Purple Rain and Tinnitus Pain

In our 2 plus years in Switzerland, we've really tried to adapt to the Swiss way when it seemed reasonable. We schlep our empty bottles and cans around town looking for recycling centers. We throw out a "GRUETZI!!!" greeting in our best fake Swiss accent. I even try to turn my car off the second I park so no little old lady will knock on my window to yell at me in Swiss German about how my car is stinking up the environment. But there are few things the Swiss do, that make about as much sense as a vegetarian at a sausage festival. Okay, actually there are a LOT of things they do that seem pretty ridiculous. But last night, I experienced one that made me want to scream in my not so reserved American way, "WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU CHEESE EATING, COW LOVING, BUZZ KILLS!!!!!" And I can be silent about it no more.

Last night, Bryan and I and some friends returned to our 1980's teen angst past, and partied like it was 1999. We joined a stadium full of Swiss Prince fans to enjoy what we knew would be a great show by my favorite 5'2" purple pants wearing performer. I had been jamming to Prince's Greatest Hits on my iphone all week and was fully prepared to hoot, holler, dance and sing my over enthusiastic American Ass off at the Hallendstadiom in Zurich. With songs like, "Let's Go Crazy!" and "Little Red Corvette", I just new it was going to be a wild evening and we were going to help Prince ROCK THE HOUSE!!!!!! However, it seems our fellow Swiss Prince fans had other ideas......

I was really curious about what kind of crowd the former "formerly known as" artist would draw. I envisioned lots of people in crazy purple outfits and big 80's hair. Let's be honest, Prince is a little out there and he's bound to have a few whackjob followers over here in Europe. But when we got to the stadium, it became apparent that the crazies either couldn't afford the exorbitant 135 franc ticket price for mediocre seats, or they too had matured into conservative looking 30 and 40 somethings who could still recite every last lyric to "Purple Rain". Either way, eclectic was not the word I would use to describe the the crowd of people quietly waiting in line to enter the stadium.

After making it into the stadium, we realized we only had about 10 minutes until concert time. So we headed directly to our section to find our seats. As we walked down the crowded hallway, I saw I sign up head that read, "STOP TINNITUS". Yikes. Tinnitus does NOT sound like a disease for the faint of heart. I figured they must be collecting donations for this horrid life threatening disease. Perhaps this was Prince's big cause that he supports and all those poor children around the world suffering from this horribly debilitating illness idolized his for being their spokesperson. It was so touching to see the line of people waiting to donate to this worthwhile cause. As we approached, I noticed that people seemed to be taking something from the very serious looking woman who was doing her part to stop tinnitus. Then I noticed below the STOP TINNITUS sign was a website, www.earplugs.ch. Hmmmmm.....perhaps Tinnitus is a disease that strikes young children deaf in third world countries? As we approached the sign, the woman handed us a small box. We opened them to find a pair of very high quality ear plugs. Huh? What the......?



Apparently, Tinnitus is not a life threatening disease found in third world countries. It's actually an annoying ringing of the ears that effects concert goers that sit a little too close to the speakers. Earplugs at a concert? Did they really think people were going to wear these? Really, this was ridiculous. No one in their right mind would go to a concert wearing earplugs. Don't get me wrong, I grabbed a free pair and tucked them away in my purse. These fabulous little plugs were going to make future road trips with the kids a LOT more enjoyable. But wear them at a concert? I'd rather suffer the horrors of tinnitus.




After having a good laugh about the complimentary earplugs, we grabbed a beer and headed to our seats. It was a pretty packed stadium, and our seats were decent. I scoped the concert goers around us to see if we might be in for wild evening. There didn't appear to be any drunken concert goers nearby who might spill their beers or stumble into us as they partied the night away. In fact, everyone seemed pretty subdued. Actually VERY subdued. But I knew that it wouldn't take long for Prince to have these middle aged party animals dancing in the aisles.

When the concert finally started abput 30 minutes late, the lights went down, the crowd started to make some noise, and we prepared to jump up and get our Prince on. This is when many of the conservative Swiss concert goers began to put their Tinnitus Prevention Plan into place. You wouldn't believe it if you saw it. They opened up their box o' earplugs, and inserted said earplugs in their ears. Ummmm......did they not pay the same ridiculous amount of cash for these seats as we did? Why would you buy ridiculously overpriced concert tickets and then wear earplugs to muffle the sound? This was madness. But not nearly as maddening as the fact that when Price himself came out on stage, everyone remained in their seats, earplugs inserted and stared at the stage like they at a Sunday Matinee. What!?!?!?!?!? We looked around in shock as everyone kept their asses firmly planted in their seats. The wildest ones swayed slightly in their seats while clapping with the enthusiasm of an Enya fan. Rather than make a scene, we remained in our seats stunned and bewildered as Prince opened with one of his newer songs. But when he transitioned into "Little Red Corvette", all bets were off. We jumped out of our seats and sang and danced like American fools. As I looked around the stadium, there were pockets of people standing up and enjoying themselves in true music loving style. It was hysterical to realize that most likely, these other scattered groups of party animals were probably foreigners as well.

Now, to their credit, the people seated directly behind us stood up soon after we did, and didn't once complain about us blocking their view. It fact, they seemed happy to be standing and may have been grateful that we broke the mold so they wouldn't be glared at as the cause of all this dancing mayhem. Unfortunately, the earplug wearing crew in front of us was not as amused by our normal American concert behavior. At one point in the evening, my friend C was hooting and hollering as Prince transitioned into a new song, when the very anal retentive girl in front of her yelled, "Will you PLEASE be quiet! I came to hear Prince sing, not you!" To which C replied, "It's a CONCERT! Go listen to Prince on your iPod for God's Sake!" I'm not sure whether she heard C's retort, because her fear of tinnitus had caused her to jam earplugs in her ears. Which may very well have been why she couldn't hear the music....... but it seemed ridiculous to argue with a woman wearing earplugs, so we all ignored her and continued enjoying ourselves.



