will WE play in Peoria?

Note to self: when in a strange city that you’ve already found frustrating to drive in, suggest guests book taxi for ride to airport.

This morning I dragged myself out of bed at 6:15 when my wake up call rang. I’d stayed up way too late last night watching a BBC show about what people ate during Shakespeare’s time. (The people on the show actually spent a week trying to eat that crap and it looked nasty.) Kaitlyn also liked the show and also stayed up too late. So after I got myself ready, I had to try to rouse an incredibly tired 5 year old. Note to self #2: when sharing a hotel room with Kaitlyn, don’t try to watch tv show late at night, she’ll watch it, too.

So I walked the three blocks to get the car out of the parking lot only to discover one wee problem: the gps was not getting a signal. It didn’t get one the entire way from the parking lot to the hotel. So Dad again called upon the desk clerk for directions. As soon as we pulled away, the gps found us. But was telling us to go left when the clerk had said to go right. Who to believe? The correct answer to that question is: the taxi driver you hire next time.

Not that I didn’t enjoy a last half hour visiting. But I found no pleasure in the driving portion of that time.

I’m not ready for the UN, but tonight I actually was called upon to translate… INTO French!

It happened at dinner. And, admittedly, when it comes to food I can generally hold my own. It’s not that we even eat out that often.. it’s just that it must be important to me.

First, I jumped in and saved Dad from ordering a glass of sparkling merlot. The waiter spoke what I’ll call waiter English… enough to pretty much do his job with a client who doesn’t speak French. Dad mistakenly judged his English level to be more of, say, actual English speaker level. He ordered a glass of Merlot (despite our trying to explain that wines here are named for the regions in which they are grown, not for the grape). The waiter thought he asked for a glass of “d’eau.” And he asked if he wanted that to be sparkling or still.

After dinner, Dad treaded into more treacherous language territory. He tried to explain that earlier today he’d gotten a plate of pasta that he hadn’t paid for because he didn’t have any cash and that he wanted to pay for it now. The waiter just looked at him then looked at me and said “je ne comprends pas.” That’s my line. (It means “I don’t understand.”) Then he actually expected me to translate. And I did.

This trip to Geneva sure makes me feel smart. Or at least better about my French skills.

17 june 2008
part 3

On our way back to the tram, I spotted an English bookstore and just had to stop.

Kaitlyn sat in a tiny chair in the children’s section, reading. The bookstore was pretty small, but I took my time to savor it. Sure, I can (and do) order books online. But you simply cannot replace the satisfaction of flipping through a book as a way of deciding whether or not to buy it. I found a book about the Rhone Alpes region. (Where we live). I’m thrilled to have one in English. I have on in French and never even crack it open; it’s too frustrating.

The clerk at the bookstore gave us directions to a Starbucks just up the street. Naturally, that was our next stop. There’s also nothing quite as satisfying as at least having the option to take your over sized coffee with you. We opted to consume our beverages there and were served in the most giant real mugs I’ve ever seen. I do miss those chai tea lattes.

We are determined to find something worth seeing here. The clock was a waste, but the city famous for timepieces must have something to offer in that field. To that end, we went to the Patek Philippe watch museum.

Undaunted by it’s lack of an indicator on our map, Dad asked the front desk clerk for help. I told him to also ask if was worth our while. Dad returned with directions and a thumbs up on our destination.

We took lucky tram #13 across town. Then Dad and I stood on a street corner turning our map every which way trying to get oriented to find our way. Once there, we couldn’t even figure out how to open the stupid door. We just kept pushing and pushing. Dad pointed at the sign with the hours on it (in French) and I assured him that, yes, it was open. Then he started pushing the buzzer. No one responded. We could see someone inside on the second floor watching us but making no effort to do anything. Finally I tried pulling the door and it opened. Duh.

The guy at the desk where we paid to get in tried talking to us in French. I did alright until he starting rattling off instructions at a kilometer a minute about checking our bags and coats downstairs. I hated admitting lingual defeat, but I had to.

You can’t take pictures in the museum, so you’ll just have to take my word for it that the watches on display are amazing. Kaitlyn raced past most of the cases at her usual brisk museum pace. Dad and I tried to see what we could. There are watches with the most intricate displays… tiny tightrope walkers, itty-bitty cherubs striking bells to mark the hours, watches hidden in rings, fans or pins shaped like baskets or bugs.

At last… something in Geneva worth the time.

