Heaven is Spring Time in Paris

A kiss in front of Rodin's 'The Kiss' in les jardins Tuileries

Can there be any more magical city in the world than Paris? If there is I haven't seen it yet! C2, J, my mum, my Auntie Harriet and I traveled north to the city of lights to rendez-vous with friends from Montreal for the Easter week school break. We had rented an apartment in the 1er arrondissement of Paris, near the Louvre, in order to be near our friends who had rented a flat within the glorious Palais Royale.

Under the Pyramid in the Louvre

I had at one point questioned whether a week would be too long in Paris with a 5-year old but honestly it was barely long enough and I still didn't do all I would have liked. We walked, without exaggeration about 7 hours a day including one full day at Parc Asterix, an amusing theme park based on the French comic strip Astérix le Gaulois, about 30km outside of Paris, as well as one exhausting day at Disney Paris.

Strolling the David gallery in the Louvre

But Paris is not about theme parks, they were a simple diversion for the younger set. I'm not even sure at this point that they were necessary as my favorite memory is J's utter fascination with the gallery of neo-classical historical paintings by David in the Louvre. We must have spent an hour looking at them closely. It was the first time I introduced him to a museum offering more mature subjects than natural history and he rose to the occasion. His tastes, however, did not extend to Monet's Waterlillies which are beautifully displayed in the Orangerie gallery in les jardins Tuileries. Impressionist art didn't make much of an impression on him.

J's other favorite Paris landmark was the ubiquitous Eiffel Tower. He spent hours searching out just the right souvenir models and begging every adult in our group to part with a few coins in support of his purchase of another and another. Final tally of miniature Eiffel Towers was around 10. They are now carefully on display in his bedroom in Geneva.

A couple of the odder things that we fit in were visits to the sewers of Paris, a somewhat funky-smelling but still interesting wade (pardon the pun) under the Quai d'Orsay on the Left Bank. The other was a visit to the Catacombs of Paris, a vast underground ossuary where the bones of overwhelmed city and church cemetaries were moved and stacked into eery piles of femurs, tibias and skulls.

While both were mildly interesting (wildly for the boys), my personal Paris remains solidly above ground in the gardens of the Tuileries, in the architecture of 17th century apartment blocks and palaces converted into museums or other public spaces, in the bridges spanning the Seine - each with it's own history and charm, and in the winding streets of Saint-Germain-des-Prés in the 6th arrondissement.

Nostalgia

Have you even wandered down memory lane back to when you were a teenager with all of the time in the world in front of you? I have never indulged much in the picking over of early memories or the questioning of roads taken or not, but I must admit in the last couple of weeks I have revisited those memories just a little bit.

It started a couple of weekends ago, when C2 and I went out to a funky left-bank restaurant in Geneva called L'Envers du Décor with Marc and Nat. In addition to a fantastic filet de Daurade, the restaurant had a live guitar band that kept devolving into 70's classics, replete with Swiss accent.

After the 4 of us sang an embarrassingly loud accompaniment to 'Hotel California', we started reminiscing over the songs that as teenagers made us ache for high school crushes to take notice and to request one of those tight clutch dances that left little to the imagination. The songs we shortlisted were Styx' "Suite Madame Blue", Chris de Burgh's "A Spaceman came Travelling", The Moody Blues' "Nights in White Satin" and of course Led Zeppelin's "Stairway to Heaven".

Facebook has also caused me to wander back down over the years, as it has been so easy to reconnect with old friends from whom I have long long lost touch but who played such critical roles during such formative times in my life.

Then of course, there is my lovely girl, Sheila. My oldest friend. My rock. We met at 14, when we had side-by-side lockers in Grade 9 at Riverdale High School in Pierrefond, Quebec. As I have blogged on several previous occasions, our friendship has weathered time and distance beautifully. She and her 2 kids just spent 5 days with us in Geneva, returning to London this morning. They were 5 loud, raucous, loud, argumentative, loud, laughter-filled days that in spite of my upside-down house and exhausted kid, I wouldn't have traded for anything. Santé, my dear pal, here is to 30 more!

me and Sheila wine-tasting at the Château du Crest

Winded

Whew, I just returned from an early morning run and faced the full force of running into La Bise. La Bise is a Geneva phenomenon. A violent northern wind that sweeps down from the Alps across Lake Geneva ( lac Léman) and storms over the city.

