Of all the cities I have visited in Europe (and they have been many), the unassuming medieval town of Soleure is by far my favorite. Fortunately for me, it is only a twenty minute train ride in the cutest red train you've ever seen from where I live.

Last night, a Christmas shopping/coffee stop with my sister-in-law. I hope you notice that we took the shoppers with us. If you didn't read that post back in July and you'd like to know how utterly devoted we are to them, go to:
http://gallimaufrylife.blogspot.com/2010/07/some-time-ago-i-told-of-escapades-to.html



We stood outside this old apothecary turned specialty shop for a full ten minutes before going in, Evi saying, We can't go in there with the shoppers, Alli. We'll knock everything over with the wheels, and you know it!



But we did end up going in - and such a delight that was! There was the old fashioned bell to ring, which I never hesitate to do repeatedly as my reserved Swiss companion stands in the corner and laughs until she shakes. There were "drinking chocolates" and spicy teas; earrings for 250 Swiss francs (ah, no thank you - the color is all wrong for me), and whiskey fudge!

Lights hang like falling stars...

Almond coffee and blueberry muffins at our favorite coffee house...

And I look about to find I am blessed to have a sister-in-law who is so utterly wacky, so sincere, so forgiving, so fun-loving, so willing to be absurd, or to sit and philosophize about the meaning of God and life.

The stores closed at nine and we had decided we would buy hot roasted chestnuts for the train ride home, the only snag being that in classic Alli-Evi fashion the tiny wooden shop was closed by the time we got there. A plaid-clad woman stood outside the shuttered cabin sweeping up shells from chestnuts that other, more time-savvy shoppers had enjoyed. Oh...

As I snapped pictures here and there, these Soleure natives were enjoying hot spiced wine out in the cobblestone streets. "Take our picture!" I heard them call out. And so... here you have the personal greetings of a festive group of Swiss patriots. And I shall say, on their behalf, Schöne Weihnachten!

I want to thank you all for voting on whether or not I should include a button on the mittens I was making. Here's the thing... they are no longer mittens! I got half-way through the second one only to run out of yarn; what to do...what to do?!



Well, first things first. I would not accept defeat. So I ripped half of the first mitten out and made it into a mitt. (Yes, that meant I had to open the thumb as well, and that can be rather challenging for a knitter of my calibre.)



The finished product pleased me so much that I have decided to take your advice (which was a NO-button majority) and leave it off. The pretty hands of my teenager set them off to perfection.

(p.s. Go see Little Bit of Life today (icon on your left). Meg knitted much cuter mitts than these and you must see them!)

On the art of interpretation, or an inside look at the unique experience of pell-mell concentration

Yesterday I travelled to a major city to interpret for an international meeting. I was thinking as I sat in the train of what I might tell you about my job. Many of you have asked, and so...

Primarily, I am a written translator bringing French into a living and, I hope, vivid English. I also edit, revise and correct other people's work. But I love translating the most - and I'm rather passionate about it if you must know. ;)

On occasion I will interpret...and yesterday was one of those stressful, sweat-it-out kind of days. Carmi, I honestly could have used some of your wordsmithe flair as I fumbled and bumbled through a meeting that would have knocked you off your feet!

In the room... an Italian who speaks a brand of English-Italiano-French that is a world unto itself. May I just say that the key to translating is understanding what in tarnation your speaker is trying to say in the first place! Ahem. There were participants from France, Russia, Canada, Germany, Switzerland, Sweden, Poland...and the list goes on. Target languages? French and English.

In this world, you sit in a booth with earphones on your head and speak into a microphone. When someone speaks English, you press the FRE button and deliver French; when they speak French, you press the ENG button and spew forth English. And I do mean spew forth because there are times when your mouth is moving and you don't know what is going to come out; and you are surprised to find that words do, indeed, come out on a kind of autopilot setting, though your mind is two or three sentences ahead, listening.

Every now and then there is a pause in the discussion (these are desperately few and far between) when you press the MUTE button and flash a wild look at your colleague, mouthing the words "What in the world was he trying to say?"

There is the unexpected moment when your colleague translates into the microphone with a very pristine French accent for all to hear ... "The speaker just said shit." ;)

And then the words... "rather than an automated process, we are targeting natural persons".

Natural persons? MUTE button to the rescue and a bout of suppressed laughter.

