easy for me here - but it is time for me to disappear for a while.  

Another Canadian tune...

Riddled with Recycled Angst

I have recycling anxiety. Yes, I know in the big scheme of things it is a ridiculous thing to be stressed about, but alas I am.

You see I thought Austria was organized, but that was only a warm up to Switzerland. I have to admit that it is putting my Canadian free spirited approach to the ultimate test when it comes to recycling. In Canada I had bins; I put paper, cans, cardboard and all that stuff in one bin. Garbage in another and garden waste in its own as well. Bottles and tetra packs have to be trucked on down to the recycling depot and organized for the deposit refund.

In Austria I had to sort everything.

Switzerland mandates sorting and bundling your paper and cardboard. BUT – they cannot be bundled together. They must be separated, organized and tied with a string. And – pick-ups for these items are on days I have yet to sort out. In the meantime my storage area resembles a cardboard and paper graveyard. (Come to think of it, the cellar is a pretty spooky place. I don’t know one person who likes to go in there. )

To make matters worse, a new acquaintance of mine told me that there are serious fines if recycling ends up in the garbage. He is so nervous about it that he takes all his paper recycling to work for shredding.

Okay, that little story did nothing to ease my anxiety. After a 140 SF fine for going 6 km over the speed limit I do not want to learn how much a garbage fine may be.

For the recycling issue, I decided to confront my fear. I purchased some string and spent some time on the weekend sorting and bundling my paper and cardboard. I must admit I am wondering what will happen if the little bits fall out of the bundle. And no, bags are not allowed – not even paper bags. Plus soiled paper and cardboard is not cool either. I have to assume that this stuff must go into the garbage – but then that takes me back to the garbage angst. But I have an interim solution for that too. My son gets to spend part of summer visit with me doing stealth garbage disposal in the dark of night.

Yep, I am living on the edge.

Will That Be Two or Three Kisses?

I have a thing for personal space. You’d be amazed at how much I can create in even the most crowded elevators. Born and raised in southern Ontario, I learned that any type of warmth or affection was reserved for those people with whom you would consider very close relationship wise.

Lets warp back more years than I care to quantify and the Toronto girl moves off to west coast Canada. The land of casual of hugging. I have always taken an element of pride of trying to appear not at all rattled – even when I am. But the hugging thing really sent me for a loop. At first when I saw arms thrust out towards me I would stand ridged like a 2 x 4 and let myself be hugged. The event was an absolute disaster for a lifetime spent cultivating personal space. But that was at first, and it wasn’t long before I became a hugger, and not just the huggee.

When some friends from Europe arrived for a Kelowna visit, I watched as they greeted everyone with cheek kisses. Not to be out done I decided to forgo the hug and greet in the same fashion. I could tell instantly that I had committed a kissing faux pas when I actually kissed the cheek of one of the men. He looked scared and mortified. I can assure you that this is not the type of reaction I was going for and as a result I looked and felt even even more scared and mortified.

A couple of years back when I first started working a lot over in Europe, I developed a light friendship with one of the women who worked at the hotel I often stayed at. It was nice to have someone to chat to about benign subjects like the weather and traffic. After a particularly long stint I went up to say my good byes to everyone. This time I reached out and hugged my friend. And that is about when she slipped into a fit of hysteria laced with panic. I don’t know if she thought I was hitting on her or not.

Note to all; In Austria and Switzerland kissing is considered casual and hugging is intimate.

So, I kiss now too. Air kisses of course. Not the real kind as I strive not to provoke any more panic attacks. But what really messes me up with the whole kissing thing is the number of kisses. In Switzerland they kiss three times, landing on the first cheek kissed. Austria is a mix of three and two. Germany two. I think. France two. I think. Belgium three. Italy is a hug or multiple kisses. To offset this I ask “will this be two or three kisses?” I am not kidding either.

But when I am really happy I have to hug. My good friends here have dubbed it “the Canadian hug.”

My obsession with personal space has been unequivocally challenged. And for the most part I handle it without a moments thought. Except when on a crowded, microscopic sized Euro elevator. For the love of all things good in this world, please do not try and greet me on one. But then, that is another blog…

Margin of Error

I call the margin of error, and I am missing it.

You see, here in Austria and particularly Vorarlberg things are pretty locked down and structured. Heck, while I am at, lets extend that line of thought to Switzerland and Germany.

It is all about rules and processes. And, what is most remarkable for an expat like me is the fact that people actually heed them.

Let me paint a scene for you. Imagine for a moment you are listening to your favourite song. The windows are rolled up so you are giving it all you’ve got. Of course you are going the speed limit, however fully engaged in a rock star moment you let your focus waver for just a moment. I mean how long is your favourite song – it can’t be more than 3.25 minutes I am guessing. So the vehicle exceeds, albeit briefly the designated speed limit. But before you know it - BAM! Monster flash goes off. Great would have been if that had been an extension of the rock star moment, but alas, it is not. You’ve been pegged, caught and captured on film going an unpardonable 6 kilometers over the speed limit.

No that was not a typo, I did indeed write 6 kilometers. No margin of error there.

I have come to the conclusion that Canadians are a bit of a laid back sort. We like our margin of error. Six kilometers over the speed limit? That’s not even worth a police officer putting down his Tim Horton’s coffee for, he already understands that the driver likely didn’t mean it. I mean, if you are going to speed – make it worth not finishing a donut for.

And hey – if you are wondering just how much that 6-kilometer over the limit rock star moment is going to cost you - I can tell you exactly how much. In Switzerland it is a 120 Swiss Francs.