With all eyes on the US this week, I’m inspired to begin with the opening line from the American national anthem.
I never learned the words to the ‘Star Spangled Banner’. When I went to junior high school south of the border, we most often sang ‘America the Beautiful’. It is a softer song, more musical and less military, much closer to my heart. Way beyond either of those anthems in beauty was yesterday’s performance of ‘Amazing Grace.’ That hymn stirred my soul and brought back memories.
My family moved from Toronto to Minneapolis in 1969, the summer I turned twelve. We lived there for four-and-a-half years before returning to Canada. I was a sophomore in high school at the time. And if moving from Ontario to Minnesota had been traumatic for an innocent Canadian girl on the cusp of adolescence, leaving it was worse.
I didn’t feel American but I was no longer quite Canadian either. I’d left Toronto a child and returned a teenager — many coming-of-age moments behind me, and with all the fear of missing out of one who is dragged away, kicking and screaming, from the party.
It’s been a very long time since I returned to the States, even longer since I’ve seen some of my old friends. But the country and its people still hold a special place in my heart.
What do I see when I look at this great country now? Joy. Hope. Rebirth. Renewed faith in democracy, however fragile it still seems. As we watched yesterday’s ceremony from afar, the rest of the world breathed a huge sigh of relief. A French commentator spoke of awaking from a nightmare. That about sums it up. It’s been a long four years.
Change of scene to the photo above and my current reality. Around here, all eyes are on the mountains that surround us. And the landmark where we live now in Central Switzerland is this distinctive pair of peaks: der Grosse Mythen und der Kleine Mythen (the big and the small Mythens). The Mythen mountains, pronounced ‘mitten’ in German, bear a certain resemblance to a fine pair of…what, hmm? When I look at them I see not cleavage, but mittens. A pair of hands, held up in triumph, warmly enclosed in wool. They guide me home, geographically and spatially challenged as I am. More on the Mythen region of Switzerland later. For now, let’s celebrate the beauty of turning a page, of both looking back and looking forward.
It has taken awhile but it’s back: my long winter’s nap has given way to a rush of January positivity.
It was easy to feel sorry for myself as the year drew to a close and we found ourselves celebrating Christmas alone in our new home in a still-foreign place, and still feeling the lingering effects of the virus. Nothing tasted like much, the family Zooms were fun but pumped what little energy I had, our Christmas presents for family sat unwrapped under the tree like a reproach: Nope, this ain’t any kind of Noël like you know it. You are a stranger in a strange land who can’t understand a word of what people are saying behind their masks. Who knows how long it will be before people can enjoy getting together again?
I don’t do well with pity parties. After two weeks without leaving home, we decided it was time for a change of scene. So, cleared of our contagion, we packed the gifts into the car and headed to Geneva on Boxing Day. Booked a hotel that could provide a room but alas no breakfast (current lockdown rules) and visited our son and his girlfriend who, like us, had come through Covid and were out of the infectious period. The next day we went to Lyon and had a socially distanced visit with my father-in-law. Gifts were exchanged, champagne corks were popped. I began to feel a lot better.
And it got better. Returning home to Brunnen after being away for two days really felt like coming home. For the first time since we’d moved, with our house sale well and truly behind us, our new place feels like home. Another week went by and we cocooned a bit more, inviting friends for dinner just after new year’s. Gradually my energy — and sense of taste — has returned to almost normal. Getting back to work this week has felt good. And for the first time in months, I am motivated to move ahead on my personal writing projects. I even picked up my German books again.
That’s not to say I haven’t had some bumps. One day this week was one of those hugely frustrating days in which everything seemed to conspire against me. My technology didn’t work. I got lost while driving to the shopping centre, entered the store on the wrong side (Coronavirus-oblige, there are shopping traffic flows) and couldn’t find a darn thing I wanted. Tried to ask for help and got muddled between three languages, not able to utter any kind of clear request even in English, reverting to my automatic responses in French and then attempting to insert a German word here and there to help the poor person who had no clue what I was on about…Gah!
Another frustration has been that, as I was unable to get a positive PCR test, I’d been hoping for a positive SARS-CoV-2 antibody test to prove that I’d had the miserable virus. The first test, one week in, came back negative and the doctor was entirely dubious about the value of doing another: “You’ve certainly had a brush with the disease but probably not enough to generate a proper immune response. You can try again but I suspect it will come back negative, or not strong enough to justify immunity.” But I wasn’t going to give up without a fight, so we did another test anyway. And bingo! Yesterday I learned that it had come back positive. I cannot tell you how much of a relief it is to have proof that my immune system did its job. Which obviously will not spare me from masks, distancing and eventually, a vaccine shot or two. But in the meantime, having at least some immunity for now is another reason to be positive. Don’t we all need as much positivity as we can get these days?
Plus, it snowed this week. The white stuff always makes my heart sing.
Feel free to share at least one thing you feel good about going in to 2021.
Wishing you all a very happy — and above all, healthy — new year!
