Integrating the Swedish Way

Rewards
The life of an “expat” is an experience that comes in varied shades, with light-years between one extreme to the other.  Some companies totally fund a relocation abroad for example.  An employee might be paid $120,000 a year, given a company car, might have private school for his or her children paid for ($20,000/year value), full transport of furniture and personal items via ocean container might be paid for–add any number of other perks beyond my experience and expectation.

My reality is very different from that portrayed above.  My salary is modest, my transport is public, my (toddler) child is schooled by loving parents and paperbacks, and furniture…well…most of our furniture still sits in the US and came from the Swedish pre-fab giant Ikea, a branch of which sits conveniently right down the street from our new apartment.  And buying anew and reassembling our apartment turned out to be much cheaper than shipping over our sentimental loot from American storage.

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Tis the (Swiss) season

Bremgarten..
Christmas markets descend on the German-speaking world like sunlight cast over a dark, helpless countryside.  Pre-fabricated huts designed to appear like miniature log cabins populate town squares irresistible to many in Switzerland, Germany and Austria.  Heated wine served in decorative mugs flows by the barrel-full, and crafts, textiles and miscellaneous “stuff” can be purchased for only a slight mark-up…think of it as paying for the experience of an outdoor seasonal market.

We find ourselves now in a new season, in our new country, and a new apartment, breathing in yet another trove of experience in this whirlwind journey we call life.

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Americans Celebrating the Armistice

Church and monument
Standing upon the stone sidewalks of a decaying French village is jarring because of its immortality–this village has looked more or less the same for decades.  The moss on roofs and walls is perhaps thicker, the chips in paint are perhaps more noticeable, but a World War soldier marching through this land with a heavy rucksack and soggy boots would still recognize this place.  And if that soldier marched by on November 11, he would have come across a couple dozen Frenchmen and two Americans standing in the rain, offering thanks.

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Chilling in a French November

Running
Stretching his legs in a brief moment of sun

Hercule Poirot is a famous product of Agatha Christie’s criminal mind.  His brilliant mustache and unshakable French accent combined with the less-notable ability to solve crimes have all kept this sleuth in high regard around the world.  I must admit, though: when Poirot’s accent was replaced by an actual Frenchman’s voice-over, I felt a little dirty.

These are the personal revelations one must cope with when the rain is falling on France’s countryside.

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A Ferry-ride to Rapperswil

Rapperswil
Our time settling into life in Switzerland has been stressful–not only have we had to move ourselves to a new city in a new country, but I have also had to settle into a new job, and facilitate our family starting from scratch in so many realms: banking, legal status in this country, learning shops and neighborhoods.  And now that we have finally had time to breathe, we are beginning to look for a more permanent apartment which we will outfit with our own furniture, much of which will be similar or identical to our Ikea furniture from the States.

But despite this frenzy I told my wife I wanted to take a family day.  I had worked the Sunday before, on short notice, and we had a little time to plan something nice.  So yesterday we boarded the Helvetia, and set off to the medieval quarter of Rapperswil. (slideshow included)

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Southern Migration

If someone were to tell me at any point in my life that on June 4, 2010 I would have bought an ice cream cone for 3.50 sfr in Zurich, awaiting my work permit to allow me to accept a position as correspondent for Swiss Public Broadcasting…I would probably have laughed, smiled, and said, “I guess we shall see…but I doubt it.”

Except here I sit, in Zurich, and the taste of strawberry ice cream is still faintly, and expensively, on my lips.

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The Zoo and the Parenting Game

It comes over you immediately after disembarking the subway–the pressure to maintain your cool as the Parenting Game begins.  It doesn’t matter if you don’t want to play.  It doesn’t even matter if you don’t know there is a game going on. 

But as the groups of families and friends rush faster and faster toward the exit, hoping to be first to pay 9 Euros to enter the zoo, you realize there is something odd here.  People stare you up and down, judging you with their eyes.  They look at your baby stroller and then look at their own…they must have spent 1 or 200 Euros more on their stroller and smirk with superiority.

Visiting the zoo is supposed to be a time to relax and observe animals in their natural (man-made) habitats…but our visit today turned more into a sad study into the human condition.

Our trip to the zoo was prompted by a few things, the most important and relevant being our young man’s newly-found interest in animals, and communicating with them.  See a bird, and want to say something? “Caw, caw” he’ll answer.  See a lion? “Rawr.”  And perhaps you see a dog, or any other animal? “Bow wow” is the default, universal language for all things animal.

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