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Ok, you’re just going to have to bear with me, I’m having a sudden flash of pathetico.

Having gone out over the weekend several things occur to me:

1.

I’ll never ever ever have a man ever ever again. All the men here seem to a) be married b) be with girlfriends or c) have the worst dress sense I’ve ever seen (leather jacket with white shirt with mirrored collar anyone? Or, as I saw in the pub on Saturday, a rather charming yellow leather baseball cap teamed with a yellow, orange and red checked shirt)

Now, unless I break up all the perfectly happy relationships that surround me/go Trinny and Susanna on Switzerland’s arse these are all unassailable mountains.

2.

I’m yet to find any actual friends. Now, this could be because I can’t see past the fantastically retro style of clothing and it could be because I’m still having issues with the language, but, at the moment, I’m pretty much friendless. Sure, I was out over the weekend, but these kids are 6 years younger than me and sometimes, I feel it. (par example one was writing in a mother’s day card and she wrote “your the best [...]” and “don’t dought that [...] or similar – I had to restrain myself from getting out a red pen).

They are lovely and they’ve offered me their friendship and help while I’ve been here – I’m grateful for that. But sometimes I just want someone my own age. Who can spell. And doesn’t mind me being a grammar Nazi (or that I go against my own rules when writing in my blog and start sentences with “but” and “and”)

This is going to change. I’m going to make it change (here comes the mantra which I seem to be repeated 19 times a day at the moment) after I get settled into the new house (everything seems to revolve around this house thing at the moment – contract being signed tomorrow thank God).

Alright, alright. I’ll man the fuck up now.

Late-ish last night (late for me, the Swiss air seems to be affecting me. I’m in bed by 9 most nights) I had a call from a dear friend, whom I will call, for want of a better name, Fursty Ferret (memories of long hot summer days on the grass in front of the pub) 

FF and I have been friends since University. He was the man who taught me drinking games, tried to teach me the finer points of rugby (although he can talk lucidly about the game, I’m yet to see him use these skills on the pitch) and very nearly made me fail my degree. And yet, FF remains, one of my closest friends. I am not alone in this – he’s one of those guys that pretty much everyone who knows him (whether they “know” know him or think they do) counts as one of their closest friends. 

So when FF called me last night, despite the fact it sounded like he was a little tired and emotional at the time and that he’d just woken me up, I was pleased (in a half-asleep “I’m pleased but I bet you I’ll forget this conversation as soon as I put the phone down” kind of way). And, as the song nearly goes, he just called just to say he missed me and that I was being thought of. Warm fuzzies all round. 

The call reminded me that I haven’t updated you since…well, since my last post. Obviously. 

You will be pleased (I hope) to hear I am currently at point seven on my list of things to do in order to get a house in Switzerland. That’s right. I found, I looked, I loved, I applied, I was accepted, contracts being drawn up and all is good. 

"Don't sit on it, you'll get chilblains"

 

The flat itself is lovely. Just what I was looking for. A bigish 2 bedroomed flat with high ceilings, wooden floors and those great old school radiators (as in radiators you used to get at school, not old-skool radiators – what would they even look like?). 

The next big hassle is trying to find some furniture and organising the logistics of it all. 

Daddy & Mummy Cow have a house in the UK as well as living in Kenya. All their furniture is currently sitting in storage. “What’s the point in that?” M-Cow said. “Why don’t you have it in Switzerland?”. Great idea. 

But how the hell do we get it there? Several options mooted – everything from driving it over ourselves to finding an empty van already going to Switzerland to walking with it on our backs. Mummy Cow is having a holiday in the UK in May so within the next 2 months something (or nothing) will be sorted by then. Any ideas, sling ‘em my way. 

This weekend will be my first “proper” weekend here. Last weekend I was so knackered that I sat on the sofa and did nothing all weekend. Not this time. Tomorrow, I plan to explore. This is a beautiful town (especially with the dusting of snow that we got yesterday) and I plan to make it mine. 

PS. Another fun fact about FF. This is the man who tries to make me cry every time we see each other by crooning “Stars” at me. (He attempted it last night on the phone – goodness knows what the pub thought.) Most of the time it works. However, I cry in the knowledge that when we went to see Les Mis together, he had “something in his eye” throughout the whole show. 

The great house hunt

I never thought I’d be househunting again so soon. 6 months ago, I was quite happy in my little flat, doing my own thing, content to stay there for a good while until something else came along. Now, I’m back in the race. And in a city with a current occupancy rate of 99.9%. Seriously. As a result, houses are hard to find and expensive. Landlords can pretty much charge what they like. And do.

The system here, as with most systems in Switzerland, seems to filled with forms and the filling of forms and the placing of hoops for jumping. A quick run-down, as I understand it so far:

1. Scour internet forums etc for flat which looks suitable/isn’t halfway up a mountain/isn’t smack bang in the middle of the red light district/3msq in size

2. Arrange appointment for viewing

3. Queue with 30 other people who are there to look at flat

4. Decide flat is “ok”. Not “great”, not “perfect”, but “ok”. All flats that are “ok” should be applied for. It’s a numbers game. The more you apply for, the more likely you are to get something – anything

5. Put in application for flat. Arrange all paperwork to be sent through to landlord – birth certificate, passport, permit, contract, letter from company saying you work there, marriage certificate of your parents, birth certificates of all 4 grandparents, letter from last Government saying you’re not a criminal and have a licence to keep pets etc etc

6. Wait

7. Either get rejected and start again or get accepted and try to find 3 x month deposit plus first month’s rent (for a flat within my budget that equals the princely sum of 8000CHF – nearly £4,500)

8. Collapse in heap in new flat and cry

9. Go to Ikea and spend next 4 months putting together furniture and looking for the elusive “thingy” which holds together your bed/cupboard/kitchen sink

10. 6 months after moving in realise that whole place infested by rats/mice/snakes and that the charming “ambient glow” is, after all, the glow from 1,000 red lights.

