European adventures

Tonibler and Beau Marais

2010-07-10T12:57:00.000+01:00

There are apparently quite a few Kosovan children wandering around with Tony Blair’s name. This cracks me up; these kids will undoubtedly go into the big wide world at some point in their lives and tell people merrily that they were named after Tony Blair. And this will cause some amusement I imagine, since their names are not Tony Blair but Tonibler. If you read that in a different way it sounds like Toe Nibbler.Read the full article here.

It reminds me of a pupil I taught in Calais who put his hand up and in thick Ch’ti asked me ‘Madame, Madame, vous aimez le Beau Marais’ (the hideous council estate where I was teaching, living and where burning cars was the favourite pastime). To which I diplomatically responded ‘Oui oui, biensur’ then I went on about how it was a fun place to live (the children were unable to read, so definitely incapable of reading between the lines; by fun I meant ‘damnright dodgy and fairly horrific’). All the kids looked baffled and giggled because I clearly had not understood what the question. Little Pierre (except he was probably an Ahmed) has actually asked me if I liked Bob Marley. Except he had frenchified the name to the extent that it sounded like Beau Marais.

It is one thing that never ceases to amuse me; the localisation of people’s names in a foreign language. A British friend called Ruth who lives in France has the dilemma of whether she introduces herself as Rooth using a sound she knows the other person cannot make, or to frenchify her name to Root. Japanese and Chinese students I have taught in the past choose an English name, but it seems no new names books have been published since about 1940 as they all choose names like Gertrude or Doris.

Names, huh. Curious stuff. Nothing is funnier than teaching a class of kids and having a Fanny and a Willy in your class. Classic. Actually making them sit next to each other and asking them questions is also pretty funny. Poor kids.

Wavin' Flags

2010-07-03T14:18:00.000+01:00

I've got increasingly excited about the World Cup. I'm not into football, (and certainly not the spoilt, cocky and evidently quite incapable English team), but Switzerland is a great place to enjoy such an international tournament. Every apartment block is now adorned with flags. Obviously there are the Swiss flags; but they tend to be there all year round and also decorate rock faces, pavements, baseball caps and anything else that might need a little Swissifying... but there are flags from pretty much every nation that has been involved in the World Cup. Where I live, there are mainly Portuguese and Italians (although their flags came down pretty quickly), and in some neighbourhoods, the St George's cross hangs from balconies. The trick to avoid racist attacks or accusations of being a bloody auslander is to hang the Swiss flag alongside your nation's colours.

The excitement of watching a televised game in a bar here is that you can pretty much guarantee that there will be people from both team's countries present, (unless you head to a bar called Mama Afrika like I did last night for the Ghana game.), so the atmosphere is awesome. So, football really can be a great experience...I think I had let those hooligans back home put me off perhaps.

Pimp my Brixton

2010-05-29T19:04:00.000+01:00

A bit of urban architecture and renovation in Brixton. Lovely.

The girl with one shoe

2010-05-13T17:58:00.000+01:00

One thing that is very noticeable in France is that you cannot walk around in Flip Flops (unless you’re at the beach) in any season, without every Tom, Dick and Harry dropping their lower jaw in aw, disgust, or perhaps bafflement. This is a strange thing for me; Flip Flops are my favoured footwear unless there is 7cm of snow on the ground. I remember wandering through the streets of Calais with my then bearded friend Stevie in his sandals, me in my flip flops (even with lovely painted toe-nails), and we elicited quite a lot of jaw drop (even though Calais is a seaside town).

Switzerland, it seems, has similar issues with feet.

I injured my right foot at work on Tuesday (Switzerland is not as safe as it pretends to be; the wall fell onto it) and had to go and get it x-rayed. It was raining heavily, thunder rumbling the skies, and Zurich was under a giant puddle. I had worn ballet pumps to work, and because of the swelling and the cut on my foot, I could not wear the right shoe after the incident in the office, so I took it off. I hobbled with one shoe to the tram stop; the doctor’s had no more crutches and all the pharmacies were closed for the night.

It is astonishing first of all that no-one helps you onto and off trams when you are clearly struggling, and wearing only one shoe, (the old trams here have huge steps to get into them), and secondly that people look at you like you are absolutely bloody bonkers, and wearing only one shoe, even when they can see your foot is swollen to the size of an elephant turd, and you are clearly in quite considerable pain (or heavily constipated; it’s the same face).

I feel like my journey home with one shoe on made me see Zurich from a very different light. Or perhaps it just saw me in a different light. Either way, if you intend to rob a bank, I recommend you wear shoes, otherwise you’ll stick out like a sore thumb and will instantly spotted.

[ˈɛɪjaˌfjatlaˌjœːkʏtl]

2010-04-20T20:51:00.000+01:00

Get your tongue around a volcano
In answer to my afterthought below; check out the link above.

What Eyjafjallajökullv teaches us about travel.

2010-04-19T12:58:00.000+01:00

Returning from a weekend in Milan, I shared the train with a lot of people who were returning from far flung corners of the earth and being forced to complete their long-haul trip over land. It was announced repeatedly over the tannoy in Milano Centrale that all trains to Northern Europe where full until Friday 23rd March. I don’t see this as an entirely bad thing (although admittedly I don’t have a flight booked until two weeks time, when hopefully high winds will have blown the culprit volcanic dust away, and the eruption will have stopped); the volcanic cloud is creating many adventures, it is reinventing (temporarily) travel. People are not just going to a place and returning. They are going to a place and have to get creative about their return journey. Living in the centre of Europe it is quite common to go by train to another country, but I imagine for many of the Brits stranded, they will be taking their first trip across European borders on trains.

People are travelling, as opposed to going from A to B and back. Strangers are exchanging stories in full train carriages, they are discovering the humanity of train travel, and its contrast to the sterility of identical airport lounges and cramped planes. I am guilty of treating air travel like shuttle buses; it is all too easy to hop on a plane to visit some friends. You go with a purpose and rarely see anything outside what you intend to. Train travel has an eventual purpose, but it is so much more about the journey, and the people, and the places you pass through. There was a triumphant cheer of the group at the neighbouring table as we drew into Zurich HB last night. Doubtlessly, a city few had visited before had transformed into a milestone, and they were going to have the chance to scratch its surface with a group of fellow travellers, before continuing their journey north.

