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A Swiss banking paradox

I notice more and more that Switzerland has the globe's slowest cash machines. They lead the world to believe they are at the forefront of global banking, and yet taking cash from your Swiss bank account takes about half an hour because the ATMs are lethargic...

Maybe the famous 'Gnomes of Zurich' do actually exist, inside cash machines, physically dealing with every transaction. That would be one explanation.

Flying 'home'

I find it increasingly moving to return from somewhere to a London airport - purely by coincidence, I have ventured only East on my big life adventures, with the exception being University in Yorkshire. Now, on a Zurich - London Heathrow flight, with Swiss Air's new and improved in flight route maps lighting up the screens, it hits me that I am not just flying home - as in to the UK - I'm flying over the homes I have had in the past. The Zurich - London route takes you north of Paris, very close to Lille and therefore Valenciennes where I had some amazing experiences and met some of my favourite people in the world. Then over Calais. Living in amongst the HLMs of Calais, teaching in the troubled schools was one of the most formative experiences of my adult life and there too I met some life-changing people. I know this part of France sparkling in the night sky below the airplane not only from school geography lessons; it is very much part of my life map.

On this particular flight, we're not going quite so close to Calais, but rather over Dieppe, where I had my first French kiss! Then we'll cross the channel - something I have done for years; for everything from family holidays to weekend trips to party with old friends in Calais and elsewhere in Europe. Dover and Kent approach. Dover is again a place where I met some of my closest friends; one summer in the private school. Obviously heading towards London from the sea involves coasting above Kent and Sussex where I grew up.

The view of the Channel from a flight on a clear night is so different from the equally stunning view you get from a ferry that is queuing to enter the dock mid-way between France and England. The boat spins slowly affording you a view of the White Cliffs of Dover and then back to the less pearly cliffs of the continent; the long stretches of sandy beach. From an airplane window it is easy to imagine why Bleriot first sought to cross the channel in his rickety craft.

I remember once; I think I was returning from a stint in Italy, I flew over Brighton on bonfire night; just as the Preston Park firework display was getting into full swing. It was truly beautiful; fireworks from above are fascinating; lighting up the ant-like figures underneath, glowing gracefully in multi-colour. I was sad to have missed my favourite British traditional festival for another year as I flew home, but I was so excited to have got another perspective from the skies.

Then finally London; the familiarity of home and yet a place I have never lived in; where the biggest concentration of my friends are. The tourist monuments, the beautiful Thames snaking its way across the twinkling city, Canary Wharf flashing and the Houses of Parliament majestically holding fort on the waterside; it is stunning to fly so close to the reasons London is such a great city.

It is such a peculiar feeling flying back to the UK from Switzerland; I feel like if I were to die, it is the view from this flight route that would flash behind my eyes. Just looking out of the window evokes all the fantastic memories I have of the people, the places, the smells, the languages, the experiences and the crazy nights out I had way down there on the ground below. The places are not geographically that distant, or that different in terms of my experiences I had in those places, but the feeling of going over the last few years of my life during an hour and a half flight is rather surreal.

I love it, and I wonder where it will journey to next...

Zuriphototrip

This is a great project of capturing everyday Zurich on camera...

Follow the photo trip here: www.ronorp.net/zuerich/forum/stadtgespraech

Switzerland in limbo

The leaves have turned a beautiful shade of fiery orange and the temperature has dropped noticeably. The particularly autumnal waft of roasting chestnuts tickles your nostrils as you emerge from the bahnhof after work in the evening. Summer time is officially over tomorrow.

Autumn is a strange time in Switzerland. The fact that you can distinguish between the seasons is still rather novel for me; the concept of seasons does not exist in the UK to anything like the same extent as here. However, although the Swiss autumn is truly stunning, there is the feeling that the whole country is in limbo waiting for winter. Talk in the office has turned away from lunchtime lake swims, restaurant terraces and 'Grill parties' to when the ski resorts will open and the winter kit wish lists.

So it is almost as if no-one really wants autumn; cut the crap and cover the country in snow! I don't think many would mind if the Swiss autumn was exported to the UK so at least those there could enjoy it, and us over here could get a bit more skiing in...or is it just me?