Living eight years in Calgary acquainted me with winds. In fact, I'm not sure I could have borne the long, dark winters without a frequent friendly visit from the Chinook wind which in a few hours could turn a winter day into a near summer day with its' warm coastal breath.

La Bise, on the other hand, distorts a lovely Spring day, into the chill of winter again and has been known to create interesting ice sculptures of benches, trees, and light poles along the shores of the Lake.

Turning into the wind this morning, my iPod earbuds were blown out of my ears, and wind-stung tears streamed down my cheeks. While climbing a hill, I might as well have been running on a treadmill. However, once I turned south and with the wind at my back, my tempo run was more than back on course and I returned home at an almost full sprint, ah silver linings.

Missing the Mightys

It's down to 13 days now before the Mightys leave Geneva for their new posting in the U.S. (not that we're counting). We hosted a small dinner party for them last night with the usual Canadian contingent that was full of our typical laughs and conversation but tinged a little nostalgic at the same time. The kids all had a ball and were outside playing until 11:00pm taking full advantage of the first real Spring-like day and evening in Geneva.

The six of us (plus kids) have done a lot of playing together in the last 3 years. It began when we took our littlest ones to KinderMusic in Cologny and since then we've snowskiied, waterskiied, shared Mothers' Day, Fathers' Day, Thanksgiving, Christmas, the occasional holiday, lifted many a glass, and shared many meals together. We have been a family of friends united in having real family far away.

There is something else, though, that has glued we Canadian expatriates together while living in this lovely but foreign land; a sense of familiarity and common ground. We six seem to have lived similar experiences. Who else but other Montrealers could nod knowingly when referencing The Peel Pub, Café Santropol , McGill's Curry Gym, Durocher street, and Crescent Street.

*

Now, we have built new common reference points from our collective experience in Geneva- the Mont Blanc bridge, the Mont Blanc tunnel, la Bise wind, the Aiguille du Midi in Chamonix, skiing the Alps, crêpes in Yvoire, church bells, the smells of lavender and rosemary, carousels, and Sunday markets. Take them with you, Mightys, and don't forget us. We'll miss you at the table!

Writers and Raclette

Someone once said "There are two kinds of writer: those that make you think, and those that make you wonder". Both sorts gathered last Friday night to bid farewell to one of our best as she prepares to fly across the pond in 2 short weeks.

Our small writers group, splintered from the larger Geneva Writers Group gathers twice a month to lend support to one another, to workshop our efforts, and to learn to be better writers by learning from each other in a collegial, respectful and safe environment. I was one of the last to join our group and aspire to be half as good as them.

It was a an awfully fun evening, replete with a classic Swiss meal of an apero, followed by Raclette, white wine, and much laughter before finally getting down to the business of workshopping chapters from 3 novels in the making.

We band of women united in our love of the written word and storytelling, are also reflective of the international character of Geneva. Together, we represent America, Bosnia, Canada, England, India, and Scotland. We articulate ideas, customs, and cultural ethnology from our native lands and in the process educate and enlighten one another - amazing! Remind me again, Sher, what's a biro?

Nothing Says Valentine's Day like Chocolate-covered Tomatos

I was luxuriating in a few extra minutes of sleep this morning, it being Wednesday and, therefore, no school in Swiss-Romande when I heard out of one ear, J scamper downstairs. Angus was purring on my chest, and Murphy snoring at my side, when I roused, shooed them off of the bed and made my way to the kitchen in search of my first coffee of the day.

What greeted me in the kitchen was the sight of J fully engrossed in making a treat for a friend due later that day. He was dipping the last cherry tomato into a stainless steel bowl of melted white chocolate (it was good of him to remember his chum only liked white chocolate) and then carefully placed it on a tray equally carefully lined with parchment paper to harden.

My mouth fell open...

Me: "Uh uh, what are you doing"

J: "We didn't have any strawberries like we made on the weekend so I made tomatos. It's a Valentine's Day treat for Spencer"

Me: "Uh uh, how did you melt the chocolate"

J: "On the stove over hot water, I turned the stove back off but I can't get the little red light to go off"

Me: "Uh uh"

J: "And look I started scrambled eggs too and cut up an apple, but I'm being careful with this pokey knife"


Did I mention he's 5? Mighty Mom, what does it say in your parenting manual about this one?

