Champagne and roses

Today started off like any other day. Woke up much earlier than I would have liked. Worked the breakfast and lunch shifts. Did some grocery shopping. Took a nap. Then headed off to the evening shift which didn't look very promising on the reservations end. One table of two. That's it.

It was painfully slow. The table of two arrived, a young Asian couple, and the three of us working were nearly fighting for things to do. I never thought I'd want to clear people's plates, but when the other option is to stand there with n-o-t-h-i-n-g to do but stare at the wall and overanalyze the newest dilemma in my world, I'll take clearing tables any day.

The young Asian guy got up from the table at one point and was gone for about ten minutes. Huh, that's rude, I thought. Or... Wow, he must have really needed to use the bathroom. But when he came back, a huge smile spread across his face, he was holding a bouquet of red long stem roses. No baby's breath. No filler flowers. Just roses. And they were gorgeous. I thought bouquets like that only existed in movies or in the synthetic flower section at Michael's.

From the bar, I had the perfect view of his girlfriend. You could see the surprise take over her whole body, her hands flying to cover her gaping mouth. And within the next five minutes, I watched his proposal unfold (though since he was speaking in Japanese, I made up my own version of his speech and declarations of love and commitment for myself--and I must say, it was damn good). She had tears in her eyes and mine were brimming, and we all relished in the happy couple's moment. I think I even let out a gasp when I saw him get down on one knee. Even the guys were watching anxiously, all of them completely engrossed in the scene as it unraveled. We served them champagne afterwards, and the moment lingered in the restaurant for the rest of my shift.

And while I was setting tables for the morning breakfast, I couldn't wipe the smile off my face--not that I wanted to. But for a person that doesn't necessarily believe in marriage--and my own beliefs stem from more than just my own parents' divorce if that's what you immediately assumed--I was shocked at how sentimental I felt. And how happy I was for them and for their mutual commitment to one another. When I went to wish them congratulations afterward and saw the blue Tiffany's box sitting there, the white ribbon dangling off the edge of the table, and the young woman starry-eyed as she couldn't make up her mind whether to look at her new fiance or the ring on her finger, I thought... I want that. And no, I'm not talking about the diamond ring. That moment that was overflowing with their history, the thought of a future together, the possibilities, the love, the hopefulness and the belief in all of it. That's what I wanted. And someday, I hope, that will come along. Though I haven't yet felt it for myself, I believe in love. I believe in its unyielding potential, in its purity, and in its instinct to know exactly when to track you down, knock you over, and prove you wrong about everything and more you thought you knew about yourself and the universe's plan for you. I believe in it because I'm too stubborn, too hopeful, and too naive not to. And that's enough reason for me.

For now, I suppose being the witness to a truly magical moment in two people's lives was a gift in itself. And to that couple, I wish you greatness in every way. And obviously love. A never ending, consistent stream of love, love and more love. Congratulations!

And just because...

"My great hope is to laugh as much as I cry, to get my work done and try to love somebody and have the courage to accept the love in return." --MAYA ANGELOU

Fribourg: Vachement cool!

Directly translated, "vachement" means "cowly," yes, as in like a cow. It's simply math really. (Vache = cow) + (ment=ly). Eh voila! There you go! Now, I bet you're wondering... "Why would anyone ever want to use an adverb like that?" Good question. Vachement is actually one of those really awesome idiomatic expressions (or words) that does not translate directly at all. Ha, psych! It actually means "really" or "extremely" and probably originated from a different word with similar phonetics and not from any sort of agricultural meaning or implication* (though my research on this topic only lasted about five minutes via google).

Why the hell am I giving you a French lesson? you ask. Well, I found this word to be just too appropriate when thinking about how I would describe my day trip to Fribourg, a small medieval city about 45 minutes north of Lausanne. The city, often called the "city of bridges" as it was originally built along both sides the River Sarine, has quaint shops, touristy corners, a well-known and respected university, and plenty of small streets to roam aimlessly for the curious wanderer like myself. And no, I didn't see any really cool cows if you were wondering, though the region around Fribourg is pretty much dominated by farmland and, I'm sure, is dotted with plenty of cows.

However, on the train ride back to Lausanne while I was writing and thinking about how much I enjoyed my day trip to Fribourg, I was interrupted by the quick deceleration of the train and the conductor's voice over the intercom:

(Translated from French) "Excuse me ladies and gentlemen. It seems that we have encountered a problem. I am sorry to inform you but this train will be delayed by an indefinite period of time due to cows on the tracks. I apologize for any inconvenience and will give you more information as soon as it is available."