Perhaps I am romanticising, but I wonder how many new friendships, new discoveries, new projects this Eyjafjallajökull cloud is inspiring across Europe.

As an afterthought, how the hell do you pronounce Eyjafjallajökull?

It's that time of year again

2010-04-13T21:40:00.000+01:00

Lunch on a jetty by the lake in early April.

Einfach wunderbar!

Swiss psychitsophrenia

2010-04-11T10:34:00.003+01:00

Switzerland ranks fourth highest in Europe for suicide rates, behind Hungary, Finland and Belgium (in that order). There is one thing that strikes you even after just living or even visiting the country for a short while, and that is the fact that if you don't conform, you have a bloody hard time of it. Swiss society, more than anywhere else I have thus far experienced, is based on money. Money equals success. Many openly discuss salaries, and most cover themelves head to toe in the most expensive brands. This applies not just to the Gucci's and suchlike, but also to the Mammut and North Face and Peak Perfomance outdoor kit. A simple unlabelled t-shirt for a hike just will not do for the Swiss.
A scene on my tram commute shocked me this week. A lady; not the mentally ill, drunk, Parisian metro type, but rather the mother of two point four children and an admin job genre, started verbally attacking another completely innocent commuter. The trams (and particularly the new ones) are cramped at peak times, particularly if you have anything more than a small handbag to transport. The victim was quietly reading her French novel, with her handbag on her lap, and a small sports holdall between her legs on the floor. The lady opposite joined at the next stop and started to shout at the reading woman; if you need so much room on the trams then you should take a taxi, where do you expect me to put my legs, tut tut, huff huff. (And vociferous rants sound all the more nasty in thick Swiss German of course). The reading woman, who was as shocked as I was at this rather unnecessary outburst (there were other seats avaible that the angry woman could have sat at).
So I have a theory about the Swiss (I hate generalisations of course, but when you see similar things so often, you do start to wonder...). The theory is that if there is one tiny thing that is not right, or wobbles their rigid daily routine, they go completely AWOL. The Zurich commute is a far cry from the stressful London underground journies. It is safer than a stroll on an Italian pavement. I guess if you know no different, a woman having the cheek to transport her sports kit on public transport is massively inconvenient. You have to give up that extra 50cm of space for your cute little NavyBoot pumps, and you're obliged to hold your Chloe handbag that little bit closer to your cashmere sweater; having to hide the label that displays your wealth.
Coming back to the suicide thing; I think that perhaps if you're not a fan of only living by the strict societal rules of Swiss life, and only doing your recycling until 7.30pm, and not showering after 10pm, and so on, then life is tough. It's a slightly different ball game as an Auslander of course, but it is easy to see that if seemingly normal people kick off on a tram about a sports bag, there is a certain level of oppression and pressure to do everything according to the book.
Thank God I'm an Auslanderin and am therefore quite used to not living by the rules!

Travel gaffs

2010-03-28T20:58:00.000+01:00

I seem to travel quite a bit, and therefore believe that it is entirely normal to have had some cock-ups, some of which verge on catastrophe. I’m now accumulating quite an impressive list.

1. Missing a flight by one week; made worse by the three hours sleep I had managed the night before, the huge amount of mojitos consumed the night before, and the fact that it turned into a bit of a race to get back to Switzerland before my parents arrived in Switzerland. Did manage it, about £100 later (quite a bargain considering), and no tears, although it was very nearly a heart attack as the consequent rush left me with no time to eat or drink.

2. Booking the flights the wrong way round. Only realising when checking in online. Rebooking expensively.
(Interestingly both the first points happened with Easyjet flights; perhaps a sign that one should not travel with them ever!)

3. Having to spend an entire night in a café to avoid paying for an hours cab ride in the middle of the night having missed the last train. Coincidentally, the café that I stayed in with a friend is a bit of a cultural wonder, the Lillois equivalent of Café Flore; where the profs from the city’s universities gather at 6 in the morning to eat onion soup. Didn’t quite believe that story until I saw it, through sleep-deprived eyes.

4. Taking a chocolate cock through security. To be fair, I think that the security guard was a little more embarrassed than I was when she made the discovery. I found the whole affair ridiculously hilarious.

5. Asking my French host family to pass me the condoms at breakfast, having guessed (incorrectly, I soon found out) the word for ‘jam.’ I had thought that it would be similar to one of the English words for jam, chose preserve, Frenched it up a bit and then got it well and truly wrong.

6. Been chased down the street by a drunk tramp in Verona. Not just any drunk tramp, but a drunk tramp shouting ‘Pikatchu, pikatchu, pikatchu’

7. Getting food poisoning and sunstroke in Hungary and making the mistake of telling the particularly unhelpful doctor that I could not swallow tablets. “Then I stick it in your arse” (Hungarians are generally not so good at English). I sat out the food poisoning and the sun stroke.

8. Falling off a horse in a French orchard, rolling under a bush in an attempt to avoid being further injured (I broke my rib), and then being collected in a very shoddy Fiat Panda; which I am convinced injured me further.

9. Losing the dog of the family for whom I was au-pairing, chasing it round the streets in an attempt to catch it before it got squashed by a speeding, shaky and battered Italian car. And calling said dog in German, because the dog was never spoken to in Italian (something to do with the S sounds in German which dogs can hear better, which must mean that all Italian dogs are quite confused.).

Swiss Seasons

2010-03-24T20:31:00.005Z

One thing I adore about Switzerland (or perhaps about most places that are not the UK), is that you really get to enjoy the different seasons since they don't just merge into one big damp grey mass.

This picture above was taken in Zurich on March 11th.

And this one above on 23rd March after a picnic dinner by the lake.

Why do they wear hats?

