Bleach

It was time. It had been years and years…and years since I’d taken inventory of the few pieces of tired fabric hanging in my closet. I needed help jazzing up my wardrobe and sought it in the person who sees my clothes most often — my husband, Jean-François. Granted, he is a watchmaker and is more interested by what is worn on the wrist than on the rest of the body. But still. Surely, he’d have an idea of what to acquire on my next shopping trip.

It was late and we were reading in bed. My side of the closet door was, conveniently, open wide and in clear view, when I said, Oops! Forgot to close the closet. Silly me. If you were to make three pieces of clothing appear in my wardrobe, what would they be? 

You’d think that it would take a while for a person to consider the limitless possibilities; the amount of thought involved might be overwhelming.  But, no, my dearest didn’t miss a beat — or even manage to blink — before he had his answer, Underwear.

Well. Go figure. Underwear — as in fine lingerie, which is what I assumed he meant — has got to be about the least cost efficient item one could buy in Switzerland.  For example, if I buy a package of five honest white cotton undies for CHF15.00 at the local supermarket, Migros, I can wash them in the machine, add a little bleach now and then to take away any eventual grey, and wear them for at least three years; that comes to CHF1.00 a year per panty.

Besides that, I don’t keep my underwear hanging up in my closet; it’s tucked discreetly out of sight in a drawer – so I have no idea where his idea came from.

Anyway. If I buy lacy-sexy-lady-underwear, let’s say, in a posh boutique on the rue du Bourg, I’ll only be able to wear them for, maybe, three minutes before my dearest would rip them off of me.  That’s underwear value of about CHF15.00 a minute per year because, after the third ripping, surely those dainty little stringy things wouldn’t hold up very well.

I tried to look like as if Jean-François had answered reasonably as I pulled the closet door closed and said, Really? Hmmm. That’s an idea. What would be the second thing?

Again, it was as if his moment had come.  Without any hesitation whatsoever, he recited, Nighties. This time, I thought, surely, he had to be kidding.  Why would I need new pyjamas?  Mine – another blessed 100% cotton cost efficient Migros supermarket find – are loose, comfortable and warm. The Migros sizes – for nighties and underwear — run S, M, L, and XL and, therefore, cover all. (Meaning, all of me, in all my phases.) Plus, the Migros has parking. For free.  Besides, just like the lacy-sexy-lady underwear, if I did wear something remotely enticing, he’d just rip it off of me and I’d freeze all night fighting for the duvet.

Oh really?  Interesting.  And the third item? I asked as I crawled back into bed.

He paused, much to my relief.  He seemed to be considering countless possibilities but I guess it all became too much because he blurted out, Something white! You look good in white!

Perfect! I said. Clearly, it was just a matter of adding, once again, a little bleach to my honest underwear and nighties. And everything felt just right: my size, my wardrobe and, especially, my husband. And I turned off the light.

 

 

Necessary Fiction

These two flashes were published on Necessary Fiction where I was the writer in residence 24 September 2012.

 

Good Neighbor

Only in our daily phone routine do my neighbor and I punctuate strict silence.

“What?!” he barks, after the fifth ring of my third try.

“Never mind!” I say.

We hang up.

He’s still alive.

+

Pillow Fight

“Oh come on, Mom! What difference does it make if he spends the night? You think I’m still a virgin? At eighteen?”

“It’s my house.”

“I live there.”

“Under my roof, my rules.”

“My body, my rules.”

“Your body, your baby.”

“I know how to protect myself.”

As we glide into the mountain tunnel, lane-lines pound out their familiar beat into our headlights. She doesn’t think to remove her Ray Bans.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mastering French

Published  by Talesmag in Tales From a Small Planet, February 2018

 I’m thinking of giving up. It would be a kindness to myself; I’ve been trying to master French for 40 years now. But how do you give up a foreign language when you live in one of its foreign lands, like Lausanne, Switzerland? And your family, friends and neighbors speak that way to you  ̶  not to mention your dentist, plumber, mechanic, mailman, kids’ teachers …? Maybe I could go on strike for a day: just stay home and Skype English-speaking friends, read untranslatable poetry, binge-watch American series and take a stand with those telemarketers. I’m sorry? What’s that? I. Cannot. Un-der-stand. Yooo-uuu!

It all started in earnest in 1979, at the Northfield Mount Hermon School, which offered a term abroad in Arcachon, France. The program required the completion of French III which, in my 16-year-old mind, meant three years of French. Even though I was only in French II, I figured that the five years it took me to get there (counting middle school) would surely balance things out, and I applied. And I was rejected.

