Swiss Oddities

(Weissenbuehl, Berne)

San Francisco Snail Mail moved its offices into the hustle and bustle of Berne, Switzerland. We also opened a branch office in Amsterdam, just in case it gets too crazy here in Berne and we need a little peace and quiet.

Europe is treating us well. It's trying to freeze our ears off though. I went for a run this morning when the sun came up – there is no better way to get to know and love a city than running through it – and I had to don two hats and three sweaters and Annelien’s super-special woolen socks so this Old World permafrost would not freeze me to death. I secretly danced and skipped on the streets of Weissenbühl, our neighborhood, when I thought no one was watching just to loosen up those frozen muscles. They always say you have to dress like an onion when it’s cold but really, I am not so sure anymore about that advice. My inner onion got quickly overheated because of the hopping and skipping and then there was no way to peel off any of the outer layers without losing my hands to the frost. Mind you, the thermometer read minus 18 (Celsius, that is).

(Even the plants were bundled up.)

But other than that, Europe is treating us really well. There are lots of oddities to talk about:

You have to weigh your own produce at the supermarket. Annelien and I had a reverse culture shock moving back to Europe. Supermarkets outsource the weighing of the produce to their customers. You punch in a code and you weigh your mushrooms or broccoli and print out a label that you slap onto the produce. Our first week back, we had completely forgotten that this is how it works in many countries in Europe. We went grocery shopping and unloaded our unweighed and unlabeled harvest onto the belt to be met with a wondering smile and sent back to the scales to do our homework. But now I am totally back into the habit and I punch in codes and print labels like there is no tomorrow.  

You don’t talk about the sausages you are about to buy – or maybe not? – for 30 minutes to decide that they are just a tad too spicy or not spicy enough for your special dish. We have to remember we are not at the Bi-Rite in San Francisco where it is okay or even required to fuss about how much or how little mustard you want in your made-to-order sandwich. Swiss coffee can only be one of three or four options but not “local micro-roasted semi-mild Ethiopian Equator Nekisse with non-fat milk, please.”

(Google "Heidi Swiss" in Google Image Search and you'll see the real Heidi.)

Milk comes from the mountains and reminds me of my childhood. When I was a little girl, I watched the TV series “Heidi, Girl of the Alps” on Dutch television. Heidi had gorgeous and incredibly large eyes. Heidi, being a little bit of a tomboy and a feminist avant-la-lettre, was – and still is – my role model. I was disappointed to see the label on the milk bottle however. It really does not accurately represent Heidi’s chutzpah. Heidi is, and all the little Flemish and Dutch kids who are now in their thirties and forties will agree with me, much more beautiful in real life than on the milk bottle.

(The stove in our house.)

We speak German, just like that! When you speak Dutch with a German accent and you throw in a couple of German words here and there, the people in Berne understand you. And my German seems to crack people up, which is perfectly fine by me because there is never enough laughter in the world. The lady at the Reformhaus where I buy my gluten-free bread and cookies speaks extra-slowly so I can follow her and every week for weeks in a row now, she says when I leave the store: “It’s getting better, sehr gut.” 

Miele washing machines, oooh. If there is one thing I disliked in San Francisco, it was the washing machines. They quite literally rip your clothes apart. I had no idea my love for Miele washing machines ran so deep until I saw a Miele washer in our new apartment. It’s in the basement and we share it with the neighbors but that doesn’t take away my joy. Doing laundry was never so much fun!  

“Berne is like San Francisco,” that is what the mover told us when he delivered my bike. He was of a kindness and gentleness that you rarely see. He spoke lovingly about his city that was to become ours too. He wanted us to feel home. And on that Friday afternoon, he made Berne look a little bit like San Francisco to me. On top of that, the neighbors left us home-made plum jam in the fridge, wine and a welcome card. Even though the Swiss may generally be a bit more reserved than my American friends, it felt as if we received a warm hug. And by the way, the mover is probably right. On our date night, Annelien and I went to Dampfzentrale, a restaurant on the shore of the river Aare. Inside, we could have been at the newest joint on Valencia Street. The waiter and the patrons looked like the hipsters we had just left behind and taken with us in our hearts. Also, Annelien and I were definitely not the only lesbians – the few straight people in the restaurant were outnumbered by our big family and we felt right at home.

Potassium iodide tablets. But of course, life in Berne is not all loving kindness. I registered at the municipality and received an “Ausländerausweis,” which I find a disconcerting word but I may have seen too many World War II movies. The good thing however was that the clerk registered me as “verheiratet” (married) without blinking and she immediately referred to “your wife” when we continued our conversation. Switzerland does not have gay marriage but it recognizes other countries’ same-sex marriages. After I got the Ausweis, I also received some iodide tablets. The accompanying brochure said that “in the event of a serious nuclear power plant accident where the safety tank fails,” you just have to take the little pills. What’s more, many buildings have concrete shelters in the basement that, our relocation agent explained, can be used in case of a nuclear attack. But for now, people use them for more pacific purposes: to store their bikes, snowboards and Christmas decorations.