I busted up laughing at the image of two cows just lounging on the tracks, thinking to themselves, "Oh yeah dude. A train is coming. Sucks for them cause I'm not moving." Slowly turning to the approaching train, "So... what'd you gonna do about it, biatch?!"

"Bahaha. Hey, I have an idea," replied the second cow, smirking at his own brilliant thought. "How 'bout we just lay here and pretend like we don't see 'em at all, just to see what they do."

"Sweet man, I'm down. Any sign of the cops though and I'm booking it. Remember those tazors they used once? Yeah, not cool. Not cool at all."

Laughing at the scene playing out in my head, I looked up to see the reaction of the old man sitting across from me, or rather, his utter lack of reaction to the news. Nothing. His eyes didn't flicker from the newspaper spread out in front of him. And I thought, a) either he is completely deaf and did not hear the announcement, or b) this happens all the time and he doesn't give a shit since he's used to such cow crossings (or not crossing in this situation). I'm going with (b), though (a) may have very well been possible.

What happened then? The train was delayed by 30 minutes and it may have been longer had the police not shown up and "escorted" the cows off the tracks. No, I'm not kidding.

So then, Fribourg, I was impressed by the architecture, bridges, and the scattered spots to sit and lounge along the river. And the cows? Nice touch. Vachement cool, I say!

View from the first bridge crossing into Old Town. The newer, cosmopolitan part of the city is built up on a hill while the Old Town is down below next to the river.

A small bridge on the edge of town. That little grassy patch you see in the corner, my picnic spot. Thank you thank you thank you sunshine!

And another bridge, definitely my favorite. It's hard to tell in the photo, but it was lined with boxes of red geraniums on both sides.

View from the top of the Cathedral of Saint-Nicholas, completed in the 15th century. You can see the tower I climbed in the top left hand corner of the first photo. I entered the church and bought a ticket to climb the hundred and something steps (I lost count) to the top. And I have something to admit. I lied. In a church. When the saintly looking girl asked me if I was a student, I said yes to save one franc. Father, please forgive me.

*Ref: http://www.transparent.com/newsletter/french/2000/feb_00.htm

Marché à Morges: 26.09.09

One of those things that I think Europe does best is the weekend street market. Rickety wooden stands with different colored awnings line the cobblestone streets selling mounds of loose spices, dried fruits, fresh vegetables, sausages on baguettes, cheap faux-linen clothing, an odd assortment of jewelry, antiques and glamorized garage sale-type items, olive oil, and homemade jams made from almost any fruit you could imagine. If you haven't tried fig jam, I would seriously recommend it!

I've been to the Saturday market in Morges a couple times before with my aunt and uncle, brother and mom, so when I was reading the events page on the myswitzerland.com website and saw that Morges was having a special Autumn market, I promised myself that between shifts I would take the 45 min train to check it out. It took an enormous amount of effort to peal myself from my bed after a long and busy breakfast/lunch shift, but I made the trip and was relieved to have the change of scenery. Morges itself is an adorable little lakeside village about 10 mins from Lausanne with tiny streets, boutique stores, and a friendly vibe that I haven't felt in many other places. Maybe I'm confusing friendliness with familiarity, as I recognized a cheese shop I've visited with Anne and a fountain Yann coundn't stop himself from splashing in, but walking the streets breathed some life back into me, something I was in desperate need of after a not-so-wonderful week of work. I walked and walked, passing by some of the vendors not two but three times (by the confused looks on some of their faces, they noticed my odd amount of enthusiasm for market browsing), took advantage of the free samples, and pulled my camera out every few minutes to snap photos and stand out as a tourist.

And while searching through piles of random used items, I found a funky, old metal coffee canister that was just what I needed. For the price of three Swiss francs, it quickly became my newest "this will be so cool in my future apartment" purchase. Maybe it wasn't the most useful thing to buy, but the shopping therapy did the trick and I trained back to Montreux with a lighter temperament and a fun new find. Oh, and a bag full of organic apples sold to me by a nearly toothless man that I just couldn't say no to.

Good old-fashioned, juggling street entertainers.

"This little piggie went to the market..."

See what I mean about the cute streets?!

An author's note

This past week was a long one, as you can probably tell by the fewer number of posts. (Trust me, I have not in any way run out of things to tell you about... the line of stories in my head is borderline overwhelming.) Not only was it a long week of work, but I've finally reached that point where all the excitement and newness has worn off and exhaustion has come to take their place. I know that my French is getting better everyday, but my brain is on overload and forming a sentence that is more than five words long is like climbing a really slippery rock cliff. Whether you make it the the top or not is a total gamble.