2010-03-22T21:07:00.002Z

A Swiss take on East London

2010-03-15T20:43:00.002Z

It is always interesting to hear what people have to say about places that you are familiar with; to get the outsider’s eye. I have commented before how I often feel I have acquired this outsider’s eye even in the country I grew up in, but I still obviously have a different level of familiarity than that of a tourist on a flying visit. Having landed at City Airport, I was then standing next to three Swiss university students who had been on the same flight from Zurich. They were gently mocking the ‘very British’ accent and doing what is often amusing to do in a foreign country; repeating the announcements of the station names in their best British. In my experience it is more amusing in a country where they consider one vowel sufficient in a ten-letter word, such as the Netherlands.
The girls on the DLR were clearly excited about their trip to London. In their polka-dot mackingtosh, Converse trainer combo, they actually looked more London that Zurich. They observed that the brick houses were cute; they would love to live in a brick house with a coloured door. Then they spotted the more common sombre sky-high rise blocks of East London; ‘can you imagine living there?’ said one, as she took out her pink Pentax to immortalise the multi-coloured laundry hanging out to dry on the balconies-come-entrance halls of these blocks. I realised that I evidently turn a blind eye to the sad poverty of it all; you grow used to such sights in London in a way that you never do in Zurich.
The girls were excited by a red bus. I found that quite endearing. It is so interesting to notice what other people find fascinating, for them to point out that in fact, little brick houses are quite appealing. They said less favourable things about the torrent of rain that was bucketing from the heavens, but I guess they’ll still get used to that.

Mind the Gap

2010-03-02T20:26:00.004Z

I am beginning to believe that the United Kingdom is inhabited by mindless idiots. Or is it just that those running it believe it to be. Or is it?

(I think the BNP might argue the UK is being stuffed full of idiots, but that is an entirely different matter.)

When I return to the UK and hop onto a tube, a bus, a train, I feel my stress levels rise rapidly, sometimes to the extent that I worry steam might be coming out of my ears. It is simply impossible to relax on a train, for example. Public transport in the UK is undeniably linked to social class in the majority of cases, to a much greater extent that in other European countries, such as France, Spain and definitely Switzerland. So if you are not a fan of those groups of louder than average Elizabeth Duke jewelled Everton supporters, then trains are certainly not for you.

What bothers me more is the treatment you get, as a paying passenger, from the tannoy. Mind the Gap. They don't put similar signs up on limestone pavements in Yorkshire, and really, you have to be an ejjit not to mind the gap, but really, does it need to be announced every second minute, several decibels outside of your comfort level?

We are approaching Diss. If you are leaving the train at Diss, please take care to take all your belongings with you. (Oh no we're not approaching Diss, we have to wait outside the station for ten minutes while the driver of the train (that was supposed to have made a space for us at Diss station) takes a leak.) It is notable that there is often a pause between the announcement that the train is approaching the station and the name of the town itself, while the train driver wipes his Upper Crust sandwich crumbs from his daily script and attempts to pronounce the town name, making sure to drop all 'h' and 't's so that he does not sound to snobby to the proles aboard.

Train travel in theory should be a pleasure. In the UK, I fear, it will never become that the choice beyond those who have no choice; it is geared towards those who have no other way, which only pushes those who have a choice to choose an option that does not make them feel like a degenerate.

Surely I do not need reminding to mind the gap every 120 seconds? And what's this you keep telling me about a heightened security risk? And why do I need to know that eleven people have broken their hips falling down these very stairs in the last 365 days? And do I really need telling that the doors are closing?

And how the hell do I get you to shut up dear Mr Tannoy Man?

British polyglots

2010-02-19T21:30:00.002Z

http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2010/feb/12/polyglot-language-teaching-demand

The future is not necessarily in language teaching in primary schools, as Ruth Collins suggests, but rather in highlighting the relevance and the context of foreign languages to blinkered islanders. Make school exchanges easier, emphasise fluency and enjoyment rather than grammatical perfection. I think that until the UK ceases to see itself as a superior island, an 'exception culturelle,' languages in the UK will never really catch on.

The BBC could help enormously by showing films in VO, with subtitles rather than horrendous dubbing, and radios in the UK should provide a platform for non-English language music. Gordon Brown could help by ensuring that policies follow on through from primary school to secondary school. Exposure is the key; and exposure to foreign cultures and languages is fairly non-existent in the UK (with the exception of the US), compared with the inter-cultural melange you see and feel on the European continent.

Kinder leicht!

Winter in Zurich

2010-02-03T20:11:00.003Z

Pestalozziweg, Zurich. Looking towards the Uetliberg.

Werdinsel, Zurich.

Totter, totter, totter.

2010-02-03T19:53:00.002Z

Zurich's Bahnhofstrasse leads to Paradeplatz, where the mighty (perhaps less so these days) banks have their headquarters. Where countless men in unimaginative black suits, mackingtosh jackets and dull shoes trundle in to the sombre looking buildings early in the morning, and where they daundle out of after dark, leather briefcase in hand.
It makes sense that the street that leads to this money pot is also paved with gold. Dior, Luis Vuitton, Prada, Gucci and other pretentious places where they deem themselves so trendy they need door staff. I tend to find the customers of these sorts of places rather amusing at the best of times; they dangle their hideously shiny silver handbags on their elbows, they drag their Gucci-coated anorexic grey dog on its pink ribboned lead and they totter along on the uneven paving on their uncomfortably angular shoes, into one guarded shop. Out of one guarded shop. Into the next. Out of the next. Totter totter totter.
In my mind, many of these women are the wives or lovers of Russian oligarchs who are off in some less ordered corner of the world making a 'Deal.' I have no idea if they are indeed wives of oligarchs. I don't particularly care; they look daft, whatever they are.
I have even less respect for these women since last week when large graceful flakes of pure white snow danced their way down onto Zurich's pavements at a speed and volume quicker and greater than Zurich's fleet of snowploughs. It was beautiful. The women tottering on their high heels in the snow were not. But they have been practising balancing their handbags on their elbows so they are pretty good at that, even in the snow in their overpriced shoes.

A different approach to responsibility

2010-02-01T21:11:00.003Z

March 7th. Six days before my twin sister will marry. Sunday. Paris. I will, in theory run a half marathon. It should be quite a pleasant trip. I will meet family, we'll enjoy some good food and a little wine, perhaps nip around on a Velib', if the machines will take our non-French cards as deposit.