Forget that masterpiece that is a flower clock. Today we set out to see a real tourist attraction. Even the New York Times says this is “not to be missed.” Although, I do believe the writer meant that if it’s sunny. We set off under the thick cloud cover to ride the telepherique that provides a stunning view of the city. Or I assume it does. Given the weather and my intense dislike of cars dangling from cables high above the earth… it made for a strange choice on Dad’s part.

You get there by riding the city bus all the way from the center of town to the French border. Then you have to hoof it out of the country. The border control building was shut up… looked like no one had been there for weeks if not longer. Maybe they figure when the weather isn’t good, no one would be going that way.

The telepherique may be busier when there’s something to see… and people going to see it. Today they were running it if someone showed up. Luckily, we managed to ride up before the bus load of pre-teens arrived on their school field trip. Dad asked the telepherique operator “If I said in English I’m glad not to be riding with those kids, would you understand?” The guy laughed which clearly answered the question, although he still offered up a “yes.”

There was little to see at the top but clouds. And a small snack bar where Dad got a cup of coffee and Kaitlyn bought a stuffed cow. When the kids poured out of the telepherique, we headed back down.

This morning over our room-service breakfast, Kaitlyn told me she really likes this hotel. To me, outside of my favorite desk clerk, the hotel is fine but not anything special. (To be fair, we do have more storage space in our room than in all our bedrooms at home combined.)

I think Kaitlyn is enjoying our special girl time. Maybe we’ll go somewhere together this summer just the two of us…. maybe…

When we checked in, we took the advice of the desk clerk’s and made reservations for dinner at the hotel restaurant.

Yes, it looked like a tourist trap. But an amusing one. It’s a fondue restaurant complete with a yodeling accordionist and a sidekick who plays the spoons, cow bells, saw, saxophone and one of those giant horns you see in pictures of Alpine meadows with cows dotting the landscape.

Dad and I both ordered the basic cheese fondue. How can you go wrong with a bubbling bowl of melted cheese? Well, you can put funky mushrooms on top. And while it didn’t rise to the sweaty sock flavor of the cheeses from the other night, it still wasn’t exactly cheese I’d order on purpose. The fondue I’ve had in Grenoble is much better. Dad said he liked it, but ordered some meet fondue because the cheese one “just wasn’t enough.”

Kaitlyn’s children’s meal of chicken nuggets and French fries might have been the best culinary bet of the night. She also ate up the evening’s entertainment. When we’d told her there would be someone playing the accordion, she said “oh, like grandad… when you put coins in the case.” (I’ve taken to always giving money to an accordion playing street performer, telling her that that could be Grandad one day.) When the musician played that big giant horn thing, he asked if anyone in the audience…er… dining room.. wanted to give it a try. He graciously wiped the mouthpiece with a rag in between each eager volunteer. Kaitlyn expressed an interest, but I didn’t budge to help her put her mouth on that spitty thing.

So I learned two things tonight: you can make music with one of those horns… and you can make bad fondue.

I don’t know what I expected Geneva to be like. Or, I guess, I just wasn’t sure what to expect. And after a few hours here, not much has even changed.

My first impression is simple. I don’t care for driving here. It is confusing. People honked at me. I’m used to being the one honking, not the one being honked at. Sure, it didn’t help that the GPS directed us to the wrong place. At least it mistakenly led us through the shopping district. I’ll have to find that again.

Once we finally got to the hotel, we dragged our 6 pieces of luggage inside to be told they didn’t have our reservation in their computer. All I could think was “shit, not again,” remembering our trip to Barcelona when we arrived a mere 24 hours ahead of our reservation. I was surprised when I heard myself saying in French that I’d just received another e-mail confirmation just yesterday. And luckily, I had brought a print-out of the original confirmation I got when I made the reservation. The front desk clerk was great. He told us not to worry and got us checked in. Still don’t know what the problem was, but at least it doesn’t appear to be me this time. At one point, the clerk even asked me if I’d rather he spoke French or English. No one has ever asked me that before. They’ve always just switched to English. Given that, this is now my all-time favorite hotel.

After getting settled into our rooms, Dad, Kaitlyn and I set out to see what we could before our dinner reservation. Dad examined our free map and we decided the famous flower clock would be a close destination with a promising first impression. The tourism board describes it as “a masterpiece of technology and floral art.” Granted, this is the tourism board. And that should have been an indication of what was really to come.

Armed with umbrellas, we headed out on our clock quest. My favorite hotel clerk assured us of its proximity and the complete lack of a need to seek public transportation there. Of course, he was saying this from the warm, dry comfort of the front desk.

On the way, we paused at the lake front to attempt to admire the jet d’eau. It’s a 140 meter high jet of water spouting out of the lake. Maybe it’s more exciting on a sunny day. Or at night all lit up.