Bird bath

Watching the birds bathing on a late summer lunch break...

Poi by a lake

Some pictures that a fellow camper took during my poi display on August 1st at the Griefensee.

Clever dogs

Dogs can apparently read in Switzerland...

Reading the Qur'an in the dark

Forgive me for stealing the title from a recent Guardian article about Sebastian Faulk's apparently ignorant and shallow comments on the Islamic holy book. I find it rather good. (And we should all be recycling more anyway, so why limit this to PET bottles and paper?)

I am constantly surprised and somewhat alarmed with people's reactions and opinions to events and figures in the Middle East. A quick read through many Western papers, or a few minutes infront of the news channels is enough to make anyone believe that anyone who wears a headscarf is a beaten woman, that anyone named Mohammed is a terrorist and that the peaceful democratic European continent is about to be invaded and ruined by people in headscarves and people called Mohammed.

My job involves working with these people on a daily basis. They are (nearly) all called Mohammed. Their culture is so distant from ours, it is no wonder that people have a fear of these people; but it is simply a fear of the unknown. In reality they are the same as us. Well, they're not. But then the Germans aren't like us either, but no-one is scared of them as most people have probably had a conversation with a couple of Germans in their lifetime and therefore do not have to rely on the jibbering opinions of some American propaganda newschannel to form their opinions of Germans.

A couple of people, on being told of my holiday plans to Syria have reacted with "but it's a Muslim country, why are going there?!"

The fact is that any extreme version of a religion or a belief in isolation will always be dangerous. Instead of labelling everyone entering a mosque as a terrorist, journalists ought better discover their culture more, and target the correct people, rather than the innocent majority. So, find the real terrorists, the real harmful groups and start with them, and leave the others to believe in what they believe in.

The world is crazy if the power of sex-pests like Berlusconi can go virtually unchallenged, if the state can throw money into bankers pockets and ignore the struggle of those living below the poverty line, no-one steps in to sort out Darfur, because everyone is too busy checking under the headscarves for terrorists and living in fear of the world's Mohammeds. It doesn't really add up.

For the article with the same name from The Guardian: http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/belief/2009/aug/27/sebastian-faulks-quran-islam

City picnic

Sitting in a quiet square in central Zurich with a beer or two, some nibbles and friends, it never ceases to amaze me how many different sides there are to Zurich; a city known mainly for its banks… yet here in the evening sun, chatting to the locals who’ve rocked up with their picnic baskets and chilled wine from the fridge, it couldn’t be more different from the suited streets around pompous Paradeplatz.

Switzerland is pretty good at mixing modern with historic, designer with eclectic, which is a lucky thing really; otherwise it would not be much fun at all!

You need panache to vote for Sarkozy...

http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2009/aug/02/comment-is-free-david-mitchell

I love the how the French and the English mock each other with very little respect and yet still manage to do it in an affectionate way... and this man is funny in the Peep Show, and with a pen in his hand he is equally hilarious.

Fluessbadi Letten: my new favourite place in Zurich

A beer from the fridge, some evening sunshine, and a dip in the river... couldn't be better!

Panoramaweg

Beautiful mountains near Elm, GL.

Zuritaliano - strano aber lustig

I always feel that taking public transport enables you to experience more real culture than traipsing around museums for hours on end with an audio guide stuck in your ears. I also love food shopping (as long as there are free nibbles to try, bargains and not too many people).

Now when I get on my number 78 bus (which on Sundays takes a detour up to the cemetery; I’m not living in the youngest, hippest of areas), I take of my IPod and try to gauge some conversation. Initially I did this because ear-wigging is a great way to improve your language skills. The language I heard, however, was not German. It wasn’t really Swiss German either. It is a curious mixture of Italian and Swiss German, spoken as seamlessly as is possible when merging one of the world’s most beautiful languages with one of the worlds, erm, phlegmy.

The discovery of this language has hence transformed my trips to the supermarket. My Italian is better (as in more correct) than my German (which I have picked up from hearing it rather than learning it, so my grammar is guesswork), so these hybrid citizens are doing half the work for me. It’s great!