On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me…a case of Covid-19.
I suppose it was inevitable. Although he generally wears a mask, my husband is terrible about touching his face. And the rules about social distancing in Switzerland have been fairly relaxed throughout the pandemic. Masks in public places, yes. But restaurants have remained open along with gyms and all the shops. He would come in from shopping and when asked if he’d washed his hands would say, “No, but I’m going to.” Then proceed to touch everything in the apartment before eventually washing his hands, protesting against my ‘maniac’ tendencies. (‘Maniaque’ in French, meaning a clean freak or stickler…)
Suffice it to say that while I hadn’t exactly been expecting to get Covid, I sensed it was less a matter of if than of when. Sure enough, two weeks ago my husband announced he had a ‘slight’ sore throat. Then promptly decided it was nothing and he was fine. Then went to bed and woke up feeling not right. Still, it wasn’t Covid-19, he said. He was barely sick. Two days of feeling poorly later, he went for a test and — bingo! — coronavirus for Christmas.
I got it three days after him. No sore throat, barely a tickle at the back of my throat in fact. For me it started in the eyes, which suddenly felt sore and tired. Went to bed and had the first night of what would be the worst and most persistent symptom throughout my twelve-day ordeal: a sort of delirious anxiety, in which crazy half-thoughts chased each other through my dreams and, while I slept, I did not truly rest. I felt feverish although my temperature stayed normal. The next day I had a slight cough, nothing to speak of, a sense of tightness in my chest, a bit of a headache and crashing fatigue.
By the third day I realized that my sense of smell had nearly gone. I could still smell something really strong, like vinegar, but food had no taste other than salty or sweet. I also experienced a kind of brain fog, like I couldn’t quite think straight.
On day four the palpitations started. This symptom, which makes me feel like my heart is about to pound right out of my chest, was worrying enough to make me call the hotline for medical advice. The doctor advised me to go for a check-up as soon as possible but as I had no chest pain or shortness of breath, it wasn’t urgent. It seems that palpitations are common when the body is fighting an infection.
Days five and six saw some improvement to my overall state, although my stomach became upset and I lost my appetite. Still, the brain fog cleared and I began to feel less exhausted.
Day seven brought a fever, which made the heart palpitations worse. Basically my heart would start to race as the fever began, I would take paracetamol and it would drop; I’d feel better for a while then the whole cycle would start again. This went on for three days. I also had muscle aches and pains and persistent gastrointestinal distress.
Of course by then my husband was over it.
The Covid-tracking app did its job and I got a call from the people at Swiss Covid, informing me that I had been exposed to a certain Stefan who had tested positive. I assured them that I was familiar with the culprit — my husband. And that I also had symptoms.
You will need to isolate, the nice fellow on the phone advised. And get a test to be sure.
But why? I asked. It was entirely obvious I had it. Ah, but they needed proof in order to document me as Covid-positive on the app. And then I would be spared the need to self-isolate again for another three months if I were exposed to the virus again. So off we went to the test centre. Where I failed the Covid test. That is, I was unable to stand the 6-inch swab up my nose. The guy got it one-third the way in and I wimped out. It was excruciatingly uncomfortable Can’t you do it differently? I asked. I’d read that alternatives were available. Shorter nasal swabs that were just as effective. He shook his head sadly. It was all or nothing. Swiss rigour leaves no room for wusses.
I finally saw a doctor for a check-up a few days ago and they took blood for an antibody test instead. Hopefully that will be proof enough. And the meantime they did a bunch of tests and the good news is that my heart and other vital organs seem to be fine.
Twelve days in to my Covid-19 pre-Christmas challenge, my energy has been slow to come back but I’m starting to feel a bit more like myself. My morning clementine smells heavenly: taste and smell are joyfully returning. I’m out of quarantine but for now I’m limiting my excursions to short walks with the dogs.
I decided to share the details of what it felt like to have a ‘mild’ case with virtually no respiratory symptoms so that others might know what to expect. I am 63, in otherwise good health and with no comorbidities. I was less sick than I have been in the past with the flu but it took far longer to get over it. Each day I felt better, and worse. The virus was like a time-release; there can be no doubt that it packs quite a wham.
Ours will be a very simple Christmas indeed. I am simply grateful that we made it through Covid-19. And so very happy, as I’m sure many of you are, to bid ‘au revoir’ to 2020.
I wish you a merry Christmas and a happy, healthy end to this crazy old year. See you in 2021!
I never saw many farm animals up close when I was young. We lived in suburbia, where you got your milk in bladders (it’s a Canadian thing) and wool only ever came in sweaters. Living for years in France and now in Switzerland, some of our closest neighbours are furred or feathered.
Our French bulldog, Humphrey, the one with the wonky ticker, is mildly obsessed by sheep. All farm animals really, but especially the ones closer to his own size. Humphrey stares fixedly at the sheep and goats we pass on our walks. How ridiculous he looks; I feel rather embarrassed for him. Even the cows just look back at him placidly as they chew their cud. Electric fencing means that their relationship will never get beyond a curious stare. Although on one occasion he was surprised when the massive pink tongue of a curious cow came and licked him over the fence.