A place on the race costs 36 €. A reasonable sum, and I think you get a free t-shirt. A medical signature on the 'certificat medical' which all runners are obliged to present when they collect their numbers will cost me 450CHF. The doctor must, according to some seemingly archaic French law, sign a form that states that the running will not fall over and die during the race. I present the form, having fought to get an approved translation of the form in German, to my (very) Swiss doctor (although this is an international event, the organisers did not think so far as to fully translating the website. Mainly leaving the most important pages and necessary documents untranslated), and I attempt to make a joke in my stinted Swiss German about how ridiculous French bureaucracy is.

He instead turns the joke on me. Starts to go through a list of tests I will need in order for him to judge me fit to run a half marathon. I was expecting him to ask me if I smoke, drink and exercise. Instead he ticked, he named tests (which he then translated into English after seeing my puzzled expression, and the translations were not much help), he ticked again, he named more tests. 'Were you expecting it to come to this much?' he asked, with that cocky smile that the Swiss often have when they (often) demand money for something. I said in my best German 'I had no flipping idea!'

My brother's doctor in the UK has refused to sign the form, since he cannot judge, after almost a decade of medical study and perhaps triple that medical experience, whether my brother, who has a job where fitness is a strict requirement, can safely run a half marathon.

We will fake the signature and stick our fingers up in the face of French bureaucracy. I simply do not understand how it is up to a doctor to judge whether you should be running a half marathon. If you collapse in a heap on the second kilometre, then it is almost entirely your fault for stubbonly ignoring your body. If you are knocked over by an arrogant Frenchman in a beret waving a string of garlic in your face on his bone-shaker, then it may well not have been your fault, but there isn't much you can do about it.

Life has to happen without stupid pieces of paper that graduates of the Grandes Ecoles are paid to create and then fossilise so the stupidity can remain for decades and decades without a single bonhomme parisien questioning it.

Vive le non-signing of les formulaires debiles. (Et le franglais, bien sur!)

Old world, new eyes

2010-01-25T20:48:00.003Z

Bizarre as it may sound, I find that as I return to places that I knew well as a child or even more recently, I now see them through the eyes rather of a tourist than a local...

This is the village where I went to primary school, gym club, Bonfire Night...

The picture captures the feeling; I have never seen such a beautiful sunset over the village green.

No comment

2009-12-02T18:52:00.001Z

A Swiss banking paradox

2009-11-18T21:10:00.003Z

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'

2009-11-03T20:10:00.003Z

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

2009-10-24T11:44:00.004+01:00

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

2009-10-24T08:25:00.002+01:00

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

2009-10-06T11:59:00.002+01:00

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

Poi by a lake

2009-10-05T20:23:00.003+01:00

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

Clever dogs

2009-09-11T19:14:00.001+01:00

Dogs can apparently read in Switzerland...

Reading the Qur'an in the dark

2009-09-06T13:27:00.003+01:00

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

2009-08-22T15:48:00.002+01:00

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...

2009-08-02T13:31:00.002+01:00

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

2009-07-30T20:30:00.002+01:00

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

Panoramaweg

2009-07-27T19:22:00.003+01:00

Beautiful mountains near Elm, GL.

Zuritaliano - strano aber lustig

2009-07-14T20:53:00.000+01:00

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

2009-07-06T21:08:00.002+01:00

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

2009-06-06T17:44:00.003+01:00

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

Freitag shop

2009-06-06T17:29:00.003+01:00

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

2009-06-06T13:38:00.002+01:00

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

2009-05-06T20:16:00.002+01:00

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

2009-04-24T20:55:00.003+01:00

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

2009-04-14T20:23:00.002+01:00

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

Images from the South Downs, East Sussex, UK

2009-04-14T20:02:00.005+01:00

Ernst.

2009-04-13T21:38:00.001+01:00

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

2009-03-31T15:29:00.002+01:00

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

2009-03-29T12:42:00.006+01:00

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

2009-03-25T10:47:00.002Z

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.

Mixing in the melting pot

2008-12-20T16:29:00.002Z

Imagine the scene; a young Saudi man in a normal late bar in Manchester. Now widen your definition of 'normal' to include transvestites, lesbians kissing (with tongues), and punks. As I said; a normal late bar in Manchester. Now imagine that the Saudi guy is about 21, has never left his country, and has never done more than sniff alcohol.

Result: an absolutely hammered guy who doesn't really know where to look, where to touch or indeed, what the fu** is going on, living a fantastic experience.

The point is, that on a recent work tour of the UK, involving a coach load of unlikely international companions (Algerians, Ukranians, Saudis, Qataris, Bulgarians, Israelis, Romanians, Iranians...) who we were taking to visit language schools, it was fantastic to see all sorts of people mixing, trying new things, experiencing British culture. The poor drunken Saudi is a little unfair example, since the temptation of lesbians and alcohol is clear for someone who comes from a country where the existence of both is pretty much denied and consumption (hmm) of either severely punished!

It was fantastic to see how humans get on. Admitedly the Russians were not open in arms to the two Ukranians, and I heard some rather shocking opinions from many during the week, but to discuss extremist Islamic terrorists with Muslims, to discuss Putin with Russians and Ukranians and to tour Britain while doing all this, is a truely unique experience, that leads you to wonder who it is starting all these wars around the world when people get on so well!

To hear the different opinions on the UK was also incredible; what seems like an entirely normal thing to a Brit is fascinating to others; how a curry in Manchester is the real thing, how many words we have in British English for various types of rain, the collegiate university sytem, the food (and actually most comments were entirely positive!), and even zebra crossings!

We weren't able to count the nationalities or the languages we had between the coach load of us that week, but I'm confident it was over 20 nationalities, and probably double the amount of languages; a little, smiling representation of the world in a green coach on the M25!

Lucerne Marathon 2008

2008-10-26T20:30:00.003Z

I can’t remember the last time I got up at six on a Sunday - perhaps when I was about 7 to get to the airport for my first ski holiday. Anyway, today I got up at six and made porridge. Then I ran 21 kilometres. Then I came home, made a cup of tea and had a bath. Then I lay on my bed reading the Guardian weekly. I’ve had an awesome Sunday.

I’d not really been into running. I’d tried it a couple of times before – on a beach in the Vendee, France where I was working one summer, but it didn’t really fit in with the work hard, play even harder lifestyle of a kids rep. I also gave it a go while at university in Sheffield, but the town’s seven hills and grim climate aren’t exactly encouraging. Switzerland, however, with its verdant hills, snow-capped peaks and photogenic lakes is a good place to start. It helped enormously to have two running buddies who acted as motivators and that also meant that a running session felt more like a gossip fest than marathon training.

