Skiing

From the instant the first snowfall hits the Alps, half the Swiss population starts unpacking their skis and snowboards and preparing for their upcoming voyage out to the nearest mountain.  Within a week, the slopes are swarming with skiers of all ages, dauntless octogenarians whizzing past caravans of brightly-dressed toddlers who weave down the runs with enviable grace.  The tourists arrive soon thereafter, and the ski stations suddenly become a hodgepodge of languages and nationalities, with broken English predominating over French or even German.  But the Swiss still remain the majority.  With such proximity to the best ski slopes in the world, skiing is an obligatory hobby for the Swiss.  Most people set aside 10-20 days a yearstrap scanty strips of  fiberglass to their feet, and to speed down mountains à tombeau ouvert (literally: to an open tomb).

As a yearlong resident of Switzerland, I figured I should partake in the national pastime, so New Years weekend, my family and I drove to Crans-Montana, a small skiing town nestled in the heart of the Alps.  We were staying at a small convent, managed in part by Philippe's aunt, Sister Emmanuel, a cheerful woman in her early eighties, who, yes, was still an avid skier.  I'll admit, upon arrival, I felt relatively confident with my untested abilities - I'd been skiing twice before and had seemed to remember the basic principles of balance that I had learned during my toddlerhood in Wyoming.  A few weeks earlier, I had even successfully navigated a small backyard jump built by Alain and Simon next to the house.  Thus, in a moment of fatal hubris, I was fairly certain I could handle myself on the slopes, and even anticipated impressing my family with my mysterious capacity for the sport.  But only a series of  slapstick falls awaited my pride and my body on the pistes.  

We set off down a short but steep hill, to the small plateau that signaled the start of the runs.  Though I remained miraculously standing, I was quickly jolted from my delusions of competency.  Carving, a technique I had initially deemed the alpine equivalent of bowling effects (uselessly flashy and unnecessarily difficult), was, in fact, imperative to my survival.  The first slope we tried was a red* (the slope to be used for the 2010 Women's World Championships), and I managed to accumulate respectable tally of ten or so falls before the run leveled out.  Though the morning progressed, I did not, and continued my sporadic bursts of speed punctuated by acrobatic manoeuvres and spectacular falls.  By lunchtime, I was already exhausted enough for three days worth of skiing.  We took a quick break to eat lunch with Philippe's aunt, but then it was right back to the slopes.  The weather, however, had transformed from a slight drizzle to a blinding sleet, stinging my face and caking my glasses with ice that rendered the slopes entirely invisible, save for several amorphous black forms I suspect may have been skiers.  Yet somehow my loss of vision seemed to augment my skiing ability.  Perhaps it was the practice finally kicking in, or maybe my inability to see what lay ahead prevented me from subconsciously sabotaging myself to prevent a more serious fall, but in a terrifying feat worthy of Daredevil or Ray Charles, I survived the descent, with less than half the chutes of any of the first few runs.

The next day, we woke up in time for breakfast at seven o'clock.  I'd figured the first day would be the hardest, but five minutes into the second, in a paralyzing haze of bruise and lactic acid induced pain, I realized, as did Stanley, that the second hole's the hardest.  Dragging myself straight-legged out of bed and into my clothes, I coaxed and coerced my aching feet into my ski boots, and hobbled down the four flights of stairs.  Despite my relative paralysis, out on the slopes, I seemed to have retained what I had learned the day before.  My falls grew fewer and further between, and I began to develop a relatively effective, though entirely ungraceful carving technique.  Unfortunately, my newfound balance found no counterpart in control, resulting in a barrage of wild and volatile dashes down the crowded slopes, accompanied by a violent stream of curses in every language that I knew.  After several collisions (one with a toddler - and his very angry mother) and dozens of crashes, I finally began to learn to stop on a slope, and to master the controlled fall.  Before long, I ceased to be a liability to the park and a danger to my fellow skiers, and started to actually enjoy the experience, finishing out the trip in a level of relative competency.