I am pretty sure that this language has not been documented at all (you saw it here first!), but it really exists; there appears to be no real pattern, other than the fact the German ‘little’ words, such as tag-questions, yes-no words and question words. It is really fascinating to listen to. Italians would probably cry if they heard the morphed dialect of their melodic language, and the Swiss probably moan about it not being Swiss!

It feels a little like I have discovered a secret society speaking in a secret code…

The Streets TEFL it up

TEFL-ing it up in a hideously embarrassing manner
Saw The Streets a week or so ago. That’s right, you know them; the guys who are actually from Birmingham but sing in Estuary English as if they are just writing songs when they’re not on set for Eastenders. They were performing at St Gallen Open Air, the probably better organised, more efficient version of Glastonbury. No less wet.
If you’re a fan of The Streets, I imagine you understand the lyrics. Otherwise it would sound like some stoned English man droning on about something you don’t understand. Mike Skinner failed to realise this while performing in front of the predominantly linguistically talented Swiss audience. Apart from the fact he almost had everyone doing a Nazi salute and shouting ‘ja’ (I think he was just too stupid to realise this was what he was doing and I honestly don’t think it was his intention), he spoke to the audience as if they were in beginner’s English class, beginner’s English class for the kids with special needs. Like no ears. Or no mouth. Those kind of special needs.
He wanted to find out if the crowd were happy that it had finally stopped pissing it down and that the sun had finally got its hat on and come out to play. Which was a bit of a stupid question to ask. So he shouts into his microphone (we all know shouting helps understanding in a foreign tongue), he makes a smile shape with his hands, he shouts “Are you H-A-P-P-Y (another smile gesture), now (pointing to floor with both hands; you know the drill) the rain (you know where this is going; rain hands) has stopped (cut the air to indicate stopping)? And, even more cringe-worthy was that he didn’t think they had understood the first time, so he repeated the question, TEFL-ing it up even more the second time.
It was truly hideously embarrassing. I thought it was just the old who were rubbish at communicating with foreigners; it appears that most Brits just don’t get it. He’s from Birmingham too, so he should be used to it! Brits who are allowed to leave the country to represent the UK in some way should be given a quick lesson on intercultural communication, and perhaps taught that just because you’re a foreigner, you’re not special needs!!!

The Beauty of Vespas

These are for sale outside Bogen33, Hardbrucke. Tempted, me? Naaaa.

Freitag shop

This place is incredible; a fantastic shop made from old shipping containers. The business idea is also pretty faultless; taking tarpaulin from old trucks, a few bike tyres and turning it all into trendy bags that have almost replaced the gnomes of Zurich as the city's symbol.

They're basically taking pretty cheap stuff, and selling for a hefty price on a very cheap piece of land next to the railway. Only in Zurich.

Romanian hospitals

Wild camping carries some element of risk. Wild camping in Dracula’s stomping ground is particularly risky. After a particularly wild storm (during which we sought shelter of the car so to avoid being struck by lightening), I was viciously bitten by a spider, insect or a snake. Well the bite itself was not s vicious; I didn’t feel it happen, or see the guilty party, (and I guess actually had it been a snake I would have seen it), but the aftermath was a nasty combination of throbbing and shooting pain, meaning that I could not put any weight onto my left leg. A trip to the pharmacy, about 50euro cents later I am applying antibiotic cream… unsurprisingly for a cheap cream, it has little effect. Luckily my hosts have a contact in the local hospital who speaks French; an appointment is made.
We arrive in the hospital, my Romanian-speaking guide enquires as to where we can find our contact… we get a little lost in the dark corridors of the basic hospital. In one corridor, a crowd of unhealthy people pushing towards a closed door; gypsies, a man with one leg, an old man on a hospital trolley, a young boy clutching a swollen wrist. It is noisy, musty and dusty. We locate the stairs we need. A surly-looking ‘security’ man informs us that we must pay a ‘taxa intrare’ to go up the stairs. Oh, and we must pay for a pair of shoe-protectors. We pay the small but nonetheless ridiculous amount, put on the shoe covers (noticing too that no-one else is wearing them), and climb the stairs. We eventually find the man we are looking for; he invites us into his room (the door of which is leather-clad).
The doctor is very amicable, very helpful. I show him my bite, he tells me in French that it has passed the level ‘simple’ and is now looking a little more ‘compliqué’ and prescribes me some drugs. The doctor refused any money (which is odd in a country where bribes and gifts are common currency), stating that it was a pleasure to meet people like us!
We leave the hospital via the back door since we simply cannot find the front door, and we are greeted by a couple of stray dogs in the grounds. It is surreal; the whole scene was as if taken from a Blue Peter charity appeal film in the early 1990s; which is how I learnt about Romania in the first instance; during orphanage appeals.
Sitting in the doctor’s office, away from the hoards awaiting much needed treatment, surrounded by his certificates from international conferences all over the world, what struck me about the hospital was that the knowledge is there; the expertise to treat people. What is missing are the resources. I hope that EU membership will bring such resources and that they will be channelled into the places they are needed; the hospitals for sure.