The good news is that my day off today was exactly what I needed. Some much needed catch-up time with some of my favorite people, a lovely Pilates class, an even better nap, a free train ride up to Rochers-de-Naye (more photos to come), and plenty of fresh, sparkling sunshine like serious meds for my tired soul.

I will do my best to up the posting this week, especially since I just downloaded a bunch of photos that I can hardly wait to share. For now, I leave you with a picture of the view from my window on the fifth floor (still no news on the roommate sitch, so I'm still claiming this room as mine, all mine). I discovered that the ledge hanging out from my window is the perfect place to eat dinner and watch the sunset on the lake. As long as no one sees me sitting on the edge of the fifth floor window, I'm golden! A secret spot is just what I needed.

Happy week everyone! And one quick shout out... Happy Birthday Nick!

(Note: I had to hang out of the window to get this shot. Isn't the scaffolding a nice touch? It's even better when random strangers known as construction workers walk by your window at 8am while your standing in just a towel.)

A Carrie moment

"Wherever you go, there you are."

Inscribed on the necklace that Shan and Car got me for my birthday, these words dangle from the silver chain around my neck and remind me everyday that you can never really be lost even though many of us seem to feel that way in the face of huge changes or obstacles or when placed in foreign territory that leaves us confused, uncomfortable, or even lonely. And just knowing that those words are physically there, close to my heart, makes me feel less alone somehow, especially on those days when I really miss home and, more importantly, when I miss being with people that understand me completely, quirks and all.

And today, I fell in love with this quote all over again. During my morning conversation with Car--one of those conversations you don't realize how much you needed until you feel like a new person afterwards--I started thinking. Maybe this quote has something else to say, something I hadn't taken the time to consider. I initially thought that the physical distance between myself and the people I love the most would indeed make me feel a world away. But talking to friends and family rather frequently (thank you thank you thank you skype), I realized that the distance doesn't mean anything at all because that closeness and happiness I feel when I talk to the people I love is always present, I just sometimes lose sight of it when I allow my mind to get clouded by all the little things that seem so important. And this morning helped me see that again.

I found myself laughing with Car about something I can't remember now. Really laughing. The kind of laughing that strips your body of any dark or lonely or heavy feeling and leaves you cleansed, light and new again. And instead of feeling sad that my best friends can't be with me right now, I felt comforted by the fact that I have them in my life at all. Yes, the distance can royally suck sometimes, but it only reminds me again of how lucky I am to know such amazing people. People that make me feel like me again.

Love you guys. And thank you for being you.

Oh, and the possibility that I may see Marki this week may make me the happiest person in Switzerland. I did a survey, and yup, I stand correct.

New developments II

1. I moved again.

2. I am on the 5th floor.

3. I get a new roommate on October 5th.

4. I am going to pull my strings and see what I can do to stay solo. No offense new girl but step off.

5. The room is nice.

More details to come, but for now, cross your fingers for me!

Dinner Party

In addition to learning how to set a five-star table with three different forks, knives, spoons, wine glasses, bread plates, etc. and how to pour wine like a seriously sophisticated alcoholic, I have picked up some fairly impressive napkin folding skills that would spice up any ordinary place setting. First there's the fan that stands upright all on its own, the primary one we use at the hotel and the same one my aunt taught me when I was eight-years-old (I felt pretty damn special back then). I still remember her showing me precisely how to fold the layers of cloth back and forth, back and forth. "The crease. It's all about the final crease," she said. Secondly, Ali showed me how to make a rose that they often use for Moroccan weddings. Just add a touch of color with your napkins and you can have your very own rose garden at the dinner table!

And finally, the latest creation that I have mastered will undoubtedly be executed at my next dinner party to add a little 'Wow!' factor and a definite conversation starter--always a great bonus to have at a dinner party (in my opinion) especially if you have guests who have not yet been acquainted. What is it? you ask. A penis. Correction: an erect, circumcised penis. Can't you just picture it? With the perfect mis en place and menu, you could even make it themed!

Maybe someday when I write a book I'll have a chapter dedicated to napkin art, including specific instructions and step by step photos to ensure that your fan, rose, or penis does not turn out lopsided, crooked, or deformed in any way. You wouldn't want to insult your guests, would you?

Birthday ballons

In honor of four very special people, here are some extra happy Swiss birthday balloons. Even the Swiss knew that some serious celebrating would be in order. And me being my convincing and clever self, paid these people to stand lakeside, by an 18th century castle, holding balloons. Perfect enough for you?

Love you all and of course... Happy birthday(s)!

Nicole, 20.09

Yann, 21.09

Andy, 22.09

Nick, 28.09

20.09.09: Say it with me now, "Assugrin."