Last Sunday, we left for Lac Noir (Schwarzsee) a small mountain town in the German-speaking Fribourgeois Prealpes for a day-long ski outing.  I half-suspected myself to have forgotten what I had learned at Crans-Montana, and spend most of the day floundering skillessly around, but remarkably, I comported myself more effectively than I had when we left, falling a single time the whole day.

One of the most satisfying parts of the day, however, was the brief conversations I had in periods I spent on the tire-fesse (literally: butt-puller).  Alain had gone to ski with his friends, leaving me with no pre-ordained partner for the quick ascent, so each time we returned to the summit, I was paired with a stranger.  In America, a situation such as this one would generally merit an awkward silence and a few flash smiles, but these Swiss, perhaps slightly less xenophobic and self-conscious than the average American, were quick to strike up a conversation with me, despite the language barrier.  And I even managed to hold my own, discussing with one man his obscure hobby of paragliding, without missing the slightest vocabulary word.  One of my three partners was Swiss-German, so we chatted in English, but nevertheless, I can now state officially that I know enough French to fluidly converse with a stranger.

*In Switzerland, the difficulty of slopes from easiest to hardest is as follows: pink, green, blue, red, black.  Fortunately for experienced skiers like Alain, Simon, and Phillipe, there were plenty of reds and blacks to keep them occupied.  Unfortunately for me, there wasn't much else.

The First Snow

And so winter begins.  Though not very a formidable first snow, measuring barely a centimeter and lingering not more than a day, it's implications - the approaching ski season, the rapidly dropping temperatures, the Christmas holidays - have been cause for both excitement and chagrin among my classmates and my family.  Some simply destest the impending subzero temperatures and soggy snowy weather, and some just look forward to their weekly ski.  At any rate, the ever-seasonal Fribourgeois lifestyle thus enters its third iteration since my arrival; the foods change: la chasse becomes la fondue and roasted chestnuts become roasted cheese; the sports change: soccer turns to winter sports, even if it's only a small game of anticipatory street hockey; and of course the preparations are made for the next festival in the cycle, la Fête du St-Nicolas, the saint of Fribourg.

And for me, these changes are even more monumental.  I come from a state where seasonal variations are virtually non-existant.  Several trees lose their leaves and most air conditioners are turned off, but it's hardly necessary even to stop wearing shorts and tee-shirts, let alone change one's eating habits or daily routine.  And snow, of course, is inconceivable.  So these seasonal changes, meteorological and otherwise, are exciting for me.  I get to experience a real winter for the first time in recent memory, and a new variation on the Swiss way of life.  It feels like I'm living in a story book; snow covered trees, crowds bundled up in big winter coats, chimineys puffing smoke, evoke for me, images of Peter Pan and Ebeneezer Scrooge.  I've seen snow, but up until now, winter seemed like some sort of distant, but extant, fantasyland.  Furthermore, the onset of winter represents my third month living in Switzerland, and more than ever, I'm starting to feel like a Fribourgeois.  I now know the bus routes, the old city, where to go for a cheap snack, where to go for a warm meal, how to cross the street (finally), where to go for interesting oddities.  I know where to find the old man who plays cello on the street in hopes of chancing upon a recording contract, how to get to the other side of the road without going outside, and the timings of the regular great migrations.  I'm starting to make friends and assimilate into the school system and finally - finally - learning to understand and be understood.

With teachers, students, and strangers alike, I can officially comport myself in French.  Though far from fluent, I can handle unexpected situations and exchanges, and although it is evident to all that French is not my native languages, all my conversations prove more efficient in French than English.  In fact, my speech in English is rather laboured and awkward (this entry took me several hours to write), and I'm constantly on the verge of incorporating monstrous hybrid words (like manging, quelquetimes, or hispropre) into everything I say.

In any case, the coming of winter undoubtedly opens up a new period in my stay here, and presents dozens of new opportunities and experiences to take advantage of.  Though when it really starts to snow, and the temperatures plummet, perhaps I'll change my mind...