Cultural conditioning and swimming pools

Walking from the changing rooms to the swimming pool, I realised that living in Britain for the first 19 or so years of my life actually really affected the way I think. Maybe it is obvious, but I have never been consciously aware of this fact. And it was a window that made me realise.

I was shocked and uncomfortable because the route from the changing rooms to the pool involves walking past a huge, unfrosted, streetside window, past the reception area and then down to the pool, all, of course, in your swimming costume. Although obviously I am not that bothered about that level of undress, my mind instantly wondered about perverts and paedophiles sitting all day on the beautiful fountain just outside the window, having free access to children and human bodies all day every day, even on public holidays.

I then got over the shock, had a great swim and went home, without seeing a pedo or a perv. I discussed my reaction with a Swiss person who instantly burst out laughing and told me not to be so ridiculous. Not being a particularly ridiculous person in general I then linked my reaction to the British media-hype over free-range paedophiles and perverts, and our obsession with protecting children from real life. We Brits (particularly those that only read the Sun and watch Jeremy Kyle) are conditioned to believe subconsciously that the world is jam packed with evil, and I think the Swiss (and perhaps many more), have a more sensible approach. Of course paedophilia and perversion do get some media attention, but less.

Why shouldn't it be normal to walk past a window in your swimming cozzie?

Sexy people

I apologise if you read this thinking there will be pictures of semi-naked Swiss people. You will be disappointed. I write instead of the Zurich-wide (which pretty much means the tiny centre of Zurich) public holiday that I happily experienced on Monday. It basically involves burning a snowman. I kid you not. And Zurich gets at least a half-day off their tax-evading jobs to celebrate this somewhat pyromaniac festive tradition. Excellent.

The festival is called 'Sechseläuten' (or in Zurituusch 'Sächsilüüte'), which sounds very much like Sexy leute; sexy people, but actually means 'the six o' clock ringing of the bells'. However, unless you consider people dressed as medieval knights sexy, there were not many sexy people involved in the annual burning of the snowman. Instead, people dress up according to their 'Zunfte;' their guilds. So the bakers dress as bakers. And they carry bread around their neck. Lots of horses are involved, and the costume Zurchers parade around the city centre, making a lot of noise and throwing a lot of flowers. This Monday there was a fantastic atmosphere; helped by particularly warm weather and relatively cheap beer. The whole of Kanton Zurich flocked to see the snowman burn.

You can look on Wikipedia for a more in depth definition, but it all comes down to waving goodbye to winter and welcoming summer. According to fable, the length of time it takes for the snowman's head to explode determines how good a summer is ahead. Apparently this year, it took around 13 minutes to explode (and all the Swiss people were standing ready with ear plugs, or with fingers in ears for the noise; see a previous post about the Swiss and their obsession with ear plugs)... so the summer will not be fantastic.

However, considering this is is a tradition dating back to 1904, and we're making judgement based on a papier mache figure, I'm not too worried!