London Calling

Coincident with the sadness of witnessing the inevitability of an expatriate friend relocating to the USA, has been the joy of being a mere one-hour flight to my oldest and still-dearest friend, Sheila. J and I returned a couple of days ago from one of our regular jaunts to jolly old London.

A one-hour flight or 10-hour drive to London might seem far to some but when you have spent the last almost 20 years half a world away, our proximity has been a blessing for the last three years that we have been in Geneva.

Friendships are a funny thing, some wax, some wane, and some even run out of steam. My intercontinental friendship with Sheila has certainly been tested by time, distance, and seat sales. However, with the exception of a little high school drama, our friendship has buoyed and sustained me for years.

Watching our children develop a bond now has been profound. They play together like old friends, as familiar with the stretches between playdates as their mothers. They are beginning to share memories and common inside jokes.

It may be inevitable that we will have to answer the call to venture elsewhere leaving this grand place, and the wanderlust in me doesn't hate the idea, but having gotten used to reconnecting with Sheila every couple of months, I do hate the idea of increasing the space between us again. "Tant pis" oh well as they say in Swiss-Romande, at least now we have e-mail, SMS and Facebook, and until the inevitable, we still have EasyJet.

Take me to the nearest pub or perish!

Related Posts: A Little More on the Subject of Friendship and La Vie est Belle

Heaven is Ski Week 2009

We just returned from our annual ski week in Les Gets, France with the Mighty Family (names changed to protect their privacy). This trip was tinged bittersweet with the knowledge that our friends are soon moving to the USA. Perhaps because of this, the weather gods were on our side this year, delivering utterly spectacular weather and piles upon piles of snow, and perhaps equally important, delivering me from my previous week's winter doldrums. The sun never stopped shining and the temperature hovered between -5 and -1c making for perfect snow conditions.

Ecole du Ski Français, Mighty Mouse in pale blue, J in green


This was also the first year that J was capable of consistently skiing the steeper red runs between our chalet and ski school. So around 9:00 every morning, the 7 of us walked out our back door, put on our skiis and glided down to the lift for the 30 minute ski to the other side of the mountain to ski school. We adults then had the rest of the morning to explore the broad terrain of Les Gets and Morzine, heaven!



As always, the apres-ski was grand, wonderful meals including our annual visit to our favorite fondue restaurant in the village, much champagne and fine wine, tired kids, happy dogs, and lots of laughs.

Six half-days is a long time in ski school for the kids but their level of skiing improved immensely. Emma the Brave was skiing black runs with ease while Mouse and J skiied all reds aggressively and more importantly with fun, hooting and hollering the whole way down. By the final day of testing, Emma earned her 3ème Etoile while the two little ones proudly earned their 1ère Etoile.


It will be hard to imagine our annual ski week without the Mighty family, it would indeed be strange renting our perfect side-by-side chalets without them on one side. Perhaps we will have to start new traditions. Their leaving is one of the down sides of the expatriate experience, having to say good-bye to good friends. However, C2 and I wouldn't have traded the last 3 years of friendship with them for the world. I think it's safe to say J wouldn't have either.

Related Posts: Life was Pretty Good at 1172 Meters Too and Heaven is at 2002 Meters

Heaven is THE Perfect Cup of Coffee

Among the many many joys of being a foodie and living in Europe has been experiencing the unparalleled perfection of coffee. In Swiss-Romande (the french-speaking part of Switzerland), one must clearly understand the subtle differences between a café crème, a café au lait, a cappuchino and the revered café renversé in order to get exactly what you want.

The café renversé quickly became my preferred coffee of choice. I believe an actual translation means 'knocked-over coffee', however in short, it is a strong espresso with slightly more heated milk and just a touch of crema. Crema being that delicate foam that forms at the top of the coffee. My favoured beverage is available at any one of the multitude of obliging cafés and boulangeries around Geneva but the cost over time would require my dipping into a non-existant trust fund. Enter Nespresso, every local barrista's preferred coffee maker and hey, who can resist a company boasting George Clooney as their global spokesperson.