Today is one of those days that compiling a sentence in French is nearly impossible. My lips start moving and pause... I stand there thinking: okay, the verb is... and the “je” form... Now make it negative. How the hell do I say that word? Okay, calm down, is there another way I can say that word? Now, wait, what was I even trying to say in the first place?? Followed by... Hurry up! Hurry up! Say something. Say anything. Oh please make sense, please understand me. Don’t look at me like everything I just said was totally gibberish, although I doubt I said anything correctly beyond “Je...”

Yeah, one of those days.

Granted, I’m tired. I didn’t sleep as much as I should have--ha, story of my life--and it’s just an off day. I understand that. We all have them. And I was going about my work just fine until the asshole walked in. He sat down in the cafe part of the restaurant (where only drinks and croissants are served), and I asked him what he’d like.

“Qu’est-ce que vous desirez a boire, Monsieur?”

Barely taking the time to look at me, he responded gruffly, “Un cafe au lait.”

Cool, easy, I can do that with my eyes closed. I bring him his coffee with sugar and a chocolate and he gives me the sugar and says something else that I don’t understand. Okay, whatever. He doesn’t want the sugar. I take the packet, smile, and walk back to the counter. Two minutes later he hits the window that connects the cafe to the bar/coffee counter. That was rude. I run to his table and he says the same thing. This time I can decipher it, but I still don’t understand. “Assagrin.” I repeat it to Ali and he hands me two little packets of sugar supplements, like Equal or Splenda but the Swiss version. I apologize, hand them to the man and as I’m walking away, he adds, “Si tu veux travailler en Montreux, tu doit apprendre la francais.” Translation: “If you want to work in Montreux, you should learn French.” Mother fucker. I’m trying!!! Oh, and I’m sorry that I didn’t know the name of the brand of sugar you wanted. Sorry that you can’t annunciate and that I didn’t learn what Assagrin was in my French classes at USD.

And the rest that followed in my mind I’ll keep to myself. I can understand why he would be upset if hadn’t uttered a word to him and instead stood there frozen at the sound of him speaking French to me. But no, not even close. I kept telling myself that it wasn’t a big deal. This guy was probably just having a bad day or was generally an angry person who felt better when everyone around him was angry and pissed off too. Maybe it was the fact that I was already having a tough day speaking French or had gotten up for work at 5 am that morning, whatever the reason, his comment really got to me. No, I didn’t start crying or anything like that, but it stung and I let it affect the rest of my work which frustrated me even more.

I played over several different scenarios in my mind--one that involved throwing his coffee in his face, another requiring good aim and a handful of baby jam jars that we use for the breakfasts--and the pseudo violence made me feel slightly better. But really, why was such a comment necessary? And of course I starting thinking about the comments I heard all the time while living in San Diego. Derogatory comments about Mexican workers that always made me feel uncomfortable. If I could go picketing right now, I totally would. Too bad I don’t have any poster supplies. Or know any other angry American workers in Montreux. All I can say is this: next time, I’ll be ready. And my French will be better. And the asshole? Oh, I have plenty of witty but oh-so-classy remarks saved up for the perfect moment. No, I’m not a vengeful person--or only just a tad--but rather too proud to be left looking like a dumb American which I know I’m not. I guess any situation that leaves me more motivated to learn this language is a positive one. Humph. Another day, another asshole, another lesson learned. Whew.

18.09.09

Sometimes I get slightly worried that this job will become monotonous and the little anecdotes I write in my head to keep me going will cease to be interesting when the most exciting topics become "The art salt and pepper shakers--which ones work and which ones don't", or "Bottled water: sparkling or still?" But then days like today come along that leave me surprised that so much could happen in one sixteen hour period. Granted, working for twelve hours in one day does supply me with a higher amount of quality writing material and shows me how one day can be ordinary, absolutely awful, and fantastic all at the same time. Okay, I'll get started.

PDJ (Petit-dejeuner, a.k.a. breakfast: 8am to 12pm).

The breakfast shift has the potential to be absolute hell if everyone decides to show up at the same time. The space is small, the people sans caffeine can be rude and demanding, and they often leave behind a mountain of crumbs, smears of Nutella and honey, and plates half full of non-eaten food that ends up being wasted and pissing me off. Thankfully, there was no mad rush today and people came in at a decent pace, giving Christiane and I just enough time to keep everything under control (Christiane, who I haven't yet mentioned, mainly works the breakfasts and does some catered events. She is wonderful. So wonderful. She works her ass off and never fails to flash give you the warmest smile. When she asks, 'Ca va?' she actually wantsto know how you're doing instead of saying it just to fill the empty space. And best of all, she wears the same perfume as Omi, so my olfactory cells work in her favor as well.) And because Amandine--who was supposed to show up at 8 am--called in sick, we had some extra work to do but we handled it without any issues or overspent energy.