At one point in the middle of the concert, I looked at the people in the two rows in front of us and just started laughing. There were 2 people sitting in front of the railing with their elbows resting on the railing and their chins in their hands. Another guy sat completely motionless during the concert and videotaped the entire thing from beginning to end. I wondered if he might secretly have gone home, popped the video in his dvd player, and gone nuts dancing and singing in the privacy of his own home. The crabby woman in front of us appeared to be at the concert with a date. You could tell when his favorite songs were performed because his head would ever so slightly bob up and down to the music. And a group of 4 people in the row ahead of us got up and left about 30 minutes into the show and never returned. Was our behavior really that bothersome? Clearly, if you had chosen to risk a severe bout of tinnitus, you could hear Prince loud and clear over our lame voices. And when Prince yells, "LET ME HEAR YOU SWITZERLAND!!!", isn't it poor manners not to belt out the lyrics? I'd hate to be rude......



Overall, Prince put on a fantastic show, and despite some of the dirty looks and rude comments, we had a really fun evening. I understand that the Swiss are a more reserved and conservative bunch than us outspoken Americans, and in most situations, I respectfully try to follow their lead. But when it comes to concerts, I'll always throw my earplugs aside, and proudly play the role of the loud American.

Ski Week Part 1 -To ski, or not to ski......

Aaahhhh..... Winter time in Zurich. Grey skies, brown grass, mud, and a general population suffering from Seasonal Affective Disorder. Really. It's amazing how the clouds just seem to settle over Switzerland and remain from November until April. This may be why the Swiss embrace a February holiday unlike anything we have in the States. The Swiss take a full week off of work and school for SKI WEEK! You can't blame them for creating a reason to vacate this dreary land and head for the hills for a little sunshine. Even if you hate snow, trust me, you'd take the cold white stuff over the oppressive grey cloud of depression we live under during the winter months.

So this year, the Mjaanes family embraced the tradition of ski week. Not only did we head for the mountains, we headed for a different country. We, along with 8 other families, took over a family hotel in Lermoos Austria for a week of skiing, laughing, and wine drinking. Not necessarily in that order.

With so many families heading out on holiday together, there was a lot of excitement and talk of all the fun we'd have. But before we could really prepare ourselves for a week of fun and excitement, we had to suffer through the hell of packing up a family of five for a week of acitivities that require lots of equipment. I thought packing for a beach vacation was a challenge, but add to that 5 sets of skis, poles and boots, 10 pairs of long underwear, 5 helmets, 8 sets of ski apparel, 15 pairs of ski socks, and 12 bottles of wine, and you've really got yourself a challenge. Our crappy little Opel Zafira looked like a clown car. The giant ski carrier was crammed full, and I envisioned the top flying off, when and if we managed to get our little diesel tin can up to 120 kilometers. I can only imagine what the Swiss Polizei would have to say as our skis, boots, long underwear, and wine bottles flew out the back and littered their clean Swiss highway.

We managed the three hour drive without any major catastrophes and rolled into "Das Bellevue Family Relax Hotel" around mid afternoon. It seemed unlikely that with 3 kids and 5 sets of skis that the word "relax" would be an appropriate word to describe our hotel stay, but who knows. With enough wine, anything is possible.

We all signed our kids up for 4 hours of ski school each day. They were expected to be ready to ski at the ski school by 10 a.m., then we picked them up for lunch at noon and returned back to the ski school meeting point at 2 p.m. for another 2 hours. This was a blessing, and a curse. When you find yourself in the ski storage room around 9:30 in the morning with 20 other kids and their parents, I assure you, all of the parents were very much thinking about cursing. The first day all the parents put on their happy faces and tried their best to talk patiently to their loving offspring. "Oh, your lying on the floor crying because your ski sock has a wrinkle? Why don't we take a deep breathe, calm down, and mommy will be happy to help you!". By mid week, you could cut the tension with a knife. " You want to lay on the floor and scream about your ski sock?!?!? Well, GUESS WHAT! You can ski down the hill barefoot if you want, because regardless of your footwear choice, mommy needs a break!!!! You think this is fun for Mommy?!?!? Do you?!?!?" Forcing 3 kids into the most ridiculously uncomfortable boots ever invented, and then making them trudge back and forth from ski school carrying a clumsy set of skis and poles, does not make for a pleasant start to your day. But we kept our eye on the prize, which was 2 straight hours of peace and quiet, and managed to make it to ski school each morning while clinging to a shred of our sanity.

As you may recall from my blog posts last ski season, I'm not what you would call a seasoned skier. I'm more what you would call an accident waiting to happen. And by "waiting to happen" I mean, give me 60 seconds and I'm sure to provide you with a laugh at my expense. I still have nightmares about last year's humiliating fall from the magic carpet and often question why I continue to attempt a sport when I am so utterly horrible at it. But in preparation for ski week, I had been taking lessons each week so I would be able to enjoy the trip and ski with our friends. My trusty ski partner, Crystal, was with us and we decided we were now experienced enough that we didn't need ski lessons. We'd just ease into it on the blue runs and by the end of the week, we'd be flying down the black runs impressing our husbands and friends with our much improved ski skills. Were we optimistic? You bet. Over confident? Of course. Clearly out of touch with reality? Hell, yes.

The first morning, while Bryan and the rest of the group headed up to the top of the mountain, Crystal and I hung back and skied the bottom portion of the hill. And I wouldn't say we were feeling cocky, but we were feeling like those early lessons were money well spent. Compared to last years ski trip, which included Crystal taking out an entire ski school on the T-bar and sliding spread eagle into a group of snowboarders enjoying their lunch, we had come a long way.