There are positives to the whole thing though.  The deposit (grrr… too much… it’s ludicrous… taking me for a ride etc)  is then put into a secure bank account and, at the end of the tenancy, the tenant gets the deposit back plus the interest.

However, at the moment, 8000CHF is a lot of money. 8000CHF is set aside to buy things. Like, you know, a bed and stuff (yay Ikea! Anyone got an electric screwdriver?). To help, the Swiss have an insurance policy (of course they do!) in place called Swiss Caution. Basically, the tenant pays a premium every year (about 200CHF) which then guarantees their deposit. Ok, so you don’t get your money back, but you don’t have to fork out a huge amount before you start!

Another bonus – heating and hot water is normally included in the rent. This rocks. Coming from a poky London flat where I had stupid storage heaters and a boiler for the water, it’s lovely to think that I can pump out heat all day long and have loooooong deep baths – water up to my nose.

So far, I have to say, I’ve been really slack at hitting the swiss nightlife, I have to admit (from what I remember, it’s very French, especially here. The older adults go out for a couple of drinks and then go home, the younger lot go out to dingy clubs until 3 in the morning and dance to europop). At the moment I’m living in a company flat which, although it is lovely, hasn’t got much…character. It’s a new build and therefore all sleek wooden floors and shiny tops with leather sofas. I kind of want something old and squeaky and homely. 

Anyway, maybe the gods of househunting will be with me when I start my quest this afternoon.

Wish me luck! Oh, and just to make me feel better, please share any house related nightmares…

Steep learning curves

I’ve been in Switzerland for nearly a week now and I can’t believe how quickly the time has flown by. How much has happened over the last 6 days. How much I think I’ve probably started to change.

So what have I learnt so far?

I have learnt…

… that I’m a law-abiding citizen. The Swiss are a funny bunch. They love their bureaucracy. They love their rules.  Switzerland is a haven of good manners and doing everything in the right way. There is very little crime in Switzerland. Sure, I currently live in the red light district and, yes, like anywhere, clusters of teenagers hang around smoking, shouting and drinking. But seriously, how can you feel intimidated by a gang who wait for the green man before crossing the road?

…that I’m more of a linguist that I first thought. Listening to people in the Big Company is funny. All sorts of accents, languages and tones fill the air. Because Big Company is such a multinational place (especially here, in the head office), everyone speaks a strange sort of patois. And I’ve started to join in. “Bonjour, how are you?” “The meeting room’s over here, non?”. “Ok, see you, ciao“ Ok, so pretty basic. But for me, it’s quite a step. And of course, once I start my French lessons, well…. vous ne pourrez pas m’arrêter

…that bureaucracy drives me mad. More than inefficiency. Ok, so it’s a stereotype. The Swiss are bureaucratic. Ha ha. However, it’s a stereotype for a reason. It’s true. This morning I went to the canton office place (see, get me with all my official terms) to go and register (just so they know their slack border control have let in). We went early. We had been warned about the queues. As it happens, there weren’t any and I’d got up an hour earlier than I needed for no reason. But anyway… forms had previously been filled out. My birth certificate (very relieved to find out I was who they said I was), passport, contract, letter from Big Company, left toe measurement and date of last time I cried all produced. “Major?” the lady said, “is theese your father’s name?”. *Sigh* – how do you say “Where’s the nearest wall to bang my head against” in French?
 
…that hills aren’t as bad as I thought. At the moment, I’m lucky enough to walk to work. It’s great - all downhill. I do that funny walk where my feet aren’t quite quick enough to stay up with my head and therefore do a half-run-walk all the way down the chemins. “It’s not the coming down”, my colleagues crowed, “it’s the going up!” They were right, Monday evening, I started my trek. I felt as if I should have a sherpa and one of those dogs with brandy (the name of whom I’ve forgotten – St Bernards?). And possibly oxygen. However, half an hour later (bearing in mind it only took me 15 minutes to get to work that morning) I was up at the top of the hill(s). Hoorah! Tuesday morning dawned, I couldn’t move. Legs. Cardboard. But now it’s Friday, and my legs are fine. It’s only taking me 25 minutes to get home and I can almost breathe at the end of it all.  

…I’ve stopped looking for things I can’t have. The Swiss aren’t known for their love of gastronomy.  Chocolate, yes. Cheese, yes. Hot cheese, yes. General food? No. Par example, go to the crisp “aisle” in your local Migros or Coop and what will you find? 3 flavours. Salted. Paprika. Wasabi. (yes, I know, wasabi crisps?). Go to the meat fridges. Chicken? CHF20 for a pack of breast (that’s about £15). Price per kilo of beef? CHF40. With that in mind (and the fact I’m on a very tight budget this month) I’m going without. I’ve turned into some sort of italian. Living of bread and pasta and wine. Not all bad then!

What will next week bring?

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