Dejeuner (translation... you guessed it: lunch), la terrace.

Remember how I said that a day can go from being average to totally shitty? Allow me to set the scene... My left hand balances a tray with two full bottles of water (these bottles being glass and inconveniently tall, skinny, and awkward) and my right hand pours water with a third bottle into the guests' glasses. Of course, the manager puts the table of six in a spot where expert maneuvering between umbrellas, chairs, and plants is required. Five glasses down and only one more to go, I move to the last guy. Unfortunately, when I attempt to squeeze between the two chairs to reach his glass, my balancing skills falter dramatically. It all happened in slow motion, frame by frame... The tumbling bottles falling onto the man (one empty, one full)... The sparkling water spilling out in waterfall fashion... Their gaping gazes turning in my direction as though someone was choreographing their uniformed reactions... And me, desperately scrambling to fix this situation as quickly as possible while maintaining even the smallest amount of dignity and composure. "Je suis tres, tres desole, Monsieur. Mais, ce n'est pas le vin rouge!" Oh god, if it would have been red wine I think I would have died right there. Or jumped off the terrace. Thankfully, the man wasn't too angry and we were sort of able to laugh it off.

After my moment of clumsy glory, I was terrified to take anything to their table. My hands were all shaky and I didn't want to know what else I was capable of. Not today. I successfully avoided them for the rest of lunch, that is, until I was told to bring them espressos. Dammit dammit dammit. The same tray, now covered with espressos and coffees, balanced on my left hand. Be steady. DO NOT SPILL. Confidence, baby, confidence. And then, like a negative manifestation or something, I spilled espresso. With the same guy, though this time I didn't actually spill it directly on him. (Or I pretended not to and he didn't notice.) The worst part is that there was nothing special about the man. I wish I could say that he was so beautiful and so charming that I was distracted by the perfect romantic comedy happy-ending playing on repeat in my mind with thousands of tea lights and Boyz II Men's "I'll Make Love to You" playing in the background. Nope, not even that exciting. I just couldn't keep it together and every clumsy moment I'd luckily avoided thus far seemed to be playing out in one very long afternoon. Awesome. Well, at least I didn't drop any plates in the middle of the restaurant. No, no. I'll save that for another time.

There are plenty of other embarrassing details about the lunch shift that I'll refrain from sharing, but let me just say, it was not my finest working hour(s). Being short-staffed and absolutely slammed thanks to one of the last days of summer sunshine meant that I had to work an extra two hours. Cool, great, excellent. Once we finished cleaning up and taking everything down from lunch, I retreated to my room where I slept and recovered and prepared for the third and final shift of the day.

Diner.

The restaurant was completely booked. Inghams on the middle floor and a catered event on the upper level. I don't know where the energy came from but it came and just in time because pretty much everyone decided to come within the same 30 minute period. And being such a big Inghams night, I was doing all the running around while my manager did nothing. N-o-t-h-i-n-g. Ass. I was at least happy to be serving kind people with few special requests or complaints. And in English. Thank GOD in English. I summoned my chattiest self and thoroughly enjoyed talking to the different tables of English folk, of course A & D being my favorites. It being their last night in the hotel (yes, tear), we swapped digits and emails and promised to stay in touch as I mentioned before.

Finally there was my last table for the evening: an American couple from Pebble Beach who I liked immediately, slightly biased perhaps. We bonded over California, living abroad (they had lived in Paris for a few years), and a general thing I like to call "Americanness" that made us just get each other. And five minutes before they left, D (the wife) called me over to their table to give me her card, personal email address, and phone number. "Just in case you ever need anything, sweetheart, you are welcome to stay with us anytime!" I was shocked. Two invitations in one night and all I did was chat with people. I told you this job rocks! (Or it's nights like these that keep me motivated.) They gave me the three Swiss kisses (left cheek, right cheek, left cheek) and said goodbye, or until the next time. Hey, you can never have too many connections!

And there the one day saga ended, though it took me a while to get to sleep because I was so wired from a day of so much activity. From clumsiness and embarrassment to content clients and new friends. A little bit of everything I suppose. I would just like to skip the whole make-myself-look-like-a-total-idiot part. But I have to admit, being put in those uncomfortable situations when you can either choose to let the embarrassment ruin you or merely shrug it off forces me to laugh a little extra, even if it's at my own expense. And the way I look at it, at least I'm laughing, right?