We've been enjoying our Nespresso since our first week in Geneva over 3 years ago, and have valiantly tried to replicate a perfect café renversé by heating up milk in a pot on the stove and/or using a plunging coffee frother but something was always slightly missing. It just didn't taste quite like the ones I ordered at Globus, until one week ago...

C2 recently marked a milestone birthday and our great friends and fellow Montrealers/Calgarians, Nathalie and Marc gifted him with an automated Nespresso milk heater/frother. Globus eat your heart out and keep your 5.00 CHF per cup, given enough of this now perfect brew, I could rule the world.

Mrs. Grumpy-Pants

Our annual ski holiday is a mere 5 short days away but it can't come fast enough and then summer can't arrive fast enough. It's only January and I am already seriously sick of winter.

I think I bore up reasonably well in Calgary with day after day of -35 degree temperatures, even with a sinus infection. I was positively cheerful through Victoria's light rain and I was happy to see snow on the ground in Geneva upon our return even with C2's bronchial infection. Murphy and J have romped happily through the snow and ice as Geneva's temperatures dropped below the freezing mark for day after day after day. I donned multiple layers and watched my footing as my runs became somewhat lethal.

But now, we are entering the 21st day or so without so much as a glimpse of sun in the city. I have a sore throat, no ricolas in the house, I am watching the rain rattle against my office windows, and I just found out one of my dearest friends in Geneva is moving to the U.S.

I am officially grumpy.

Home Sweet Home

After a long return journey Victoria-Vancouver (18 minutes) - 3 hours in Vancouver airport, lovely and good sushi, Vancouver-Frankfurt (10.5 hours) - 2 hours in Frankfurt airport, very austere, Frankfurt-Geneva (1 hour), we all arrived home remarkably chipper and happy to retrieve our menagerie of animals.

J is now a very seasoned traveller and bears the trip like a trouper. Mind you it helps to dangle the carrot that good behaviour earns him a day at his beloved Aquaparc.

5 days later, however, the 9 hour jet lag is killing C2 and me. We continue to wake in the middle of the night starving. Good thing Larry King is broadcast at 3:00 am Geneva time. We're both asleep on the sofa by 7:00 pm and in bed by 9:00. Someone told me yesterday that it takes as many days for the body to fully recover its' rhythms as hours of jet lag. Oh goody only 4 days to go. Now where is Tim Horton's when I need a double double and a maple dip donut in the middle of the night?

No Longer Alberta Bound

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings*

We departed Calgary Christmas Day afternoon and arrived into Victoria under bright sun - thanks to the weather gods since Vancouver is continuing to be pummelled by a 3rd winter storm.

We were welcomed by the loving embrace of our family. They were worth the wait!

Merry Christmas everyone.


*John Gillespie Magee, Jr

A Tale of Two (or three) Cities OR Snowmeggedon OR the Winter of my Discontent

After nearly a month of J being savagely ill with various childhood illnesses, he and I boarded a plane a few days ago to spend 3 days with family and friends in Calgary before rendez-vous'ing with C2 and the rest of the family in Victoria on December 21 in time for Christmas.

We didn't get off to a good start. The temperature when we landed in Calgary was -30 and the streets were icy and dangerous...not helpful that I have a phobia of Calgary's notorious black ice. The next day found me at a doctor being given antibiotics for a severe sinus infection and a lecture from the doctor about the evils of decongestants while flying. My mum and I stocked up on tourtières to tote to the coast for our ritual Quebecois réveillon on Christmas Eve and carefully stored them on the balcony to stay frozen until our departure.

The sun rose fridgidly on December 21. Yet another day of -30. The balcony door refused to release its frozen hold and we stared bleakly at our pile of tortieres. Our friend Vera came to the rescue and arrived with a second armful just as we were leaving for the airport. Phew, one catastrophe averted...things could only get better from here right?

Oh wrong, oh so frigging wrong! J, my mum and I arrived at Calgary airport early for our flight to Victoria, mindful of warnings of long lines and bad weather in all parts of the country on the busiest travel day of the year. First sign of pending trouble was an SMS I received from Air Canada indicating that C2's connecting flight from Vancouver to Victoria was cancelled due to bad weather in Vancouver, ugh. As it turned out, his flight from Frankfurt was the last plane permitted to land at the Vancouver airport before it was shut down due to a monster snow storm. Note: Monster Snowstorm and Vancouver are never mentioned in the same sentence.