A week before my first race (and again my only experience of racing is coming third in the cross-country at school one year and then being about a lap behind the other competitors in the inter-school 1500 metres), I had to abandon a run due to knee pain. Oh, and my ankle was a little sore too. I could barely make it up the eight flights of stairs that separate my front door and my flat door. I thought my hopes were squashed.

Already on leaving my flat this morning, the ambience of the town was completely changed. Besides the usual herds of camera-clutching tourists trying to find the famous Lion monument, there were lots of fit-looking people in Lycra. The buzz as we approached the start line was pretty cool – people on mini-stages leading group warm-ups, photographers looking for a good shot, families looking for a good spot to watch the action, people queuing for a pee in a plastic box (In Switzerland, Austria and Hungary I have noticed that Portaloos as we call them in the UK are called Toi Toi (/toy/) because of their manufacturers. I think it is a funny name, and they have bizarrely chosen hearts to dot the Is.)

So, as I said, I have never completed a half-marathon before, but there are many reasons why it is fun to do such a ridiculous thing on a Sunday in Switzerland...

- You are egged on by Alpenhorns, Guggen Musik and live bands, featuring men in the Swiss equivalent of lederhosen.

- Supporters take the enormous cow bells from their chalet walls, dust them off and ring them...cow bells make a beautiful noise, and they are quite good to run to. I have had some difficulty trying to persuade someone to run alongside me whilst training ringing a cow bell, unfortunately.

- The view is (normally) rather beautiful. Sadly we were treated to the typical Luzern greyness, so saw very little of this view, but with a bit of luck, or alternatively a strong imagination, you can enjoy it!

- The generally accepted chant is ‘Hopp Hopp.’ For example during the World cup, it was ‘Hopp Schwizz’ and today it was ‘hopp hopp hopp.’ As an Anglophone I found it a little silly because it would surely not be possible to hop around a marathon, and I certainly didn’t want to try.

- You are timed to the second and sent along very specific routes and you must do very specific things at specific times. Basically the Swiss were practising their favourite hobbies – organising something and someone, and they do do it well!

All this amounts to a really awesome ambience, lots of tired happy people and a lot of fun! I did a lot better than I was expecting to, coming in at 2 hours and 7 minutes. I had a great day. I can barely walk on my left foot at the moment but I am hoping to sleep that off. Maybe I did ‘hopp’ after all!

The photos are from my training routes - and the view I should have been able to see today if there hadn't been a thick layer of fog hiding the mountains!

The Art of Travel

2008-10-02T10:11:00.003+01:00

I have just finished reading Alain de Botton's 'The Art of Travel' which is an absolute must-read for any person who enjoys moving about around the world, or even around their own back garden. De Botton analyses why we travel, why we travel to where we travel, how we travel, why we feel the way we do when we travel and so on. He draws examples from literature (Flaubert, Pascal, Baudelaire), art (Rubens, Delacroix, Van Gogh), as well as science and his own travels.

On why we fall in love with places, referring to why he loves Amsterdam, he asks;

"Why be seduced by something as small as a front door in another country? Why fall in love with a place because it has trams and its people seldom have curtains in their homes?"

He quotes Pascal in Pensees, 68 " When I consider the small space I occupy and which I see swallowed up in the infinite immesnity of spaces of which I know nothing and which no nothing of me, I take fright and am amazed to see myself here rather than there: there is no reason for me to be here rather than there, now rather than then. Who put me here?"

De Botton mirrors Ruskin's contempt towards travellers who insist on seeing everything in record time; "No changing of place at a hundred miles an hour will make us one whit stronger, happier or wiser."

There is also one final gem, towards the end of the book; quoting De Maistre; "I advise every man to get pink and white bed linen."

However random these thoughts, they all come together into a damn fine read. I bought the book new, asked for a discount at the WHSmith's Paddington Station since the cover was scuffed. The book, appropriately, now looks like a book I have had for a few years; it has been to Milan, to Zurich, to Lucerne, to London and Kent.

Any book written by someone whose name sounds and looks so similar to 'Bottom' is certainly worth reading!

Minature Earth...food for thought.

2008-10-02T10:03:00.002+01:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rvTFKpIaQhM

If the world was made up of only 100 people... this video should be on the curriculum for all school children. Prepare to feel small.

Is this the most beautiful car in the entire world?

2008-09-11T18:05:00.002+01:00

I was invited for a passegiata in one of these beautiful vehicles...since I was alone, no-one really knew where I was, and the men who invited me also asked if I was single, I thought better of it...but I was incredibly tempted!

How not to deal with a broken-down train

2008-09-11T16:04:00.002+01:00

Sometimes you really wish you’d taken a different train. Tuesday was one of those days (and also a day when I had actually contemplated getting an earlier train). What is, on paper, a logistically uncomplicated journey of one hour exactly, ended up taking about three...here’s my account as I sat in the limited shade of Treviglio Ovest train station (nope; I hadn’t heard of it either), avoiding my creepy stalker and sunstroke, wondering how my day would end...

I am currently sat on the platform of Treviglio Ovest, which is, as far as I can tell, a sleepy provincial town. It is not Bergamo, where I had hoped to be an hour ago. However, the shoddy looking train had pulled out of this small station to continue its trip to Bergamo. It stopped. It spluttered. It choked. The air conditioning also stopped (which is when you start to wish that deodorant was a obligation for anyone past puberty). A man in a Trenitalia shirt and jeans scuttled down the dirty overheating carriages with no explanation to his urgency. Another member of staff comes by quickly, and only when asked informs us that the engine has cut off. Great. A broken-down train.

We wait for ten minutes, overheating, blaspheming and wondering what the hell is going on. Then the train rolls backwards a few metres. A few more minutes pass. The train is rolled back into the station we just left. Without any explanation other than “The train is broken, please get off” (no pleases, thanks yous, apologies), we all descend onto platform two. We wait angrily on the platform. Ladies who thus far looked fairly respectable start using words I would never dream of using in Italian, or in any language. No announcement comes telling us what is going on. 5 minutes pass. Still no news. Ten. Nothing. There’s a lot of furious waving of arms, a few ‘ma che paese di merda!’ from disgruntled stranded travellers and a whole bunch of tourists who are even more confused since their Italian vocabulary stretches only to ‘pizza’ and ‘pasta’. Still nothing.