A Day in Berne

I went to Berne this weekend with a couple other AFS students.  Walking through Berne, your first impression may be of a very pedestrian friendly city.  Crowds mill about equally on sidewalk and road, and cars are a rare sight.  You see street performers, vendors, and fountains stationed near the curb, or even in the middle of the street.  Then suddenly, you catch a glimpse the metal rails running down the sides of the street, the crowds instinctually part, and an insane train-bus hybrid comes blazing by.  Bus in the sense that it travels through the city streets with regular stops, train in the sense that crosswalks are useless and brakes non-existant.  I was almost flattened on three separate occasions.  Once acclimated to the perilous passages, we began to stroll through the city with no particular goal in mind.  To be honest, we didn't really do much.  We simply took whatever street struck our fancy and absorbed whatever interesting things we happened upon.  Admittedly, we missed out on "The Sites" of Berne, but I think we also gained a feeling for the city, and an opportunity to see it in a not strictly touristic sense (plus I think I get to return as a tourist later this year with my family, so I get the best of both worlds). 

And ultimately, we did manage to see most of the suggested landmarks of the city.  We stopped at the Münster Cathedral, and climbed all the way to the top.  It was undergoing restoration, so the fascade was covered with scaffolding and a thick fabric, but the view from the top was as good or better than that of the Cathédrale St-Nicolas.  It was a clear day, so we could see the whole city and beyond, all the way to the snow-covered Alps. Unfortunately, a wedding was taking place inside the church, so we couldn't enter the sanctuary.

We also stopped at a fascinating clock tower just outside the gare.  There were all sorts of moving gadgets and astronomical symbols, and beneath its arch, what seemed like samples of old meter and decimeter sticks.

 Afterwards, we spent about half an hour trying to find the Palais Fédéral.  We spotted a flag atop a hill, and we followed it over the gare and around a parking structure, only to discover that it was the university.  We consulted our map, and eventually made it to the central government of la Suisse.  Unfortunately, the tours were over (one of the disadvantages to an unplanned day), but we looked around the building, and checked out the Federal Bank, and the great view of the Alps from behind the Palais.  In the square in front of the Palais, there was a Sri Lankan protest, and we stopped for a few minutes to listen.

 We also crossed the bridge across the Aare, to try and find the Bärengraben on the other side.  Unfortunately, the exhibit only opened the next day, but the views of the river valley from the bridge were spectacular.

Overall, it was a fun day, and it was great to see the other AFS students again.  I hope I get the opportunity to go see more of Switzerland this last week of vacation.

Germany

We arrived Saturday morning at Ruth's brother's house, in a small town in Germany.  I suppose at first glance it wasn't much different from Switzerland, but somehow it felt just a little more German.  There were the medieval buildings, the sprawling pedestrian zones, and the tightly packed underground shopping centers that seem to be standard in Europe, but there were also also the ever-so-German sex stores and beer halls with names too long to cram on their signs.  The most immediate difference, of course, was the language.  My French at this point, is passable.  I'm competant enough to requisition a haircut and follow directions over the telephone, but suddenly all that I'd learned was completely useless.  I was submerged in a culture and had no means of communicating with it, no chance of comprehending it, and not so much as a days worth of schooling in the language.  Heck, I didn't even know how to say "Excuse me" or "I'm sorry" (luckily, the German culture is such that I wouldn't have had much use for those two phrases anyway).  Of course, everyone can speak basic English, but the thought of speaking it with Germans, seems too culturally conceited and too shamefully "American."  Among Ruth's family, however, it was necessary.  They spoke French at least as awkwardly as I did, and sometimes, I found myself translating Alain and Simon's arguments for their cousin, Stefan.  Plus, Ruth's brother was a proffessor of English, and I'm pretty sure he spoke it better than I did.  At first speaking English was surprisingly difficult; I was quiet and awkward, and found myself wishing I could just speak in French.  I had to avoid my instinctual responses of "oui" and "merci;" the transition felt almost as if it was my first day again.  Also, speaking English with non-native speakers is always a little awkward.  You have to avoid slang and excessive prepositions, and you always have to speak with correct grammar, or risk offending someone by saying something they don't understand (or worse, explaining it).