Now the farm animals have all gone inside for the winter but in most seasons they graze happily outdoors. I wonder if they have shorter legs on one side to keep their balance on the steep slopes?
We had a bit of snow this week which made the dog walks a little tough on the Frenchies’ tootsies. Our boys are getting older and are less excited about going out in the cold and wet. The upside is that when they do their business, which I always pick up faithfully here in the land of civic duty, it is easier to grab in the snow. And even warms my hands! Like most modern dog walkers, I have perfected my technique for picking up dog-do: slipping the bag over my hand like a glove then grabbing the item and turning the bag inside out. Before knotting it, that is; here in Switzerland there is a protocol for everything and one must knot the bag, n’est-ce pas?
Thankfully the bags are thoughtfully provided by the Gemeinde (town council) at poop bins strategically located where people walk their dogs. So I have no excuse, really, and can even be seen after dark with my walking light scrabbling around on the ground to pick up after my pets.
Garbage bags are another story. I’m not sure how it works elsewhere but here in German-speaking Switzerland, you have to buy special pre-taxed bags. Any other kind will simply not be picked up.
“Müllsacks, bitte,” I venture to the woman behind the counter where they sell pricey, taxed items like garbage bags and cigarettes. Thankfully she understands me, even though I think it’s not the correct word. That might in fact be ‘Gebührenkehrichtsack’ (charged garbage bag) but I am far from able as yet to spit that one out.
I am, however, proud to be able to specify the size of bag: “Fünf und dreissig.” The 35-litre bags are the most popular format so perhaps she saw it coming. I fork out 20 francs to pay for my roll of ten red bags. At 2 CHF a pop, it’s a good thing they’re sturdy because you need to amortize each one by filling it to the max. Most weeks we manage three bags full.
It seems the philosophy of making the polluter pay for the costs of waste disposal is deeply ingrained in the Swiss psyche. I suppose it’s an incentive to create less waste and recycle more. Which is all very well and good unless you have a sensitive nose. Those bags start to stink after a few days.
I am thrilled to have a story published in Offshoots 15, an anthology of writing from Geneva. It’s my first piece to be published by the Geneva Writers Group, a wonderful group I’ve been involved with for the past several years. From my former home across the border in France, it was eye-opening to be able to join this international group’s events and workshops, all of which have been inspirational and instructive. Now I will be among its many members who travel from across Switzerland and beyond to live events — always assuming we will soon see an end to the pandemic. (I’m a believer!)
I don’t often write about writing beyond what I produce on this blog. But, une fois n’est pas coutume — ‘just this once’ for the Francophiles — let me tell you a few things about the writing I do for work and play.
Writing for me is less about what I do than who I am. Meaning I cannot remember a time when it wasn’t central to my existence. Diaries, journals, lyrics, the odd poem or bit of creative scribbling took me through my early years to higher learning and the inevitable choice of what to do next. Unsurprisingly, I decided to make a living as a writer. Not the romantic life of the novelist but the reality of the paid hack.
I started out in Toronto in PR, writing video scripts for the Ministry of the Environment on the burning topics of the day such as acid rain, air pollution and toxic waste. Then I moved on to advertising as a copywriter, selling anything and everything from fashion to bricks and mortar. In between regular jobs I freelanced and also managed to place a few feature stories in newspapers and magazines. By the time we moved to France I was a seasoned hired gun, willing to turn my prose to whatever paid the bills. While raising kids I worked freelance, translating and also copywriting for clients with international markets. I even spent a couple of years on a team of translator-journalists at Euronews. At one point I transitioned to the corporate world and eventually got into pharma communications. This led to our move to the Geneva area some years ago. I now work as a freelance writer for several different clients who manage to keep me happily busy on a range of topics while leaving me a little time to pursue my own writing projects.
When my kids were still small I began dabbling in writing for myself again. Nothing too ambitious: stories, essays, a memoir. My current work-in-progress is a novel. Nothing of note has been published yet, aside from the odd story. I’ve decided not to go the self-publishing route and traditional publishing is notoriously tough.
And now this: Offshoots 15 has selected my story, ‘Late’, a flash fiction piece that came to me one winter day while waiting and worrying, as is my wont. For those not familiar with the genre, flash is very short so I won’t say more.
I must say it’s an honour to be in the company of the amazing writers in this collection of prose and poetry. The editorial team chose the theme ‘Turn on the light’ to offer some relief in a year of upheaval. It’s a good read if you like snippets of life seen from the lighter side. What’s more, after so long in confinement this little book offers the treat of glimpses into life in faraway places.
Offshoots 15 is available in paperback and on Kindle from Amazon. I’ve already ordered several copies for family and friends.
What about you? I know that some of this blog’s followers are professionals and published writers. Don’t be shy: I’d love to hear about your latest work!