Then we followed the promenade along the lake to the area where the clock is. We consulted a map that provided zero help in our search. The free map Dad brought along was even less help. How could something so spectacular not be marked on the close-up insert of our map? I wandered off in search of a second sign that might offer some assistance when Dad announced he’d found it. Right next to us. And, honestly, pretty easy to miss. The flowers at the entrance to Disneyland is more memorable. All we could do was stand there and laugh. It was so ridiculous. Then Dad looked at a clock across the street and back at the flower clock only to realize the masterpiece doesn’t even keep the right time! It was an hour and 20 minutes off! It’s a masterpiece of marketing… tricking thousands of visitors into trudging through the rain to find it then stand there having pictures taken in front of it.

Kaitlyn has had a taste of fame. And although it was just a nibble, I think she liked it.

Tonight was the first performance of her ballet spectacle. Yes, first performance. There are two… one Saturday and one Sunday. And you can only get a total of four tickets; pretty much restricting families to going only one night. It’s not exactly what you’d expect if you said you were going to a five year old’s dance recital.

We arrived pretty much at the same time as everyone else… the appointed time to bring the little dancers. Performers had their own entrance, into the dressing room. Back there, girls were putting on make-up, fixing their hair.. the teens were mostly giggling in little circles… Kaitlyn’s group was having little mustaches painted on then coloring while they waited for their big debut. Why mustaches? Their costumes are gray striped pants, white t-shirts and black vests. I think they’re supposed to look like miniature French men.

Out in the audience, we took our seats and quickly realized there’s not a good seat in the house. There were signs tacked up at the concession stand offering the chance to buy a DVD of the show for 20 Euros. I went and ordered one. There’s no way from our vantage point that we’re going to get decent video. I’ll pay for it. That’s fine. Oh, I bought a can of beer while at it. The man at the concession stand said something to me about Germany losing. I was like “what?” He apparently thought I was German and wanted to gloat about my loss in some football game. Once we established that, I explained that I’m American. He laughed and said then I have no interest in football. Not their kind, no. Still, I sort of had a conversation on an unexpected topic in French; that’s always ok with me.

The show started only 25 minutes late. Not too bad. After the first dancers performed, the announcer said there was some problem with the lights and they’d have to start over. (I had that translated for me. Understanding a PA system is hard enough in English.) I was relaxed, waiting to watch the same act again when suddenly the song Kaitlyn was dancing to started to play. I sat up and tried to find a way to see around the tall woman who’d sat in front of me (why’d I expect anything else?).

Kaitlyn was in her element. She hopped around the stage, smiling and just having the time of her life. Maybe she didn’t do the dance quite the way I’d seen her rehearse it. She was still the best dancer up there. They performed to what I’m told is a traditional French song about going to a town celebration, drinking and dancing. Perfectly appropriate for 5 year olds to dance to. Appropriate for mine, she didn’t understand the words. I only know all that because another mom told me.

Kaitlyn’s troop was the second to perform. Then we had to sit through another three hours of dancing… minus the 20 minute intermission when we had to sit through Kaitlyn crying because they’d run out of pizza. (Luckily, more was delivered and she eventually got a piece. Dancing is hungry work.)

The other acts included everything from more 5 year olds dancing to the theme from the Love Boat to adults doing classical ballet on point to Hotel California, adults belly dancing, teenagers trying to dance to Another Brick in the Wall and children of all ages doing what they described in the program as Hip Hop dancing to songs with lyrics even I found offensive. (So much so I won’t even write them out. ) Kaitlyn was allowed to sit with us when she was done and watch the others. I hope she wasn’t too enthralled when the belly dancers came out holding metal rods that they swung around their heads. She had to go back to the dressing room when the teen ballerinas danced on point to Angie… so that she could join all the dancers on stage at the end. She’d changed out of her costume and refused to put it back on. So when her group came out for their round of applause, she was the one wearing a hot pink striped summer dress. Made it easy to find her. And she didn’t care. People were clapping… oh…. the applause…

Before Kaitlyn’s dance spectacle, we had two of her fellow dancers and their families over for our version of an apperetif.

As I was picking up so we could leave, I tried to explain to her French friend that she could come back another day to use Kaitlyn’s new sidewalk paints with her but that we were out of time. Unlike Kaitlyn, I was trying not to make the poor girl “suffer with English” and was doing my best to stumble through it in French. Kaitlyn’s other friend, an American who’s always lived in France, was standing there and asked me why I was speaking French, telling me point blank: “She knows OUR language!”