You've got to be sure you master the button-pressing and language-switching simultaneously; yes, that's tricky. And then there are the times when the Italian switches mid-sentence from English into French and you don't even notice. You just keep translating, French into French, until it strikes you like a lightening bolt and you wonder, as you continue to speak, when the switch actually occurred!

The most rewarding of all (and perhaps the most surprising) is when, at the coffee break, they thank you for a job so well done. Inside you are wondering how they understood any of it, outside you are maintaining a collected calm. (Thought I may as well give you the inside scoop for once!)

As the train barrels homeward, so late that practically no one else is riding, your brain rests inside your skull like a poached egg and you are glad for the long ride home to sit in ... ah.... silence.

Glad to be back!

Texture and color warms the heart

St. Nicolas Day

I have had to get used to having Santa visit on the 6th of December and coming on foot with a donkey and wooden cart to hand out little bread men, oranges, peanuts and chocolate (this is Switzerland, folks) rather than with dashing sleigh and eight reindeer to bring presents down a chimney and eat cookies and milk! My first reaction was... What? A skinny Santa? Ugh!

My second reaction was of more consequence... What? Le Père Fouettard? A Whipping Santa? Double ugh!

Swiss legend has it that this man in black accompanies St. Nicolas as he makes his rounds. He asks parents whether their children have been good or bad, and in the event that they've had a long year and are frazzled by their children's typically childlike behavoir, haven't slept in ages, and answer that no, their babes have not been good, Père Fouettard will snatch them up, plop them in his black sack and carry them off to the forest to whip them. Don't believe me? Ask my neighbor. At the age of 46, she's still upset over having been carried down the street in his black bag. Tell me, what are these people thinking?

The Whipper has never been to my house, but I can tell you that when he asked me if my children had been good I was quick to nod my terrified head... "Good as gold!"



Tonight an ordinary Santa may just ring a bell outside our door; the children will sing songs and recite Christmas poems for him, which he will duly reward with presents!



We will bake Gritibenz (sweet bread men) in the afternoon and load the table with peanuts and oranges, colorful chocolates and molasses.

Welcome to my bicultural world!

P.S. My husband read this post at lunch time and he says to tell you all out there in blog land that Switzerland does not condone whipping children! (I think it stressed him a little to have the custom revealed! He says they've replaced whipping with a withholding of internet access. :)

Open Air Christmas market in St. Ursanne

A small medieval town lost along the Doubs River, its people had dressed it up in style with vendors of all kinds bringing their hand-made goods.



When we arrived, it was -10°C ... and I was mortified to discover I had not dressed my littlest warm enough to spend hours outdoors! She clung to me as I scurried from stand to stand trying to find something knitted and woolen to wrap her in. We finally found one woman selling a red cape, and another hand-knit socks. That along with a warm cup of hot cocoa and a gentleman's blazing fire toasted her up nicely!



A carousel over one-hundred years old was set up for the children, and people drank warm cider and wine in the streets ... holiday spirit at its finest!

Ode to Brussel Sprouts

It is the same every time Meaggie comes with me to the market. We roll through the fruit and vegetables, glide across the milk section and pick up flour in the baking department. But as we approach the frozen foods, the lobbying begins; in a kind of desperate begging she throws her body across the glass door (as if I were going to look there in the first place!) and begins her plea: "No... don't look over here... keep going... not here...turn back before it's too late...not brussel sprouts... not the tiny heads of lettuce...I'm begging you!"

The intensity is so great that I begin to laugh. None today, my little peach. You can rest your mind. But she never relinquishes her hold on the great glass door until I am well off the road to temptation and into the meat section.

But... last week the Russian came with me to do the marketing. We hadn't even gotten as far as the fruit when he picked up a green net bag, "How about brussel sprouts for lunch?" Seeing as how he rarely asks for anything, I immediately agreed. Sounds good! I thought ahead to my little defender... it was going to be quite a shock!

Yesterday did eventually come, and the sprouts were still in the fridge waiting for me. I cooked them, and then secured the fortress.

Little feet came in from school happy as could be. She set the table, talked about her class and then snooped in the pots (as is her custom). Her expression alone would make a post. How could this happen? How could an entire bag of brussel sprouts slip through her ranks? When? Who? It's anarchy ... it's betrayal!

It was also very good!

With a satisfied expression of gratitude from my two men, everyone else choked them down with relative grace, to my surprise. "Let's have these once a week," he said....

and the war rages on. :)