So rather than leave well enough alone, we allowed my loving husband to convince us that we were ready to go to the top of the mountain. Why do I continue to listen to him when he has led me onto ridiculously difficult runs in the past? Undying trust? Blind love? Who the hell knows. But somehow he has the uncanny ability to lure me to tops of mountains and then endure the ride down listening to me verbalize the emotional breakdown I am having. I'm not sure I can really paint a picture for you of what that 2 hours descent down the mountain was like. But there was a lot laying in the snow dropping F bombs, a fair amount of me ranting about how I would NEVER put skis on again IF I ever made it down the mountain. Followed by 2 separate instances where I sat in the snow and flat out cried like an unmedicated psych ward patient. Yes, I was THAT woman. It was humiliating.

I managed to make it to the bottom without requiring a search and rescue team, but it was touch and go for awhile. And after swearing off skiing for the rest of my life, it took about 2 glasses of wine and some laughs before I agreed to try again.

So Crystal and I decided to suck it up, and sign up for ski school with the rest of the schmucks who who can't ski. The idea of ski school sounded about as appealing as hot pokers in my eyes. But a friend of ours was already in ski school 4 hours a day and suggested we pay our dues now, so next year we might actually enjoy this ridiculous sport. This is a woman who each morning and afternoon, headed off to meet her instructor with the enthusiasm of a prisoner heading to forced labor camp. At night, while we were in the lobby consuming mass amounts of wine and whooping it up, her husband would come down to join the party while she went to bed early to prepare for her next stressful day of ski school. Based on her stories, the worst part of ski school was her instructor. He was a 70 year old pit bull who yelled at his students and made a grown Belgian woman cry. He made inappropriate comments and hand gestures to remind her to keep her legs together while skiing. She'd even taken to doing shots of Schnapps before the 10 a.m. start of ski school because he told her it would relax her and make her a better skier. He sounded like a ringing endorsement for NOT subjecting our selves to ski school. But we knew she was already a better skier than us, and I was confident we'd find ourselves with a good looking Austrian instructor that would enjoy our fun American banter.

The next afternoon we reported to ski school with a positive attitude and a nervous stomach. We were instructed to ski down the beginner hill so they could assess our skill level and assign us to a teacher. No problem. We climbed up the hill, put on our skis, and looked down at 4 expectant instructors waiting for us to swoosh down the slope. Call it stage fright, or choking under pressure, but neither us looked very graceful getting down the hill. Not our best performance, but not horrendous. No small children were harmed during our descent and we managed to avoid skiing directly into the waiting instructors. We figured there would be an intermediate group that would suit us well and we would be well on our way to becoming competent skiers.

That's not quite what happened. The next thing we knew, we were riding the magic carpet with 5 first time skiers and following the directions of a friendly ski instructor named Keith. Keith had a kind and jovial face and a great sense of humor. But within 15 minutes, Crystal and I realized that we were WAY too advanced for these novices. We'd watch them struggle down the bunny hill, trying to keep their balance, and we'd roll our eyes at each other and quietly discuss what a mistake they had made to put us in this group. Don't get me wrong, I had compassion for these poor people, but I wan't going to become the next Lindsay Vaughn by hanging with Keith and his newbie crew. So we sucked it up for the rest of the afternoon feeling pretty good about our skiing abilities, while quietly making snarky comments to each other about one of the women who had no concept of how to stop and almost took Crystal out.

After class, we cornered Keith and explained that we'd been placed in the wrong class and needed to be moved up to the next level. He was more than just a little hesitant and tried to kindly tell us that the next level up was much more advanced and that he didn't think we were ready. But after it became clear that we weren't going to back down, he agreed to speak to the other instructor and if he was willing to take us on, we could join the next group. Game on. We were one step closer to mastering this ridiculous sport.

The next morning, after suffering through the hell of getting the kids geared up and ready for skiing, we hunted down Keith, prepared to fight for our promotion to a more challenging group. Keith greeted us with a jovial grin and immediately let us know that the intermediate teacher had agreed to take us on and we should report to Freddy for our first class. We asked how we might find Freddy and he pointed several feet away to our new ski instructor.

Oh crap.

There next to our stressed out friend with the inappropriate pitbull for an instructor stood Freddy. I felt the cold chill of fear come over me as he sized Crystal and I up. He stood no more than 5 feet tall, had beady little eyes and appeared to have spent a lot of time weathering his leathery little face in the sun. As we made our way over to him, he started saying, "Come on! Come on!" with a thick Austrian Accent and not an ounce of patience. I had to fight the urge to turn and shuffle awkwardly back to Keith as quickly as I could.

Freddy proved to be a mean old billy goat who was easily exasperated by pathetic skiers. Two qualities that would seem to be an occupational obstacles for a ski instructor, no? At one point in the morning, he apparently noticed me skiing with my arms out to the sides while holding my ski poles, and screamed, "POOT YOOR AAAHMS DOWN!!! YOU AH NOT JESUS CHRIST!". Well said, Freddy. Excellent point.

As we skied behind him, he would point to one of us and order us to move to the front of the line so he could critique (read: ridicule) our skiing. Freddy would shout out directions to the pupil of choice, and if they didn't perform to his liking, he would shake his head with frustration while looking at the other 5 students as if to say, "Can you believe this idiot?". It's a real self esteem builder, let me tell you.

The first day with Freddy was actually kind of successful. At the end of the lesson, he looked at me and said, "I thought you would give me much trouble. But I think something clicked today." At this point, I probably imagined it, but I think the clouds parted, the sun shone down on me, and I heard angels sing. Really. It felt miraculous. After all my ridiculous moments on skis, I was FINALLY seeing the end of the tunnel!

Until the next day.