Then, after what seems like a lifetime (and a pretty hot one too; its about 32 degrees) an announcement comes. There will be, ladies and gentlemen, a replacement bus in front of the station in about ten minutes, to take us to Bergamo. There’s a mass stampede via the sottopassagio to the front of the station. In stampedes there is no social hierarchy, no reverence, no altruism. Business men push past nuns, frail grandmothers beat their way past giant black men, all to get to Bergamo.

Half an hour passes and there is no replacement bus service. A couple of buses come, but they are not the replacement service. A few bewildered Asian tourists are taken away on such a bus, unaware of the driver’s verbal protests about not being a train. I swear those were his words; “ma non sono il treno.”

Eventually, a coach turns up, and it is clearly the replacement bus. The only one. The wonderfully efficient and communicative Trenitalia team have organised one bus to replace the whole train. Now, I’m no mathematician, but I know that one coach for about 50 will not be able to take every passenger from a broken down train. Considering the train was very busy, my guess is that there were about 500 people on it. The clever boys of the state railways thought a coach would solve the problem. I checked my calendar thinking maybe it was April Fools Day, since this whole episode had to be a joke. When asked if there would be more buses, the reply, accompanied by a nonchalant shrug of the shoulders, was “we’ll see.”

The fifty most pushy travellers are on the bus (plus, it turns out, quite a few more hiding between baggage and seats), the bus driver gets off the bus in a strop. He lights a cigarette and stands in front of the bus. “I am not going anywhere until everyone is sitting down,” he protests, folding his arms. When he has finished his cigarette, he reboards the coach and walks up and down the aisle. He finds a poor lady who was obviously using a fellow passenger as a seat, or perhaps hiding in the toilet, and ejects her and her huge suitcase from the coach. The coach then departs (about an hour after it was due to arrive) and the majority of the travellers from the broken train are left on the pavement going nowhere.

I then overhear a conversation that there should be a train arriving in a few minutes from Milan to go to Bergamo. If they can succeed in putting it on the other track so it avoids our train currently blocking one half of the station, then it should be here and we can all continue our journey. But it’ll be half an hour late.

At this point, I notice a man in a pink t-shirt is standing very close to me and occasionally taking his eyes of my breasts to look at my face. I do what I learned in primary school and find a family with children to stand next to, because that’s what you’re supposed to do if a stranger scares you, apparently. The man follows me and stands very much in my personal space. I move again, this time next to a lovely looking older man who looks like he has travelled the world. The creep (who looks a bit like one of those E-Fit images you see of criminals on the news) follows me and asks me where I am from. I grunt Switzerland. He asks me if I live in Treviglio. I laugh (but only in my head as I don’t want him to think he is funny) and grunt no. This kind of mundane conversation continues, and I continually try to wander off, but he follows me like a shadow. By this time, after an overheating train, a tiny replacement bus and now a stalker, I am praying that the train arrives immediately.

About 45 minutes after the second train was due, it rolled into the station. The whole crowd pushed their way onto the train and battled for space. The pink t-shirt was just in front of me and I made to get on the train, waited until he had his back to me and then ran down the train on the platform to the front so he didn’t see me. I then found again the nice old man and sat next to him, hoping he would protect me if the pink t-shirt man reappeared.

Finally, after a very long trip, I arrived in Bergamo. I was so desperate for the toilet and so hungry that I stopped in the first cafe I saw, and only then could I start to explore. Luckily, Bergamo was well worth the wait and was one of the most beautiful towns I have been to in Italy, and I had a great day.

Good (British) grub!

2008-08-28T20:36:00.002+01:00

Apart from catching up with friends and family recently in the UK, the best thing about going home was the food. British food is fantastic and I challenge any ignorant fool to claim otherwise, since I know that real British food is up there among the coq au vin, the tapas and the other equally delicious European dishes.

In London I picked up a BLT. Every time I took a scrumptious bite, I let out a little mmm (barely audible for fear of scaring or worrying those picnicking near to me in Hyde Park). The bacon was crispy, not fatty, there wasn’t too much of it. The bread soft, with delicious (and nutritious!) seeds and it tasted homemade. The lettuce was everything you want lettuce to be; fresh, green and with that satisfying crunch noise as you bite into it. The tomatoes were straight from someone’s greenhouse vine. It was a rather spiffing sandwich. Well done England, you’ve done Lord Sandwich proud.

Then I was in a countryside pub, and I spent a good few minutes deciding what to have from the blackboard menu. Steak sandwich? Ploughman’s? Goats cheese salad? Bangers and mash? A whole menu of fantastic fodder. I went for the goats cheese salad – welsh goats’ cheese on crusty bread, with a salsa of fresh tomatoes. Admittedly, the idea of this dish is mighty similar to an Italian bruschetta, or a French salade de chevre chaud, but it was British goats’ cheese, homemade bread and British tomatoes. And even better because we sat outside on a wobbly wooden picnic bench in the beer garden and ate it.

You really are hard pushed to find a pub equivalent anywhere other than in the UK. The thing about our pubs is that there is no pretension. You go there, drink some local beer, eat some (usually) local food and be merry. The nearest I have come across to a good pub in Europe is the Germanic beer halls, but they tend to be a little more regimented; rows of benches laid out, smart waiters come to your table to take your order, no-one shouts ‘time at the bar’ and they don’t tend to have beer gardens.

Obviously, there are still some rather rubbish eateries in the UK. But we should celebrate the culinary diversity of the UK (I also enjoyed a Philippine meal during my trip) and the delicious and often inexpensive food that is offered to us on a plate in the UK.

And, isn’t the fact that we export so many of our cookery programmes and celebrity chefs to the continent proof enough that actually the Europeans (that’s right, even the French) want to eat British?