The first night, Stefan took Alain, Simon, and me out to an authentic German beerhall, where I had a currywurst, which was surprisingly good, and Stefan, in stereotypical German fashion, downed two beers, before I had even finished.  We then headed over to the youth room at the church, where there was a party.  It was like every German party I've ever imagined: beer, loud, angry techno music (Das Geht Ab - the present German party anthem), blacklights, and alcohol - except for the fact that it took place in a church.  I was introduced to a couple of people (in English of course), but I didn't really talk to anybody.  Before long, the police showed up because someone complained about the noise, but it wasn't serious because everyone was old enough to drink anyway.  That spelled the end of the party, however, so after meeting a couple of Stefan's friends, we left for another bar.  The streets were filled with kids doing the same, passing from bar to bar, club to club, and everyone seemed to know everyone else.  We stopped by several other bars, socializing, and meeting people, before we finally went home.

The next day, we went canoeing down a small river in the middle of town.  I was surprised that that was allowed, but there seemed to be no other craft on the water, motorized or otherwise.  It was a beautiful day, abeit cold, for going outside, so we stopped for a few minutes at an island, and headed back after a few minutes.

The following evening, we went out to another party with Stefan.  It was only a couple of houses down the street, and everyone from the church party, plus many many more, were there.  This time I spoke alot more with the German kids.  They had great fun speaking English to me (after I had explained "Ich spreche kein Deutsch"), and teaching me German slang and curses.  They spoke well the most part, but I couldn't get them to understand that I was an exchange student staying in Switzerland and was only visiting for a couple of days.  Consequently, they were all very surprised when I said that I'd been here for two months, but I spoke no German whatsoever.  It was a little embarassing to know so little and I was very conscious of my nationality, but everyone was friendly and didn't make me feel awkward at all.

After those few jam-packed days of Hessen exploration and German nightlife, it was time to go home.  We stopped about half-way in the small French town of Colmar, which felt as French as Stefan's town had felt German.  The buildings were old and brightly coloured, with dark wood beams crisscrossing their fascades.  A two meter wide stream with masonry banks, ran through the town Venice-style, so the pedestrian-only streets were speckled with bridges and fountians.  It was very quaint, but with its jolly street performers (an accordionist!), vibrant colours, and cobblestone streets, seemed almost like Disney World.  And I suppose it was a very touristy town, but it was nice to get a small taste of France, and see more of Europe.

 

Charmey Adventures

Sunday, I went with Ruth, Alain, and Simon to Charmey Adventures, an aeriel ropes course, high in the mountains.  We started out with the Red Course difficulty, which was relatively easy.  The course was a series of wooden platforms, each surrounding the trunk of a tree, large enough to accomodate three people at once.  They were anywhere from 3 to 15 meters above the ground, and the only way to reach the next platform was by navigating a physical challenge.  There were tight ropes, swings, ziplines, and swinging stepping stones, each designed to test your strength, balance, flexibility, or sometimes, just pure guts.  One challenge on the red course required its participants to leap off the platform and fall 3 or 4 meters before being caught by a swing, and sent careening into a tangle of ropes.  Ruth had a bit of trouble collecting her nerve for that one ("Shpringen!" Alain and Simon, kept calling out) but she did it eventually.
      Of course, we were always attatched to the wires extending between the trees by at least one carabiner (mousqueton), but at times that simply added to the challenge.  For example, on the Black Course, that Alain, Simon, and I did later, there was a wire spider web that we had to cross, but there was no secondary wire on which the mousquetons could attatch, so it was necessary, so clip and reclip the two mousquetons between each segment of the toile d'araignée.  And that meant supporting yourself with one hand while the other fumbled with the clips, which was more enervating than it sounds.

The most difficult part of the day undoubtedly came when I made a premature entry onto one of the more difficult sections of the course.  There was a single rope supporting each in a row of circular swings, so it was impossible to balance without expending alot of energy.  Unfortunately, I left the preceding platform with three people still on the following one, so I was obliged to wait until the person on the next crossing had completed their journey.  In all, I probably hung for about only 5 minutes, but by the time I finally dismounted, my arms were exhausted.  At some point during my endeavor on the black course, Ruth ran into Lucia, another AFS Fribourg student, and her host mother, and they called up to me, but I never saw her.  After successfully completing the challenging (but not overly so) black, we descended for a couple of rides on the violet, which was essentially two very long, and very high ziplines.