All I can say from this point on, is that it was degrading, humiliating and completely and utterly defeating. The next morning, I fell. Not once. Not twice, but numerous times. Freddy was not pleased. No, not at all. And for the record, neither were most of the other students in the class. When I would fall, they would all stand there and watch me flail around trying to stand up. And whenever I took an especially ridiculous looking fall, without fail, it was in front of a ski school of children. And usually, Grace, a sweet 9 year old girl that was vacationing with us, would ski up and look down on me with a sweet concerned look and say, "Are you okay? I saw you fall!". It was really remarkable, that with an entire mountain of runs to ski, she almost always managed to be within eyesight when I humiliated myself. The first few times she did it, I smiled and thanked her for her concern. But as the week went on, my answers became less and less friendly, until at one point I said in an aggravated voice, "Why are you ALWAYS here when I fall?!?! Go ski! There's nothing to see here!". Yes, I was reduced to barking at a sweet 9 year old girl. Good times.

Throughout the week, we would see sweet, wonderful, kind Keith and his novice kamikazes slowlyworking their way down the slopes. They weren't speedy or graceful looking, but damn theylooked relaxed. They didn't look like people who would become almost physically ill each morningwith the dreaded anticipation of a day with Freddy. Keith would look at Crystal and I with his kind eyes and give us wave. But underneath that wave and smile, there was a hint of, "Be carefulwhat you ask for, suckahs!". I would then look at Freddy and have to physical fight the urge to ski towards Keith and beg him to take me back.

And everyday, we would pass one of the ski huts and see a group of our friends sitting out inthe sun, enjoying a frosty beer. Each time I saw them, it was like watching a commercial for theworlds best beer. They would be laughing, smiling, and toasting each other with the look of pure delight on their faces. The slight bit of frothy beer clinging to the rim of their frosty goldenlagers........ Well, okay, maybe I've idealized it a bit, but when you're trudging past them listening to Freddy shout orders at you, everyone else looks like they've just won the lottery.

There were a couple of days when I trudged home after ski school, went straight to our hotel room, and had a pity party for myself. And for the 47th time since strapping skis on my feet, I threw in the towel and declared myself done with skiing. It just wasn't worth the humiliation anymore. Why wouldanyone subject themselves willingly to this kind of torture?!?!? But my flippin' husband stooped beyond low and played a card, I never thought he would be low enough to play. He said "Do you really want our impressionable children to see you give up? What is it you always say to them? Isn't it, 'A winner never quits!' ?" I assure you, I had a few choice words for him.

One afternoon, I told Crystal that I didn't think I could bear another afternoon of falling and being humiliated.The conditions on the mountain were supposed to be terrible that afternoon and I was ready to skip the afternoon portion of our lessons. But she convinced me to come and suggested I fake an injury and leave if I was having a horrible afternoon. We joked about how I could draw blood toget out of ski school and leave a trail of blood in the snow back down to our hotel. We laughed, butI really would have impaled myself on my ski pole if I'd felt the need to flee. But on that particularafternoon, I actually skied without falling. And the only other student that day, a young non English speaking German with a mouthful of crooked teeth, managed to steal our blood shed idea. While skiing back down the mountain, Freddy stopped to give us some instruction. The next thing I know, I hear Crystal say, "Oh my God!". I look over to see the sweet, but awkward German boy cramming an entire pocket pack of tissues up his nose, plastic wrapper and all. All around him the snow was splattered with blood, and while Crystal kindly yet frantically tried to pull more tissues out of her ski jacket, I stood on the verge of dry heaving, trying not to add vomit on the already bloodstained snow. All the while secretly celebrating that someone else would take the lead on Freddy's daily shit list. Yes, it sounds mean and selfish, but ski school with Freddy was all about self preservation. It was each man/woman for himself. And if this poor kid's hemorrhaging nose bleed cut me a little slack that afternoon, I was going to enjoy every minute of it.

So I'm really hoping the week of ski hell will be enough for me to pay my dues. As much as I dreaded every minute of it, I do have to acknowledge that my skiing did improve. By the end ofthe week, Crystal and I decided that we were going to skip Freddy prison for the afternoon, and meet the rest of our friends on the mountain for one of those beer commercial moments. Again,my husband convinced us to join the rest of the gang at the top of the mountain, and like amoron, I listened. But we did manage to make our way slowly down from the top, and I was able to do it without losing the little dignity I had left. When I looked at may watch and realized Iwas late for my date at the beer commercial beside the slopes, I panicked and picked up speed, because there wasn't a ski slope in the Alps that was going to deprive me of that moment. And when we met our group of friends at the ski hut, it was short, but just as sweet as I imagined. Maybe this ski stuff isn't so bad after all.....

Rome with 3 kids....not our brightest idea.

When our family agreed to our 2 year adventure in Switzerland, we knew it would have it's ups and downs, and that after it was all over, we would look back and appreciate the fact that we were able to live abroad for a brief fraction of our lives. That doesn't change the fact that about once a week, Bryan or I text each other something along the lines of....."I really hate this $@&# country today! Who the hell do these people think they are?!?!" But in general, we love the craziness of living in a foreign country and I often look at Bryan and say, "We are so freakin' lucky, aren't we!?!" Yes, perhaps I am bipolar, but living in Switzerland is often a love/hate relationship.

But apparently we love it more than hate it, because as we saw our 2 year mark rapidly approaching, we both began to panic a bit. How did 2 years here go so fast? There is so much more we want to do and see in Europe before we move back to our supersized, super convenient, reasonably priced land of America. And although we knew there was a chance Bryan's contract would be extended for a third (and final) year, we decided it was time for our obsessive compulsive family travel agent to get busy booking some whirlwind trips. And one place I decided I couldn't possibly miss experiencing is Rome. So after spending about 17 straight hours in front of the computer over-analyzing every aspect of the trip, I booked us a flight, found us an apartment, and started to imagine our fabulous 4 days in one of the worlds most romantic cities. Not surprisingly, taking 3 young kids to Rome left zero time for romance, and lots of time for, "What the hell were we thinking?" moments.