Extra trivia: the snowman is named Böögg, which is apparently a cognate of Bogey... are there any other countries in the world that take a day off to burn the bogeyman? Isn't culture a wonderful thing!

Running in Zurich

A few pictures of my evening route around my neighbourhood...spring has arrived!

Images from the South Downs, East Sussex, UK

Ernst.

Ernst is my landlord. Well, technically he is the ‘hauswart’ (which does not mean he is covered in warts). He’s the guy who I met during a snowstorm in the dark in an eerily quiet street I had never been down before, in a city I barely new, back in December 2008. He is the guy who unblocked my shower, who raved about the birds you can watch from my balcony, the guy who laughed when I first spoke to him and asked ‘sprechen Sie Englisch?’ because he does not speak even High German and is oblivious to his strong dialectal Swiss-ness.
I need Ernst to recharge the key I need to operate the washing machine. (Don’t ask…it is a weird system…) I have a shared account with Ernst where the deposit for flat remains… so not only do I have one Swiss bank account; I have a second one in my name, one that I share with the most Swiss man on the planet.
I said that he had unlocked my shower. Here is what happened; it was barely a week after I had moved in; I was still working in Lucerne, so I was commuting for a couple of weeks; and had probably only taken 5 showers in my new abode, and yet it was filling up every time I showered; taking about two hours to drain afterwards. This happened in my flat in Valenciennes; but with dodgy plumbing and the poor general quality of rented accommodation in France, it was unsurprising. However, the quality of flats in Switzerland is much higher, and I had only just moved in, so I thought I would chat to Ernst about it. Bearing in mind my Swiss German is limited to certain words and phrases, and even my High German is not so advanced as plumbing issues, ‘chatting’ with Ernst would be quite difficult.
I went and knocked on his door, and he greeted me in the usual way ‘ahhh Frau Kachett, wie gaht es Ihne?’ (or whatever they say in Swiss…) and he shook my hand. We did the normal chit chat; weather, job, flat…then he asked how he could help me. I then tried to explain the issue…using a lot of hand gestures and making quite a few water noises as is required in these situations… he suggested calling a plumber, then I remembered that actually a plunger might be worth trying before a plumber. I am not even confident this is called a plunger in English, so obviously I didn’t know the German word…I made hand gestures and finally Ernst understood (you can imagine the type of hand gestures necessary to communicate the idea of a plunger!)…by this point he had gathered his brother to assist. Ach ja, he said, and disappeared into a room in his flat. He came out seconds later, clutching the biggest plunger I have ever seen in my life.
The brothers then followed me up the stairs to my little flat, and I let them into the bathroom. There who two aged Swiss men in my tiny bathroom, both wearing flip flops and socks, both gibbering on in some bloody incomprehensive tongue that I am straining to master. One holding a huge red plunger as if it were a weapon. Ernst gets in the shower (without removing his socks and sandals). His brother, who I think is called Hans Peter or something equally unimaginative, positions himself over the sink and covers the plug hole with his two hands. Ernst starts to pump the plunger. Hans Peter starts telling Ernst that he is not doing it correctly (well at least that is what I believe he said; to be honest I was trying so hard not to wet myself laughing at the comedy of the situation that he could have been saying ‘let’s chop up this weird English girl while we are here and put her body into plastic bags’). Ernst starts shouting at his brother. And continues pumping the giant red plunger with gusto. This comedy continues for at least ten minutes; while I look on, peering around the door frame from the hall. There was quite a lot of gunk in the whole and Ernst and his brother were vocally satisfied that team Meier successfully blocked Frau Kachkett’s blocked sink.
I really wish I had secretly filmed them, and I think I could have got away with it since they were so into the task that I doubt they would have noticed! Ernst is amazing; I feel like if I had a problem he would give me a cup of tea and talk Swiss German at me until it was all better. Except he wouldn’t give me tea because he is not English. I feel like I have found a Swiss Grandfather and he is a bloody hilarious one at that. Result!