Le binge-drinking

2008-08-28T15:06:00.002+01:00

http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2008/aug/27/foodanddrink.france

I read this article about ‘le binge drinking’ and I rejoiced! This is something I have argued with many a French person on many an occasion. Those French people tended to get on their high horses and claim, (as is often the case, I have found), moral superiority; its that mythical ‘exception française’ cropping up once again!
My most memorable discussion on alcohol consumption in the UK and in France was at a party in Calais. Most people were fairly well oiled and I believe that the conversation arose because a French guy there believed me to be a lot more drunk than I actually was. Since English girls do not have a fantastic reputation in France, I took up this guy on his invitation for an intelligent discussion, to try and defend the British Female. He claimed that there are more alcoholics in England than in France. I have no idea about the statistics of either country; but I looked around me at the gathering, and counted that half of the French punters were alcoholic according to most definitions of the expression. And this reflects my general experience of two years in France – I met more people with alcohol problems during my time there than when living in the UK. It is worth noting that the Pas-de-Calais does actually have alcohol dependency figures that are higher than the national average (for a number of reasons, but this closely correlates with the higher level of unemployment in the North), but I don’t think my experience is unique.
There certainly are alcohol problems in the UK. But finally it is great to see that people are realising that France is not immune to the same societal problems as the rest of Europe. I think the prevailing attitude (particularly among the British middle classes) that France is socially superior to the UK, with its super gastronomy, its family culture, its je ne sais quoi, is beginning to change. Not that either is better, nor perfect, just incredibly different with a few worrying similarities.

A la tienne!

Kissing Europeans

2008-08-09T16:29:00.002+01:00

There was an interesting article on the Guardian website recently. It was the brilliant photo of a clumsy Gordon Brown embracing a Carla Bruni that drew me to the article. It is true that for a Brit, the question of social kissing (which itself is an odd expression, alluding a little to the concept of a social smoker; someone who lights up when a little tipsy, or when surrounded by people who are smoking), is a tricky one.

In France, it’s relatively easy for a girl. You kiss everyone, male and female, the required amount of ‘bises,’ which depends on your location in the country, and occasionally on your social standing. It is sometimes a little an inconvenient and time-consuming convention; I remember on a school bus once, at each stop children would get on, and they would not sit down until they had made their way along the bus greeting each person. This takes a while, and the bus driver won’t wait, so you could go as far as to say that kissing in France is dangerous!

It isn’t, however, that clear cut. The Guardian article claims that research in Calais confirmed that 50% of the people go in for 2 kisses, and the remainder go in for 3. In my years’ residency in Calais, I did not once come across someone who insisted on trois bises as opposed to the more common two. In the village where I lived during a school exchange in the South-East of France, the custom was three kisses, and yet in Sisteron, where I attended lycee as part of this exchange, the norm was two. It was up to you to decide the cut-off point between the two towns, and to remember who came from where.

Then there’s the man-on-man kissing, which to unaccustomed eyes is a funny sight. Not because I am homophobic, or because I don’t agree with men being affectionate; but it’s really not something you see very often in the UK. To be fair, most French guys have a core group of guy friends they kiss, and with the deprived remainder, a handshake suffices. I cannot imagine British guys, who will usually only go as far as an awkward pat on the back and an ‘alright mate,’ going cheek-to-cheek with their male friends for the sake of greeting each other!

In Italy there’s a lot of kissing too. And also in Spain. Even in Switzerland – even in German Switzerland, where friends (and actually it is only in very informal familiar situations) greet each other with three kisses. So why are we Brits so keen to avoid physical contact? Risk of infection? Social awkwardness? People often ask me “So if you don’t kiss when you greet each other, what do you do?” and I really have to think about it – the answer is, I think, that we simply say hello, and then move onto the conversation (usually about the weather).

So now that I have fully embraced the European kissing culture, my dilemma is that I find it hard to gauge the whole kissing thing in the UK. There are people who kiss. There are people who kiss once. There are others who go for two. But since they don’t wear stickers on there forehead making this clear, you have to guess. I have many more embarrassing kissing experiences in the UK now that I do in Europe, because there simply is no social convention for it yet.

Here's the link to ther article: http://www.guardian.co.uk/science/2008/aug/05/humanbehaviour.familyandrelationships

The difference a few kilometres make to the future of the Earth

2008-08-05T20:38:00.003+01:00

The problem with living in a place like Switzerland is that when you cross a border into another country, you realise that there are a lot of things that you take for granted here. Things like bin men, buses that come on time and whose doors close, clean lakeside beaches and clear signposting. This really isn’t an anti-Italy rant – I really love Italy and most Italians I’ve met are lovely (except for the man who chased me and an Austrian friend through the back streets of Bologna shouting ‘Pikatchu’ at us – but that’s another story all together!). Neither is it a blind praise of Switzerland. It is pure experiential observation.

It is rather easy to live in a bubble in Switzerland, ignorantly believing that everyone, at least in Europe, has PET recycling bins, pays for the amount of waste they generate and takes their own shopping bags to the supermarket rather than taking plastic bags. Yet only a few kilometres away in Italy (and I know that Italy is certainly not the only environmental criminal), searching for a bottle bank is like looking for a needle in a haystack.

Perhaps the most shocking observation from my weekend camping in Lenno on Lake Como was the amount of pollution the public boat services pumped out. Boats left each port of call with a huge filthy putrid black cloud that clung to the water surface and eventually dispersed. The air is filled with the noise of jet skis and power boats, something we are spared of on Vierwaldstatersee. I’m not sure if there are speed regulations on Lake Lucerne, or if people would simply consider you a pretentious arsehole if you were to create such a ruckus in such a beautiful place.

An Italian paradox: Italians love children, but apparently not enough to clean the broken glass and empty containers from the beaches of Lake Como. As far as I am aware, there is quite a high rate of unemployment in Italy – couldn’t these unemployed people clean up a little bit?

On arrival in the beautiful town of Como, we descended into the centre through a little park, which was littered with discarded newspapers, drinks cans and plastic bags. That was the first of our many “This wouldn’t happen in Switzerland.” On departure, Juan nearly fell out of a broken bus door as the delayed bus swung around a corner. So the departing exclamation was identical to that of the arrival.

To me this is one of best things about living in different countries – it makes you question other places, other peoples’ behaviour (and your own.). I really had a super weekend; and Como is beautiful, if a little polluted. The Italian way of life is also beautiful and Italy is wonderful, but the Italians really need to change their attitude towards the environment.