Still things looked positive as we boarded our Air Canada regional jet bound for Victoria only a half-hour late. "Farewell -30" I crowed as we took to the sky. J sat with his Grandma and I dozed for the 75 minute flight. We began to descend into Victoria and I breathed a sigh of relief that we had beat snowmeggedon to the coast. Just as everyone was stowing their handbaggage and making sure that our tables were in the locked and upright position, our pilot came on the intercom to announce that the storm had hit Victoria, the airport was closed, plan B diversion Vancouver was closed and we had just enough fuel to hightail it back to Calgary - WHHHAAATT?

I am not kidding, for the next 45 minutes (thank you strong tail wind), I sat in my seat petrified that I would hear the sound of engines running out of fuel, making us fodder for the Rocky Mountains below us knowing full well there were no airfields capable of landing a jet closer than Calgary. I don’t think I took a real breath until we landed fast in what was clearly a direct approach to the airport on a runway I have never landed on before and in opposite direction to all the other airplanes. How much fuel was actually left, I’ll never know.

Most of a bottle of wine later back in my mum’s cozy apartment and sitting on hold with Air Canada for more than 2 hours, they kindly rebooked us on the next available flight. Christmas Day, 4 days later. Every available seat on all airlines to Vancouver or Victoria are booked solid. Merry Christmas and back to -30.

Still I am endeavouring to find the silver lining. We are holed up at my mother’s lovely home, we have good friends who have already scooped us up for dinner on Christmas Eve, my mum made a great stew for dinner this evening and someday we will all laugh about this, right, right?

Leaning Left in Switzerland

Um okay, moving to Switzerland required some shifting in grocery habits and I've been up to the challenge. I can walk by plucked chickens with their heads and feet still attached without making a face like a 6-year old. I have seen fois gras in every shape and size even if I can't eat it anymore out of personal oppositon to the method of gavage...but I digress.

Still, I think this find takes the cake. I found it in my local Migros grocery shop next to the apple juice. I've bought a couple as Christmas gifts for my teenage nephew and niece. Hope their parents and customs don't mind.

The details say "Iced Tea with Swiss Cannabis"..."Fantastic Natural Feeling". I'll bet!

Lest We Forget

Today, November 11, 2008 recalls the 90th anniversary of the end of World War I. At Verdun in North-Eastern France, French and German troops fought for eight months in one of the bloodiest battles in history. An awful battle of attrition that cost eight hundred thousand casualties on both sides. There were almost nine million military casualties by the end of the war in 1918.

Today I honour my grandfather, Percival Kendall, whom I sadly never met, but have never forgotten. He was gassed at Ypres, emigrated to Canada after the war, had a family but died a young man.

There is only one surviving Canadian World War I veteran and 15 total worldwide on record. It is now our collective responsibilities to ensure that their history is passed to younger generations, and that in this world of relative peace, prosperity and entitlement, these selfless heroes' sacrifice is never forgotten.

Douaumont Ossuaire contains the remains of 130 000 unknown French and German soldiers who fell on the battlefields of Verdun

From Sea to Shining Sea

O beautiful for patriot dream
That sees beyond the years
Thine alabaster cities gleam
Undimmed by human tears
America America
God shed his grace on thee
And crown thy good with brotherhood
From sea to shining sea

Congratulations Obama, congratulations America, the world is a better place today.


*America the Beautiful
Words: Katharine Lee Bates

A Weekend in Champagne

Did you know that after aging (a minimum of 1.5 years for an average bottle to a maximum of 40 years in the case of Dom Pérignon), every bottle of champagne must be turned a quarter turn every single day in a process called remuage or riddling?

Mechanical turning does greatly facilitate this mundane chore but for all prestige cuvées, a human turner still does the job. The rate for an average turner you ask??? Would you believe 40,000 bottles a day. Mindboggling! This fact, many others, and much bubbly consumption occured this past weekend when Mighty Mom and I drove up to Champagne for a tour, an education and a rip-roaring good time.

We left early on Friday and after a journey of about 5 hours arrived in Reims, the capital of the Champagne region under a threatening sky. While definitely catering to the Champagne tourist, Reims is also home to the magnificent Notre-Dame de Reims Cathedral where the kings of France were crowned. The most famous of these coronations was that of Charles VII in the company of Joan of Arc.