The curious world of Swiss daytime television

I’ve been home sick for one week now, so you could describe me as a Swiss daytime television expert. Something I am obviously incredibly proud of.
Here are the things you miss out on if you have a job; aka things I have seen on TV this week:
- A cow trying in vain to give birth, taking too long. A vet and two student vets attempting to pull the calf out manually, taking too long. Calf dying (well, I didn’t actually see that bit, since it happened inside the cow). A vet and two student vets slicing open said cow and pulling out a dead calf.
- A woman breast-feeding in an advert for baby powder milk. Having lived for quite a while in continental Europe, I’ve grown used to seeing women’s breasts advertising shampoo on a billboard. This only shocked me because I thought there were so many anti-breast-feeding-in-public people about. Perhaps they all have jobs and don’t watch daytime television.
- Enough poor English on CNN to last me a lifetime. Where do they find their presenters for goodness sake?
- A teenage mother shouting at her mother after she insisted that Friday night was the only night she wouldn’t look after her daughter’s child. Daughter complained then that she had no free time. Mother said welcome to motherhood. They made up, predictably, and then the mother decided to treat her irresponsible daughter to a trip to the solarium. As if she wasn’t orange enough already.
- Peer Steinbruck, the German Minister of Finance, talking angrily about money going missing in Switzerland and Liechtenstein. I have never seen this man smile, but then I found this photo of him! What on earth is a politician doing making hand paintings? Curious.
- A hippy looking couple being made over from hideous crumpled tie-dye outfits, to crisp, Goths. Interesting indeed.
- A penguin eeyoring like a donkey.
Unsurprisingly I am looking forward to returning to work soon.

Pretty as a postcard

I was buying a card for my Grandmother the other day; something to cheer her up. I was in a small local shop, and I noticed then, alongside the normal postcards of snowy Swiss mountains, trains, cows and cathedrals, there was a postcard of Altstetten; my little neighbourhood. I found this a little amusing, and I bought it purely because I think my Grandmother would like to see the neighbourhood where I am living. It made me wonder; what deems something worthy of printing a postcard with it on? Is it the number of tourists that visit the place? The density of hotels and guest-houses?
I never saw a postcard of the neighbourhood I lived in Calais; if one had existed I would not have sent it as friends would probably have sent an emergency helicopter to escort me out of the grim-looking place; the France that you only normally saw on the news during riots. There were not many in Valenciennes; but it was not a tourist destination. In Reggio Emilia, there were very few; it is such a beautiful town; more beautiful in my opinion than Venice; purely because it is infinitely more real; more full of Italians and their lives than the museum city on water. Yet, because Reggio Emilia tended to be bypassed by tourists, for the simple fact that it has not been marketed particularly for tourism, the task of finding a postcard to send to family or friends was tricky. Yet Reggio Emilia is simply beautiful, in my opinion.
But is something postcard-worthy simply because it is touristy? I think people should sending postcards of places that people might want to see; not places everyone has seen already. People’s neighbourhoods, thought-evoking graffiti found by a café where a friend had coffee, the local street gang; things that actually say something about the trip…
Above are the postcards I would perhaps have sent from the places I have lived…

(in random order: Reggio Emilia, Calais, Altstetten Zurich and Valenciennes)

The picture of Via Volta in Reggio reminds me of wandering around the streets of Reggio Emilia, without a map, just discovering beautiful little streets, chapels and shops full of delicious looking local delicacies.

The burned-out car in Calais reminds me of the challenges of teaching children who grow up with that landscape as a normality, for whom it is entirely normal to hear sirens all night, to wake up and find there has been a fire in their neighbour's flat. It was really a rough place, and one that I would not like to live in again, but I had an amazing ten months there and wouldn't change my experience of 'la ZUP.'

The station in Altstetten, in snow. This actually reminds me of flat-hunting in December; when I found myself on a number of occasions walking down dark streets in snowstorms, clutching a print-out from google maps.

A square in Valenciennes; this is not the big square; the Place d'Armes, but a calmer one a few streets away, where a great cafe put tables and chairs outside in the spring and summer, and the Polish lady would hang local art on the walls. The cafe had perhaps the smallest toilet I have ever been to; you had to go in, sit on the toilet and put your legs either side of the seat in order to close the door, and as you sat your nose almost touched the door.