Before I get into the details about our trip from hell, I need to preface this by telling you that, as a family, we have become pretty good travelers. We've learned a lot in the time we've been here. We know that the 3 most important items to pack for any trip are Legos, sanitizing wipes, and a corkscrew. We know that sometimes it makes sense to pay a little more for an apartment because you know there won't be prostitutes hanging out in front of it. Really, we've come a long way since our early days of ghetto apartments and 9 hour rides in a car that smells like urine. But sometimes, we get a little over confident and we need a trip like our 4 days in Rome to remind us that we're still bumbling idiots.

In order to maximize our time in Rome, I booked an early morning flight out of Zurich which required us to be on a train to the airport at 5:30. I was on top of things making sure the kids were in bed early, their clothes were laid out, and toothbrushes were prepared for brushing before being crammed in our suitcase as we ran out the door for the train. What I wasn't on top of was double checking that my husband had set his alarm correctly so we would wake up in time for the above mentioned early morning flight. By some miracle, I woke up in the middle of the night and couldn't fall back asleep. I layed there for about 45 minutes wondering how much longer until the alarm would go off. We don't have a clock in the bedroom so Bryan uses his blackberry as an alarm clock. I finally let curiousity get the best of me and I staggered out into the kitchen to see what time it was. I stared at the 5:15 for about 10 seconds before I switched into lunatic wife and mother mode and started frantically hollering, "EVERYBODY UP!!!!! YOU DIDN'T SET THE DAMN ALARM, BRYAN!!!! WHAT THE HELL ARE WE GOING TO DO!!!!!". All while simultaneously brushing my teeth and inserting my contacts. Fortunately, the voice of reason in the family (who apparently doesn't know how to set an alarm), decided we would drive to the airport unshowered, and still make the flight in plenty of time. The little voice in the back of my head that kept whispering, "This isn't a good sign of things to come", was drowned out by my annoying real voice that kept asking Bryan, "What ungodly amount of money are they going to charge us to park at the airport for 4 days? We're going to have to sell one of our kids to pay our parking fee!" And with the whiney voice in the back seat complaining about not getting breakfast, it was going to be easy to pick which one would be sold to the highest bidder.

We arrived at the airport in plenty of time, and eventually I relaxed when we had gotten through security and the kids were eating their 8 franc croissants. "We're going to Rome, you guys! Isn't this exciting? We're going to see the colosseum where the Gladiators fought!" I gushed as I tried to increase the kids enthusiasm. We'd been reading some children's books about Rome and Gladiators in an attempt to get the kids excited about going to a city with almost nothing to interest children other than pizza and gelato. Z took the bait and had been asking questions about gladiators and the Roman Empire for the past few days. The other 2 looked at me blankly before asking if I'd remembered to pack the Legos.

After an uneventful flight, we arrived in Rome, where a van had been hired to take us to our apartment that was located right near the Colosseum. Marmi, the lovely woman who rented the apartment to us, was waiting for us at the front door and kindly took us up to our apartment, which was perfect. The kids had their own room and there was an outdoor patio where Bryan could enjoy a bottle of wine after the kids went to bed. Marmi insisted that she walk us around the neighborhood so she could show us the market, the bus stop, and the restaurants she recommends. While on our nieghborhood tour, we stopped at a nearby bank to withdraw enough Euros to pay for the apartment, but the machine wouldn't dispense cash. Marmi assured us it would be no problem to pay her the remaining amount when we checked out so we added "find ATM" to our list of things to do that day. She spent a few minutes warning us to be alert when using the ATMs because pick pocketing is a real problem in Rome. Gotta love foreshadowing......

When Marmi finally left us to our own devices, we quickly bought some groceries, fed the kids lunch, and planned our afternoon of sightseeing. On our list was Trevi Fountain and the Spanish Steps. The kids were showing signs of their early morning wake up call and at this point, a nap would have been a stellar idea. But with only 3 full days in Rome, I decided to take my chances and drag our crabby kids out into the general population. Yes, after 20 months of traveling with the kids, I should know better. But in my defense, so should my loving husband and he didn't stop the madness. Somehow being an unrealistic parent seems much more acceptable when you have someone equally as unrealistic following your lead.

So we hopped on a city bus and headed towards our sightseeing destinations with map in hand. When we hopped off at our stop, we checked the map and headed towards Trevi fountain. Trekking around Rome with kids is similar to playing a real live game of the the old school arcade game "Frogger". Crosswalks? Optional for most Italian drivers. And coming from Switzerland where 5 year olds literally walk to school by themselves and drivers would NEVER consider making a pedestrian wait for them at a crosswalk, Italy was an adjustment. So we put our death grips on the kids and and began darting through Rome. We made it to Trevi fountain to find that somewhere between a jillion and a zillion other tourists had beaten us there. My vision of getting some well posed pictures of the kids standing in front off the fountain, tossing in their coins, was clearly unrealistic. We managed to elbow our way to a spot way to the left of the fountain and took a couple pictures with the kids perched precariously on a railing. I then decided we were not going to come to Rome and not get up close to the fountain so we began our battle towards the water. There is a wide set of stairs leading down to the fountain and in my estimation, half the population of Japan was taking pictures of each other in front of it. As we started down the stairs, I made the kids stop each time someone was trying to take a picture. After about 3 minutes, our big American heads were probably smack in the middle of a number of photos because to be honest, people take too damn long to snap a picture. Particularly the ones who found it fun to try and jump up and get a picture of them in mid air. Really. You'd be surprised at how popular many camera toting tourists find this ridiculous pose.

When we finally found our way down to the water, each of us got a coin to throw in. Apparently, the Romans say that if you throw a coin over your shoulder into Trevi fountain, you will return to Rome some day. I threw a couple extra over my shoulder and asked the Gods at Trevi fountain to make sure my next visit would be sans kids. And soon after the coins were tossed, the melt downs began. The kids wanted to push through the crowds and make there way over to the side of the fountain where you could climb up and sit next to the fountain. It never ceases to amaze me how much my kids like to climb things. Rocks, statues, Roman ruins. They are pretty eager to climb anything. That is, until we expect them to climb up a flight of stairs. Then they are searching for the nearest elevator.