At lunchtime we stopped at the centre of operations, and had some of the bread and cheese that Ruth had packed.  Simon did the little kid's course, all of a meter off the ground, with Alain, of course, harassing him all the while.

50th Anniversary Meal

Yesterday was the fiftieth anniversary of my host grandparents, so the whole family (with me, 21 strong) went out to lunch at a gourmet restauruant.  It must have been really fancy, because they gave us a menu telling us, not our choices of food, but the schedule in which we would eat it.  We started out with schmooze food, which was crackers and bread smeared with various orange and grey pastes and surprisingly quite tasty.  Then we moved on to drinks.  The adults had champagne and white wine, and I had a Coke.  As usual, I drained the small glass in a few moments, only to shudder with chagrin, as I remembered the fact that refills don't come free in Switzerland.
(Out of all the cultural differences and contrasting customs I've discovered in my six weeks living here, that undoubtedly taken the most getting used to. How can a country call itself civilized if it doesn't provide its own people with the simple courtesy of endless beverages? It's barbaric!)  At that point we could cease schmoozing if we pleased, to sit down and eat a bowl of soup so disgusting, that the kid's side of the table burst with laughter each time someone courageosly endeavored to take a bite. (In Switzerland, it is imperative to finish all that one is served, both for the sake of the chef's feelings, and because wasting is frowned upon.  Failing that, one must at least taste everything.  Throughout the course of this meal, however, I noticed several surreptitious transgressions of the rule.)  The soup was cleared away, and a slab of fish, surrounded by various unidentifiable piles of mush, vegetables, and a thick army green sauce.  Despite it's appearance, it tasted fine, and I polished it off fairly quickly, noting few grimaces from my comrades.  The plates were again cleared away, only to be replaced yet another dish of mush and meat (brown and maroon).  We had finally arrived at the main course.  As it turned out, the meat was deer from "la chasse," the local hunt that takes place from October to November, and the sides, included beets, liver, and blood sausage - the Freshman prank food of the day.  Few plates were cleared.  (Eating here seems to be a very seasonal thing here.  Every food, even the varieties of bread and salad, are reserved for only about two months of the year.  The last cycle was Benichon, and now we've moved into La Chasse, and the routine meals seem to have changed.  Perhaps it's because they don't import much from abroad.)  The plates, imperceptibly lighter, were cleared, and it was finally time for dessert.  The waiter came around to ask each person whether they wanted the cheese or the sweet dessert.  Having developed a suspicion of Swiss desserts (and of my own translation abilities), I opted for the less risky cheese platter.  They delivered the dessert, which turned out to be crackers and creme with rasberries, blueberries, and raisinettes (damn!), and I got up to select my cheese from the waiter at a separate table.  As I approached, one of the uncles called out "Pas en Anglais!" which, of course, the waiter heard, and we proceeded to conduct the whole selection process in English (Fortunately.  I don't think I know enough cheese description French words to an make educated and practical cheese selection).  As with any cheese platter, there were the inevitable unpalatables, but overall, I enjoyed the selection of Swiss cheeses.  (On a cheese related note: At the AFS weekend last month, one of the counselors told me a story of his exchange experience in America.  He had gone to Subway for the first time with his friends, and the sandwhich maker asked him what type of cheese he wanted.  "What types do you have?" he aked.  "We have cheddar, provelone, swiss cheese-"  "Swiss cheese?" he interrupted, "What type of Swiss cheese?"  "Uh, normal swiss cheese..." the sanwhich maker replied.  "Yes, but what kind of Swiss cheese?" he asked again, and would have persisted, had not his friend interevened.  "He'll have provolone.")