I will keep going to Italy for as long as they continue to make delicious gnocchi, to ride rusty town bicycles and talk with their hands, but I would rather swim in a cold but clean lake in Switzerland than a warm but filthy lake in Italy (even if I can’t have such a good gelato after my dip!).

A fairly good vision of Switzerland from quite a few angles

2008-07-25T14:48:00.001+01:00

http://www.swissworld.org/en/people/

This website appears to know what it is talking about (perhaps more than I do!)

Dancing and ear plugs

2008-07-23T20:29:00.002+01:00

It is slightly discourageing being a musician in Switzerland, I imagine. I have observed on more than one occassion that dancing is not common practice at live concerts, and the wearing of ear plugs is recommended. Now, I may be alone in thinking this, but if I were a musician and I had scribbled songs for hours, tirelessly practised my chords and so on, I would be pretty peeved if punters turned up at my gigs with bits of foam in their ears. And trying to encourage the crowd to clap or to dance is as challenging as drawing blood from a stone.
I have to say though, that those who do dance and clap and ostensibly enjoy themselves are not frowned upon, although you do get a few smiles that could easily pass as sympathy smiles. It's sort of "Aww, bless them having a little bop, don't they look silly. And oh, they're not wearing ear plugs - they'll regret that when they're older."
As a fan of bopping along (usually out of rhythm, but that's not the point), I see live music as an opportunity to wave your arms in the air, wiggle your bum and generally let the music into your body through your ears. Maybe the Swiss have extra 'listening' holes and can therefore afford to block their ears with foam.
Hmm...now I feel like I'm missing out on something!

Learning Swiss German in Switzerland

2008-07-17T19:41:00.003+01:00

I am a huge language geek. I read verb tables in the toilet and stay awake at night wondering about subjunctives and phrasal verbs. Well, not quite. Swiss German is however, rather baffling. It should be pointed out that Swiss German is really not like German at all. Germanophones pain to understand their linguistic cousins, and I find it frankly impossible; Swiss German is unlike any language I have ever come across.
There's a sort of guttural phleghming theme; it's not the most attractive of languages. (The fact that I find it sexy is not a reflection of it's sex-appeal, merely a sign of my madness). Words are often suffixed with -li, making it sound a little childish, similar to when you turn a dog into a doggy in English. However, it cannot be that infantile since I am not entirely convinced that children are able to make such violent sounds with such delicate mouths. That said, they must be, because Swiss German kids are just as chatty as any!
Even more confusing is the scattering of French borrowings such as 'merci' or 'billet' but for French speakers, the wrongly placed phonetic stresses ring in your ears like cow bells (or is that just me?)...And it seems unnatural not to reply 'de rien' to any 'merci.' There is a good side to the French borrowings - you can get away with buying things like ein Billet Retour without having to venture into your German phrasebook.
There is another issue with attempting to master the local language; it's so local that if you nip over to the next valley or town, the version of the language is slightly different, and for those who get accustomed to one dialect of Swiss German will take a while to get used to the Swiss German from another canton.
The final hurdle to learning Swiss German is that the Swiss Germans often speak impecable English. Those same people usually modestly claim that they only speak 'a little' English. Even the staff of Starbucks speak amazing English (which is barely true of Starbucks staff in the UK!)! Most young people have a great grasp of English, and are usually happy to use it, which is a refreshing change from France where the majority would rather eat dirt than converse in a foreign language.
So, if you're prepared to jump those hurdles, Swiss German is worth a try. It's more amusing than most languages to learn, since you can always pretend you're talking in your tiny valley dialect and that is the only reason the natives can't understand you!
Grab a Gipfeli and a coffee and set to learning one of the coolest languages in the world!

Flying upside down round and round...Acrobatic flight

2008-07-04T18:37:00.005+01:00

The view from the top of Mount Pilatus is pretty impressive; the view of Switzerland from an open top airplane is mighty impressive. I had the chance to fly above one of the most beautiful countries in the world. Getting into the stunning aeroplane, you have to be careful not to press on the wrong parts of the plane: and you realise that the machine in which you are about to do fairly ridiculous things in is in fact fairly flimsy. I was a little concerned that I was getting into a large yellow paper aeroplane.

Once strapped in (with parachute and overalls - looking like I was auditioning for Top Gun, although not looking quite as sexy and fearless), you wait patiently while the pilot climbs in behind and does the final checks. The passenger sits at the front, facing the black box as a sombre reminder that your death would be recorded should something go wrong.

Since the nose of the aeroplane gets in the way of seeing straight ahead, we taxied along the runway by zig-zagging. The take off was smooth and very calm. It is amazingly serene and I felt surprisingly calm at this point; gliding along into the gorgeous evening sky. Tilting slighty to the left and the right so you can get a good view of what is beneath you is also surprisingly calm.

But serenity cannot last forever and the pilot was getting a little impatient to do some twists and turns. Luckily the pilot was fantastic- he explained how everything would work and told me before we did anything so I was as prepared as you can be for flying upside down in an open top plane!

The first test for the stomach was a 'simple' flip. Fine. Yes, a little scary since I forgot that there were bars to hold onto, but it was fine. Then we progressed onto the stomach churners. For the formations, the pilot descends before starting, and actually the inital drop is when your stomach goes, rather than during acrobatics. The Loop the Loop was amazing - you look up and see the ground, and you have to try really hard not to think about the fact your plane is virtually made of paper and you are held in only by an antique seat belt!

The worst feeling was when we went virtically up and then flipped over and nose-dived for about 800 metres. I was sitting at the front, and could see only the black box and the ground rapidly approaching! Flying upside down is also a very strange feeling and after a few seconds it almost feels like it's normal to fly upside down in an open-top plane.

The G-force (4.8) and the adrelelin aside, it was breath-takingly beautiful up there. A gorgeous summer evening, beautiful lakes and rolling green hills with mountains in the distance. Pottering around in the skies at 2000m is a wonderful occupation!

The landing was smooth and after the formations it was very tame! I hadn't felt sick at all in the plane, but once out of the cockpit and on solid ground, I felt very queasy. My poor stomach didn't know which way up it should be anymore!

I would recommend an acrobatic flight to anyone; especially over Switzerland! Although not after a heavy night out!