This is when the family smackdown began. I don't remember who was climbing what, or whose foot happened to kick whose head, but as C sat happily perched next to the fountain, E began her "I'm 3 and you've had me up for 12 hours" tantrum because apparently, she desired to be perched where her brother was. Things went from bad to worse and at one point there was an actual wrestling match atop a portion of the fountain that nearly ended in C taking a swim. I gasped as I grabbed him by the shirt to prevent him from tumbling into one of Rome's biggest tourist attraction, and then proceeded to whisper scream at E and drag her kicking and screaming back through the camera happy crowd. Good times.

Clearly, this was a sign that we should head back to the apartment and put an end to all of our misery. But damn it, we hadn't checked "The Spanish Steps" off of our to do list for the day, so off we went, with ill behaved children in tow, towards the Spanish steps. After winding our way through streets and traffic, we arrived at the Spanish Steps to find it overflowing with tourists waiting for the sun to set. Yes, the Spanish steps at Sunset is beautiful, except for the fact that my kids don't give a rats ass about sunsets or Spanish Steps. And when informed that they were going to climb the Spanish Steps, they didn't hesitate to express their lack of enthusiasm. So of course, we dragged them up the Spanish Steps anyway. Yes, in hindsight, probably not our best parenting moment.

After snapping a few pictures, and oohing and aahing, we decided it was time to head home. The kids were fighting over a bottle of water like they'd been dragged through the Sahara, and I was pretty sure all hell was going to break loose at any moment. So we began our descent, back to the bus stop. On the way there, we passed a bank and Bryan quickly withdrew enough money to pay our apartment rental woman and our tour guide that we would be using the following day. And then we were on our way. We pushed our way onto a ridiculously crowded bus and Z and E scrambled to grab a seat in the luggage rack. Not the safest option, but rather than argue with 2 overtired kids, Bryan kept one hand on them to keep from catapulting into the crowd each time the driver hit the breaks. C and I stood by the window and I clung to my purse like a paranoid bag lady. We'd been warned about the professional pick pocketers and I knew we looked like tourists with our 3 loud American kids and our camera bag. But I'm no sucker. If someone was going to try to grab my purse, they were going to have to drag me down the street with it. I was on high alert, so when a suspicious looking man leaned up against me carrying a suspicious folded up paper bag, I gave him my best "woman teetering on the brink of insanity" look and clutched my purse to my chest.

When we arrived back to our neighborhood, we sat down in one of the restaurants that Marmi had recommended and immediately flagged down the waiter to order a well deserved glass of red wine. It was going to take more than one glass to make my kids incessant fighting more tolerable, but it was a start. As I began chugging......I mean, sipping my wine, for some reason Bryan reached into his front pocket to find something. When he pulled out the contents of his pocket, I heard him mumble, "No $@%ing way......". I stared at him with my wine glass to my lips and waited nervously. "You've got to be kidding me......." Hmmm....this didn't sound good. Perhaps we should have just ordered a full bottle right off the bat. He then frantically started going through all his pockets before he uttered the words no one ever wants to hear. "The money is gone." As you may know, I can be somewhat frugal, so the unexpected loss of money doesn't sit well with me. So I immediately found my happy place called denial. "No. You must have put it someplace else. Check again, honey." This was followed by him repeatedly going through every pocket at least 15 times before we both faced the reality. We (read: he) was the victim of a front pocket pick pocket. Seriously? I tried to remain calm and compassionate and not at all accusatory. In my head I was screaming, "HOW THE HELL DO YOU NOT FEEL SOMEONE'S HAND GOING IN YOUR FRONT POCKET!!!!" But clearly the dirtball who did it was a smooth operator. Not only did Bryan not feel him put his hand in his FRONT pocket, but the guy was so slick that he took all the cash, and left all his credit cards and I.D. I'll spare you the details of how much the scumbag lowlife took us for, but we'll just say he was probably able to take a brief sabbatical from violating tourists to live off his loot.

In the midst of my non confrontational husband discussing the pleasure he would get from kicking Mr. Pickpocketer's back side, my charming little angels began bickering about God knows what. "Seriously? Mommy and Daddy are VERY upset because someone stole something from Daddy's pocket. Now is NOT the time to misbehave!" I then reached across the table to remove Z's glass from the edge of the table so it wouldn't get knocked over. In the process, I knocked my own 1/2 full glass of red wine all over the tablecloth, Bryan, and the only long sleeved shirt he had packed for our trip. Ahhh..... just as I had imagined our first magical day in Rome.

Check please....

That night, Bryan and I went to bed early, leaving an unopened bottle of red sitting on the kitchen counter. There aren't many days that a couple glasses of wine and a good laugh can't improve on, but this was one of them. Thank tomorrow was a new day.

Day 2 was an improvement and we started the day by meeting up with our tour guide to see the Roman Forum and the Colosseum. Giuseppe arrived with a lovely European Carryall and the inability to look either Bryan or me in the eye. With a name like Giuseppe, I had pictured him walking up the street tossing pizza dough and singing "That's Amore!". He had come recommended for being "child friendly" and I knew we were about put him to the ultimate test. Child friendly is one thing, but if this guy was going to be able to handle keeping a 3, 5 and 7 year old interested in what they affectionately referred to as "a bunch of old broken buildings", he'd better bring his A game.

Giueseppe was friendly and certainly knew his stuff. He had 3 hours to give us a basic tour of ancient Rome and we hit the ground running. The first few minutes were a little uncomfortable while we got used to the fact that he rarely looked at Bryan at all, and when speaking to me, kept his eyes focused on my chin. I initially thought perhaps I had developed a heinous zit on my chin. Or maybe remnants of my breakfast remained on my chin and my husband had decided not to mention it. But after multiple, casual attempts to remove whatever distraction might be hanging from my chin, I decided eye contact just wasn't Giuseppe's thing.

