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Two days a week I attend a French class at a nearby mall. Two Poles, a Turk, a Bosnian, a Cuban, a Vietnamese, and a Portuguese are my partners in conversation. A few times, bored with the simple grammar lessons and vocabulary, I have enlisted my fellow students in a discussion of adolescents, drugs and the state of schools; what it’s like to be without a job; politics; the weather. Our instructor, a Tunisian woman, patiently accepts my attempts to use my French for more than ordering a couple pork chops, a kilo of potatoes, or a beef roast. My knowledge of Spanish often gets in the way when I venture into using French vocabulary of which I am unfamiliar. I don’t realize it, though, until everyone looks at me strangely except the Cuban and the Portuguese woman. I have not yet shaken the old habits that I was so eager to shake when I came to Switzerland. One of the reasons we moved from our suburban community outside of Washington D.C. was to escape the horrendous commute, from which I was rescued only by the occasional snow day. I keep telling myself that it takes time and I am not used to this kind of life. This argument lasts about two milliseconds and I have to move on to argument two: I need to take this opportunity to run the perfect household. A balanced dinner on the table at 6; healthy snacks that the kids won’t touch packed in little baggies; immaculately laundered clothes sans stains; an intellectually challenging, but fun craft to do with the kids; and no-waste food shopping all top my list of how to run a perfect household. Hmmm. I suppose- but I didn’t really do all that back home and we got along fine. What actually
happens is that when the 3:50 nap alarm rings, I start to vacuum.
At 3:59, I shove two candy bars in my pockets and run up the street to
meet my eldest daughter, Isabel’s, bus. I chat with the crossing
guard in Spanish, then French until Izzie emerges from her bus, rings under
eyes, begging for a treat. She replies “Oui” to every question that
Marisol, the crossing guard, shoots at her, and then grins, revealing an
assortment of chiclet-like baby teeth, gummy spaces, and gigantic adult
fangs. We dash across the playground to await the emergence of Celeste
along with the swarming nest of small children scrapping their way to eager
parents, grandparents and older siblings.
People move in and out of Geneva regularly. Despite the difficulties, the ebb and flow of nationalities is what makes it interesting to be here. I know my children are experiencing what I have always wanted for them: an appreciation for the way others live and think, an opportunity to study in another language, a chance to toughen up their soft American hides. As the bell chimes the groups disperse. Italian, Portuguese, and Russian words are displaced by French as each family makes their way home for the evening meal. Celeste bolts out the door and runs to me shouting, “maman” and “escargot” and “voilá, c’est bon,” and other random French words that escape her mouth like the steam from my coffee machine. After decompression, she begins to pout, says she hates her school, and pleads to return to a place she has already started to forget. “What was that village called?” “Maryland?” “Oui, Maryland. I want to go back there.” “Why do you hate your school?” “Because they all speak French to me.” “But you are learning.” “No one plays with me.” “You are new. It takes time. Remember you used to hate Maryland school too.” It goes on like this until I feel so heartbroken and defeated that I give up the fight and distract her with a wave of the other candy bar I brought. “Chhhhhhhhhocolat!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Merci, Maman.” Everything is good again and we sing a variety of French and English songs as we make our way home for our evening meal. To contact
Aimée Click
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