Additionally, it was in Reims on May 7, 1945 that General Eisenhower and the Allies received Germany's unconditional surrender. A little history interwoven with a coupe or two while strolling through the many cafes and brasseries in the Place Drouet d'Erlon.

Early Saturday we joined our tour, and accompanied by several Brits and Scots set off into the Côte des Blancs, which together with the Montagne de Reims, and the Vallée de la Marne make up the 3 grape growing regions or terroirs within Champagne. Three types of grapes are grown in these regions, the Chardonney, the Pinot Noir and the Pinot Meunier; and it is the producers' proprietary blending of one or more of these grapes which produces the unique characteristics of a champagne.

The first house we visited was the medium-sized house Michel Gonet and after a rough beginning whereby the flumoxed owner raced out of his bath to greet us, we had a wonderful tour of his operation, a detailed lesson in champagne-making, and a charming tasting or degustation with never-ending refills.

The stands used by the remuers to turn the prestige cuvée bottles

We tipsily followed up our first visit with a 5-course lunch at a restaurant in a small village outside of Epernay, the unofficial capital of Champagne. Lunch was accompanied by more champagne, a Côte de Rhone Viognier, and an intense Bordeaux. We exchanged stories with our tour mates, had lots of laughs and found more than a little in common with each other.

In the caves at Moët et Chandon

Two and a half hours later, we reboarded our bus and headed to the caves of the grande marque Moët et Chandon. Needless to say, this experience was amazing. We roamed through a small part of the more than twenty kilometers of underground tunnels storing hundreds of thousands of bottles at various stages of aging and production. While informative, the tour was very corporate, and somewhat lacked the charm of our earlier visit. Still it was Moët et Chandon and an inspiring place to visit for any believer of the bubbly.

Our final tour of the day was to the small house Lanaudie-Hirault. After yet another generous degustation and resulting discussion, we all agreed that the qualities and flavours of the small producers, confined as they are to the production rules established by the Appellation d'Origine Contrôlée (AOC) , were equally delicious as those of the grandes marques at considerably less cost. To be sure, in the future I will not hesitate to experiment with champagnes produced by these smaller houses.

We rolled back into Reims late into the evening and shared a meal with a small group of our co-conspirators that went on until yet much later into the evening. I wouldn't have missed a minute of it.

Ghosts of Halloween Past and Present

I wrote this essay last Fall after experiencing my first Halloween in Geneva. I thought it amusing to highlight the cultural differences between my Swiss and Canadian experiences.

Ghosts of Halloween Past and Present

The tradition of dressing in costume for Halloween has both European and Celtic roots. Hundreds of years ago, winter was an uncertain and frightening time. Food supplies often ran low and, for the many people afraid of the dark, the short days of winter were full of constant worry.

On Halloween, when it was believed that ghosts came back to the earthly world, people thought that they would encounter ghosts if they left their homes. To avoid being recognized by these ghosts, people would wear masks when they left their homes after dark so that the ghosts would mistake them for fellow spirits. On Halloween, to keep ghosts away from their houses, people would place bowls of food outside their homes to appease them and prevent them from attempting to enter.[1]

Growing up in Canada, we adhered to our common traditions of Halloween by donning heavy parkas over our costumes before merrily repeating the refrain of ‘trick-or-treat’ while politely collecting our candy and traipsing across suburban lawns to the next house. Houses were frequently decorated with great ingenuity. Plastic graveyards, billowing smoke, and spooky music were common in an unofficial competition to attract the most trick-or-treaters. The next day, parents would subtly compare their numbers. “We went through $300 of candy last night!” or “We ran out of candy by 6:30!” (the sun goes down early in Canada by October 31).

When I was a kid of trick-or-treating age, my parents didn’t buy me a costume at Walmart. We used our imaginations (and our mothers’ linens) to fashion ourselves as ghosts and black cats. For three years in a row, I dressed up as the washerwoman character from the Carol Burnett Show, complete with shower cap and apron. And, we always carried the requisite Unicef collection box. Halloween was, after all, not a time to forget the less fortunate.