Our first mishap occurred about 90 seconds after beginning our walk to the Roman forum. We realized during our first spectacular day in Rome, that while walking on the sidewalk, you needed to keep your eyes open for piles of dog crap. They're everywhere. The kids took this job VERY seriously and announced it to everyone within a 50 foot radius when they discovered these lovely landmines along our route. Well, apparently E was a little too focused on dog poop duty, because she walked smack into a light post and began wailing. For most mother's, I think maternal instinct would cause them to spring into action and rush to her side. But for me, it immediately put into action my inability to suppress laughter when people fall or bump into things. I'm not proud of this horrible flaw in my personality, and I usually manage to sputter an, "Are you okay?" before erupting into fits of hysteria. Fortunately, my husband was able to tend to E, and I'm relieved to tell you I only found it humorous after I was sure she was unharmed. What can I say, unintentional physical humor hits me in the funny bone. And more often than not, I'm the dumbass doing the falling and running into things.

Eventually, we made it to the entrance of the Forum and Giuseppe stopped to give us a brief history of what we would be seeing. The kids listened to about the first 3 words out of his mouth before they scattered and found some old rocks to climb on. Giuseppe seemed a little taken aback by their lack of interest and then continued to share his vast knowledge while staring at my chin. He had a very thick Italian accent so I had to really concentrate on his every word. Not any easy task when you are also trying to make sure your 3 kids aren't causing an international incident by climbing on 2000 year old ruins.

Throughout the morning, the kids would gather around Giuseppe and really try to be attentive in small spurts. Because of his thick accent, I was worried that they weren't understanding what he was saying. So I found myself repeating key point right after Giuseppe said them. He would say something like, "zees eez vair zee Emporer leeved"(okay, thats more a French accent, but you get the point) and I would feel compelled to say, "Did you hear that guys? This is where the emperor lived!". I can only imagine how insanely irritating this was to poor Giuseppe. But in my defense, Giuseppe had a few annoying habits of his own. Throughout the day, in an attempt to keep the kids engaged, I would ask them about things we had learned about Rome, like, "Do your remember who the 2 brothers were who founded the city of Rome?". E and C would stare at me like uninterested deer in headlights. But Z, my people pleasing smarty pants, would be about to answer when Giuseppe would quickly chime in, "Romulus and Remus founded Rome!". Yes, Giuseppe. Seeing as how we're paying you 50 euro an hour to share your wealth of knowledge about Rome, you ought to be able to answer my silly questions.

But for the most part, Giuseppe was a great tour guide. I gotta say, the guy was enthusiastic about "old broken buildings". I really tried to stay interested in the history of ancient Rome, but my attention span is only marginally better than my kids. I hung in there for about an hour before I realized I needed to let Bryan concentrate on what Giuseppe was saying, while I kept an eye on our bored stiff children. Bryan and I are very different people. He's more the "I'm gonna kick your ass at trivial pursuit" kind of guy. And I'm more the, "Aware of my surrounding and never let anybody pick pocket me" type. (Yes, a low blow. I know.) Needless to say, he was much more into the history of the sites than I was. I kept counting the minutes until could relax at an outdoor cafe with a glass of wine. We complement each other well.

The remainder of our stay in Rome consisted of a very child unfriendly visit to the Vatican, a RIDICULOUSLY long and argument filled walk to Villa Borghese, a brief and exhausting ride in a bicycle built for 5, and lots of stops for gelato. Each of these outtings were full of pitfalls, but I'm not sure my post traumatic stress disorder can handle reliving the details of these events for your entertainment. But as I look back at the pictures, there were a few successes thrown in during our trip. I'll never forget seeing the Sistine Chapel and in hindsight, my kids were perfectly quiet and well behaved for that 10 minutes of our trip! The whole family enjoyed visiting the Colosseum, and the boys managed not to kill each other with their wooden souvenir gladiator swords. Sometimes it's the little successes that we have to see in the midst of a generally challenging adventure. Occassionally, family travel comes down to sheer survival, and survive we did. I don't suspect Rome will rate in our top moments of family togetherness, but we managed to laugh at ourselves most of the time.

Zurich Gone Wild

If you haven't gotten the idea from some of my past blog posts, Switzerland is a beautiful country with lots to offer our American expat family. And really, we love it. But I'm guessing you've also read between the lines to recognize that it's not exactly a place where you are free to "let loose". You know how every year someone does a "Top 10 Party Schools" list, and we all read it, secretly hoping maybe our college might, at the very least, get an honorable mention? Well, with Amsterdam being the equivalent of the #1 party school in Europe, Switzerland would be more equivalent to, well, a 1950s Catholic elementary school. You really need to be on your best behavior, because there's always a "Sister Mary" right around the corner, ready and willing to use her paddle.

So when a friend told me about a Zurich street parade that happens in August, I imagined cute little Swiss women dressed in traditional Swiss clothing, maybe a herd or 2 of cows with fancy bells, and if we're lucky, some good old Swiss yodeling. Because honestly? That's what every other Swiss celebration we've encountered has been. Quaint, heartwarming, and very G rated. But on this particular Saturday in August, I was in in for one hell of a surprise.

Apparently, once a year, the people of Zurich and the surrounding areas release all their pent up naughtiness, and flock to the streets of Zurich to see how anti-Swiss they can be. The official documented excuse for having the parade is to celebrate Gay Pride in Switzerland. And since I've been to a couple really fun and crazy gay pride parades in the States, I knew it wouldn't involve yodeling and cow bells. But surely Switzerlands Gay Pride parade would be a very watered down version. I imagined lots of rainbow flags and signs advocating love and acceptance of all lifestyles. Maybe some interesting fashion choices and probably a few drunken crazies thrown in for fun. But to my surprise, I saw VERY little in the way of gay pride. Hardly a rainbow to be seen. It appeared that the entire canton of Zurich uses the Zurich Street Parade as an excuse to toss their Alphorns aside, and rebel against all things orderly, cleanly, and in many cases, sane.