A Japanese Routine...by Paula

My wonderful friend Paula wrote this about her life in Japan and I think it was worthy of a blog spot...

Thought you might be interested in what daily life is like in Japan for me.

Daily routine Monday to Friday. I wake up at 7:30 and get dressed. I live in a parking space - literally, that is the size of my apartment. I love it though, its easy to keep clean and find stuff and I have decorated it mostly peach. Although most of my friends sleep on futons, I have a sofa that unfolds into a bed (which I didn't realise for the first three months!), so I sleep on that. My main room (aka bedroom/living room/computer room etc) has one wall as a window which is great in the warm weather (now to November) but proved a little chilly in the winter (and by chilly I mean FREEZING!). The thing to do in Japan is have a table that has a built in heater under it. You put a big blankety duvet thing over the table, turn it on, slip your legs under and roast slowly. Its fabulous, but I can no longer justify using it in the spring as it's up to about 20 degrees already.I live on the 6th floor (although there is no 4th floor and no 4th numbered apartment as the word for 4 is the same as the word for death!). So I race down in the lift at 7:50 to get a tram from across the road. Sometimes I run into (not literally) my neighbour who is New Zealand/Taiwanese. There are about 10 westerners living in the building. The tram takes me to the train station (which is halfway to my school). And I walk the other 10 minutes to school. I could cycle it quicker but you can't cycle in the rain or snow so I haven't been able to recently but I think as of the new term (next week) I will start again. My normal school is a middle school so the students are between 12 and 15. There are 750 students (so its one of the biggest in my area) and about 60 teachers. As soon as I walk in I change into my indoor shoes (can't be traipsing outdoors dirt into the school). I rush to be at my desk by 8:15 (this is by far the hardest part of my job). I sit next to the head English teacher who is about 55. She is a real tough cookie who is always the first to react to a problem and she is really good to me. I bring my laptop into school where there is conveniently a wireless network so that I can run both my laptop and my iTouch. :)I normally teach about 3 classes a day. This involves me escorting the regular English teacher to the lesson, bowing with the students, doing greetings and then standard lesson stuff that is meant to looke educational. I have to make worksheets and stuff. Generally it all goes smoothly (except the one time I had my zip undone!). The teachers range from help to hinderance. The students generally are still mastering 'I like baseball' so there's not much room for experimentation. They do come up with some gems though: One student wrote about his summer vacation to the seaside and ended it with: lets enjoy be octopusses together. It made me soo happy. I get lunch at school with all the other teachers. this means that I pick up a tray from the kitchen area in our staffroom and carry it to my desk. It generally comprises of a vegetable soup, some small fish and veg, and a bowl of rice. And always a carton of milk. Its generally delicious. We all eat the same thing and then clear our trays and stack them at the front of the kitchen. Some days we get strawberries too :) The students eat the same thing as we do. They eat in their homeroom classrooms and the homeroom teacher eats with them. After lunch I generally succeed in passing the 3 or so hours by studying Japanese and reading the times online. I think I told you that I write for and edit the local JET community newspaper here so I also try and get a bit of that done during the day. At about 3 the students all clean the school. They have tiny little cloths that they race up and down the corridor with. It is extraordinary. They LOVE it!In the afternoon most kids stay until 6 or so doing club activities. Like baseball or brassband. Every student does something. I, however, leave school at 4. I go for a run around the park near my house (it has a zoo in it!) for about half an hour after work, but I think that will have to change soon as it will be baking by that point in the afternoon from April. I get home about half past 4 and make a toasted cheese sandwich as I walk in (the advantage of having your kitchen in your front hallway :). I normally have something to do in the evenings. I eat with friends at least twice a week and I have a Japanese lesson on Wednesdays. I cook (microwave) my own dinner about once a week, if that. I have 2 visiting school, which are both primary school. These are loads more fun and I am good friends with the two women I teach with there. The kids are FANTASTIC at English and love it and me. They point at my eyes and my hair and love how round my head is. The lessons tend to be games in various guises so I basically am a clown in these lessons. I love primary schools. I come home with my pockets full of acorns and origami hearts.