After the meal, I roamed the city a bit with the other similarly aged cousins (Derek, Maxime, Luc, and Alain.  We passed by the annual Morat-Fribourg 17K run (which commemorates the messenger who, in 1476, ran from Morat to Fribourg to announce the victory against Charles the Bold, only to collapse from exhaustion after declaring the news...sound familiar?...), and we ended up stopping at some sort of game room, with all sorts of pinball machines, and foosball tables and what not.  Again, I witnessed the foosball magic of the Swiss, and Maxime showed us a machine gambling reaction-test machine, that he claimed he could use as a sure source of income.  And he proceeded to win 30 F.

On Learning Another Language (or A Really Boring Post)

I'll admit, before I arrived in Switzerland, I expected my French to improve exponentially, osmotically, and without much deliberate effort on my part.  Perhaps I just had a heightened perception of my affinity for languages, but I imagined that, by the sixth week, I would be able to comport myself with relative ease through Swiss society.  And I'm not that far from my goal - today I managed to flounder my way through an inelegant exchange with a bookstore clerk to order a book I needed for school (ungraceful, but successful!) - but I feel as if the steps I've made toward fluency lie primarily in quantifiable knowledge gains.  In other words, I've answered my long held questions as to how to say "that means" (ça veut dire), "I have to" (je dois), and "it doesn't matter" (c'est egal), but I haven't yet gained the familiarity with the language necessary to understand and be understood.  Given enough time and perhaps a sheet of paper, I can formulate and decipher almost any thought I have in an (almost) grammatically correct sentence.  But such are not the circumstances of an ordinary French conversation; thus, I know enough French to survive, but I'm not good enough at it to make any use of it.  Undoubtedly, the most difficult thing about learning a new language (as it seems at this point in my experience), is transferring your memorized operational knowledge of where to place direct objects, how to conjugate verbs, which gender to use, and when to use the subjunctive, to habitual memory, so you can feel out what sounds correct, rather than wrack your brain for the applicable rule.   I know I'll reach this point eventually, but I'm a little impatient, because in the mean time, I'm stuck with awkward nodding and endless, obnoxious calls, for repetition and deceleration.

I have, however, been taking several independant steps to improve my language abilities.  I've tried linguistically isolate myself in French, avoiding English websites, books, and writing home (though I suppose I'm violating my resolution by posting this).  I've started reading Harry Potter et la Coupe de Feu (page 248!), and I think it's helped me take significant steps toward proficiency.  I can feel my vocabulary growing (admittedly, it's mostly a recognition vocabulary, as I rarely use the words myself), and I've gone from using the dictionary 30 or 40 times a page to about 5 or 10.  I feel a surge of pride each time I recognize a "Harry Potter" word in conversation, knowing that my independent study was worth it.  Also, my recognition of sentence structures, and comprehension of grammar has expanded too.  I can't really formulate the structures myself, but I can now understand the sentences that stumped me seventeen chapters ago.  An interesting note, however, is that although I can understand the words on the page, I don't always understand the tone or implication of the writing.  Consequently, I have, much to my chagrin, developed a sympathy for Draco Malfoy, and catch myself wondering why Harry, Ron, and Hermione hate hims so much.

Although it sounds like a lazy solution, I've also devoted myself to watching more television.  Since I've found television one of the most difficult things to understand, I figure frequent exposure to quickly spoken vernacular can only make my comprehension skills better.  And it seems to be working; I understand a little bit more each time I watch. It may not be pleasant, but I guess I'll just have to bite the bullet and watch more television...

And whenever I acknowledge significant progress in the language, I immediately become ambitious.  In a month, I think to myself, I'll be able to start German, and by the end of the year I'll speak them both fluently.  Then once I convince myself of the practicality of my goal, my ambition becomes grows larger and larger, and by extention less realistic. I think: Since Italian is close to French, I can probably learn it in six months of intense independent study after that.  By then, I'll be really good with languages, so I'll be able to pick up Russian aftera few years of college classes, and then maybe I can start Chinese.  These are nice goals I suppose.  Just as I would like to read every book ever written, I'd like to be fluent in every language and be able to naturally communicate with any one in the world.  I know this is impractical if I want to do anything else with my life (like eat), but I will definitely strive to communicate in as many languages as possible.