So on a Saturday in August, we hired a babysitter for the afternoon, grabbed our camera, and headed downtown on the train. Our fun and crazy friends from California are never ones to shy away from a celebration and we planned to meet them at the parade. The train was packed and we sat facing two matronly, old, greyhaired ladies that looked like they were on their way to a church potluck in their nylons and polyester suits. Across the aisle sat their polar opposites and the first sign that today was no ordinary day in Zurich. A couple of heavily pierced gentlemen (I use the term loosely) were wearing matching T-shirts advertising a Swiss website. I had to do a double take when I read "SWISSF____ERS.COM". And I assure you, the F word they were proudly wearing was not a shout out to Swiss Farmers. I have to imagine their choice of attire broke at least half a dozen Swiss rules and that the 2 fashion trendsetters would most certainly be receiving a fine shortly. Little did I know that F bomb t-shirts would be the least of the Swiss authorities problems......

When we got off the train, it looked like Mardi Gras, a strip club, and a horror movie had all exploded in the middle of our otherwise stuffy city. I actually saw an entire family dressed completely in black, skin tight, shiny vinyl. The Dad was wearing buttless chaps, and his 2 young children didn't seem to be horrified by this fact. I'm all for having some crazy, silly, family fun, but the minute somebody's butt is showing, I know a line has been crossed. I was too horrified to think about pulling my camera out of my purse to snap a picture, so I'll just have to leave it to your imagination. Trust me, your imagination can't make it any more disturbing than seeing it live.

It was at about this time that I received a text from our friends, that read....

HEADED TOWARDS U.
ALREADY HAD BEER ON FEET AND GENITALS IN FACE.
WATCH OUT FOR ALL THE PEE

Hmmmm.....Perhaps this should have deterred Bryan and I from heading closer to the party zone. But I figured since I have a good 6 inches on Crystal, I was probably safe in the "body parts at eye level" department, so we followed all the freaks towards the fun. And rather than try to explain to you the sights of Zurich gone mad, I'll let the pictures tell the story.......


I'm not sure what's more disturbing, the girls in their underwear, or the guy in front of them.

It looks like the golden girls forgot their blouses.

I wonder if he realizes he's run his hose?

"Honey, we're not in China anymore!"

This guys was going for the Chippendales meets Mr. Rogers look.

Hey, is that Gene Simmons?!?!?!

"I LIKE BLUE BUTTS, AND I CANNOT LIE!"

This lovely lady was carrying a camera to snap some pictures of the other people who were letting it all hang out.

Which one of these parade goers received an atomic wedgie earlier in the day?

That cardigan wasn't quite long enough to cover his bum.

I like how he's looking judgmentally at the guy in neon like he's made a fashion faux pas.

There are no words for this photo. At least not any appropriate ones.

Somebody missed the memo regarding casual attire for "Guys Night Out".

Pretty woman.....walking down the street.....pretty woman......

His name was Lola, he was a showgirl.......

This guy was partying on a bridge over the Limmat River. Probably a wise clothing choice.....

This has "messed up childhood" written all over it.

Something tells me she's had a few appts. with a plastic surgeon....

It's not everyday you get to see a rabbit being chased by a peacock.

There were good butts..........

.........and there was some missing dental floss.

"Come on Thelma, let's go change into our g-strings and show em how it's done."

Like I said, there are no words that can explain Zurich Street Festival as well as the pictures. We spent most of the afternoon camped out underneath an awning to stay out of the rain, and happened to have the perfect spot for freak watching. But it's funny, after awhile, you start to feel a little left out of all the fun. So after a couple (read: several) 6 franc Heinekens in a can, I decided it was time to partake in the festivities. And fortunately, there was a wig salesman who had set up shop right down the street. When I first suggested the wigs, Bryan and Co. responded with nervous laughter. But by the 14th mention of wearing wigs, Derek was the only hold out. "No! I'm not wearing a wig, Heather. Seriously, someone might see me. You are not going to get me to wear a wig. End of story"

He's no match for me and my brilliant ideas. Bryan actually really liked his fro. For those of you who know Bryan, he's probably the last guy you'd imagine would walk around town sporting an afro wig. But on this particular day, it happened to be raining. And apparently he hates getting raindrops on his glasses more than he hates looking like a nut. So he put the wig on and literally, didn't take it off until dinner.

Derek (aka Carrot Top) wore it to appease me and wore the same ridiculous look on his face all day. Although, after stopping to use the Ladies room at Starbucks, we returned to find Derek had made some new friends and apparently felt much more comfortable in Crystal's wig.....

We used a new babysitter for our street parade outing and thought it was a good idea to check in with him a few times throughout the day. As you might expect, the parade was noisy and we had to sneak away from the main thoroughfare to be able to hear above the noise of the partygoers.

Nothing says, "responsible parent" like your husband chatting up the babysitter while wearing an afro wig. And although Bryan swears the woman in the above photo was not flashing him while he talked to the sitter, it sure looks suspicious. And really, who could blame the woman for wanting to tempt such a stud?!?!? Clearly the ladies love afro-Bryan.....


So it was a crazy fun day, and I think I can speak for all 4 of us, when I say that it was refreshing to see a little craziness in Zurich. It can feel a little suffocating sometimes when the Swiss openly glare and shake their heads at you for small infractions like recycling on a Sunday. But I've come to accept their often rigid ways and realize that they probably find my American ways just as annoying as I find some of the their Swiss ways. I give the Swiss a lot of credit for taking advantage of their one "let loose" day of the year. They make the most of it and have a good time showcasing their crazies. And for one brief afternoon, these nutty Americans were proud to help them celebrate.