After my son was born five years ago, not much had changed. When he was two, I bundled him up in his store-bought fuzzy dog costume (hey, I was a working mother), put his heavy winter jacket, hat, and mitts on top and off we went. He trundled up to each door, repeated ‘twick-oh-tweat’, as we parents chatted on the sidewalk and then collectively shuffled 20 feet to the left to the next house.

Then we moved to Geneva. Celebrating Halloween has not fully penetrated Swiss culture along with the rest of North American pop and entertainment culture. In fact, most Swiss parents decidedly resist supporting it, believing the Genevois holiday Escalade to be more culturally genuine. Expats, instead, host Halloween parties to ensure that their kids don’t miss out on the fun. Shops devote small sections of a single aisle to Halloween decorations. Houses are not aligned in easily accessed rows in this country. They are behind gates, around 6-foot high hedges, and down circuitous paths.

So, as October 31 drew nearer this year, I bought limited quantities of candy in anticipation of the few expat friends who would venture our way. We carved a pumpkin and set up a small but cheerful display of colourful squash. At 7:30 Halloween night, my son was dressed in costume in happy anticipation of a visit or two and we were still lazily finishing dinner. When the doorbell rang, I opened the door unprepared for the mob of pre-teens who, literally, without so much as a ‘trick-or-treat’ poured into my entry, spied the candy bowl, helped themselves liberally to it and poured out shouting enthusiastically to themselves.

I was still standing bemusedly in my entry way when a classmate of 4-year old J’s arrived with her father. I recovered quickly, wished her a “joyeux halloween’ and handed her the last of the candy (she had no bag with which to accept it so her father’s pockets had to make do). We all then found ourselves staring expectantly at one another. Me, expecting them to leave and move on to the next house, and them, apparently waiting to be invited in for coffee. Coffee lasted an hour and our not-quite-finished dinner was hurriedly shoved into the kitchen sink.

Later that evening, after spying a glowing pumpkin in my neighbour’s window, I decided to venture over with the two little ones hoping she could shed some light on my cultural faux-pas. We didn’t have to ring since her door was wide open revealing several children in her living room tussling over the candy bowl while their parents lolled on the sofa drinking espresso and wine.

So much for the original objective of Halloween - "On Halloween, to keep ghosts away from their houses, people would place bowls of food outside their homes to appease them and prevent them from attempting to enter"1 - in Geneva, they invite them in.

[1] http://www.history.com/ ‘The History of Halloween’

Only Those Who Risk Going Too Far Can Possibly Find Out How Far They Can Go - T.S. Eliot

I love to run. I never used to love to run, in fact I used to hate running. My throat burned, my knees ached, and my lungs squeezed by the time I got around the corner, but moving to Geneva and entering my 40s changed all that. Someone once told me that once you are 40, you have to exercise twice as hard for half the result. True enough.

I started running seriously shortly after moving here in 2005. People are very fit in Switzerland, you just don't see the obesity that is so ubitiquous in North America. Add to that the aforementioned 40-something and I decided that the odd visit to the gym and rambles with Murphy just weren't cutting it for me any longer.

Enter my friend and fellow Canadian Cindy...marathoner, triathlete, baseball coach, mother of three and general superwoman. She moved me off of the gym treadmill and out into the Geneva countryside that surrounds our village. She got me going and kept me moving those first few months. The endorphin highs, fast fitness results, the clearmindedness and pure physical joy that occurs while running, and the magnificence of my surroundings have kept me going ever since even through injuries.

I took these pictures during one of my regular runs through the villages and vineyards of Choulex, Carre d'Aval, and Puplinge.

Now it goes without saying that part of the reason running is so addictive in Geneva is that I don't have to step off of curbs, stop at intersections or wait for green lights. I run on trails, quiet roads and winding paths through vineyards.

I am not looking at suburban sprawl and stripmalls. I look at rolling hills, mountain peaks, and depending on the season, grapes, sunflower fields, apple and kiwi orchards, spectacular architecture and travel magazine-worthy Swiss villages. It is an all-you-can-eat buffet for the senses and must be one of the most visually splendid places in the world.

It's a long climb from the flat up and around the hills and terraced vineyards into Carre d'Aval. The rising strains of Coldplay's 'Viva la Vida' echoing through my Ipod always push me to the top and I try to resist the temptation to do a Rocky-like fist-punching-air dance when I finally get there.

The newly opened Café de la Poste in my village.