At the last minute, some better-French-speaking student dropped out of the program for reasons I never bothered to explore; unless sudden death was involved, the idea of turning down a trip to France was unfathomable to me. I was in! I was going to France! I was going to live with a real French famille in a maison  ̶  just like in my textbook ̶  with a cuisine and a salon and a salle de bains, and go to a lycée with étudiants in a country full of amour! Not to mention, it was legal to drink vin there and one of my best friends, Joanne, was going, too. PLUS this meant I didn’t have to take chemistry. Vive la France!

 We flew from Boston to Luxembourg and, after a series of trains, arrived in Arcachon. My French father, Monsieur Carrière, was waiting for me at the gare in his Citroën Déesse (DS).

 Bonjour Monsieur!

 I would write his response but I have no idea what he said. Whatever it was, it sounded lovely and he was smiling under his bushy moustache. He put my bags in the car, chatting all the while, and started the engine as I stood smiling and nodding. I reached to open the door and the car levitated. Yes, it levitated. And I froze. A never-never list unfurled in my brain: I’d never seen a car that looked anything like a DS – much less one that levitated, and I had never imagined jumping into such a strange vehicle with a strange man saying strange words in a strange land.  It was, well, very strange!

Monsieur reached across, rolled down the passenger’s window and waved me in.

Vous avez faim?

Ohmygoodness. I’ve got this. I understand him! Yessssss! I’ve got this! I can speak! And I’m hungry. I got in the car.

 Oui, Monsieur. J’ai faim. Et vous?

 I would write his response here but I have no idea what he said. It was cheerful enough to make me relax, however, and we arrived à la maison which held his wife, Madame Carrière, and his three daughters, Flo-Flo (Florence), Co-Co (Corine) and Mi-Mi (Miriam). Flo-Flo showed me the cuisine and the salon and took me upstairs, to my chambre with a little sink in it. I’d never seen a sink in a bedroom, so I pointed and asked,

Salle de bains? [Bathroom?]

 I would write Flo-Flo’s response but she laughed way too hard for me to be able to understand what she said. She motioned for me to wash my hands. So, I washed my hands. She watched. We looked at each other in silence for a moment.

Among many words, Flo-Flo motioned me to follow her. I did understand one word  ̶  manger [eat]  ̶  but she kindly mimed it anyway. Flo-Flo was on to me. Maybe they all knew I was only a French II graduate? We headed downstairs to the salle à manger where the others were seated before lovely plates of thinly sliced tomatoes arranged just so, and all sorts of fresh looking salads. Bon appétit!

I would tell you what Madame said to welcome me through that sweet smile of hers but I have no idea. Whatever it was, she said it so slowly it reminded me of when I used to play with the speed on my tape recorder. Monsieur stopped her by waving, turned to me, and I’d tell you what he said but I have no idea. In my silence, I crafted a sentence to express my delight at the delicious food in front of me and my gratitude for their warm welcome. I aimed to explain how, after more than 24 hours of train and airplane food full of preservatives, it was a real treat to sit down to a fresh homemade meal with such a kind and welcoming family. I managed,

Je mange trop préservatifs. C’est bon frais avec gens gentils. Merci. Merci beaucoup…

 Preservatives = conservateurs 

Condoms = préservatifs

Translation: “I eat too much condoms. It’s good fresh with nice people. Thank you. Thank you very much…”

 And here I sit, 40 years later, with an MA in French from Middlebury College, having spent the last 21 years living in French-speaking Switzerland, ready to wave a white flag. I can read anything in French, and my writing is fine. If you give me blanks to fill in, my grammar is top notch. But as soon as I open my mouth, I’m pegged. Where does that charming accent come from? And I can even live with my obvious accent. What I can no longer take is my persistent and spectacular failure to apply the correct vocabulary spontaneously. A recent example:

I know perfectly well, for example, that many nouns are formed by adding –ment and –age to verbs:

To change / a change = changer -> un changement

To pass / a passage = passer -> un passage

 My car needed a really good scrub. Off I went to the local car wash to have it deep cleaned. Let me tell you something: It does not take a master’s degree in French to accomplish this.  Au contraire. I know that “deep” involves the word profond and “to clean” is some form of laver. I know these things. I don’t think about them. I just speak. With good grammar.

Bonjour, Monsieur. Je voudrais un lavement  ̶  mais profond, comme il le faut, s’il vous plaît!

To wash / a washing = laver -> un lavage

Enema = un lavement

Translation: “Hello, Sir. I’d like an enema – a deep one, done properly, please!”

 I’m thinking of asking Middlebury for a refund.

I know I’m not the only one to struggle with mastering French. Such mistakes are understandable for someone who has just moved to a French-speaking country, such as myself back in 1979, or such as a man I’ll call Earnest Eric.

I call this person Earnest Eric because a) I don’t know his full name, as we only met in passing at the salon of my esthetician, Marisabelle, in Lausanne. And b) because of the way he thanked the salon’s owner, Marisa, who does not speak English, so earnestly and profusely in the most elegant British accent I’d ever heard used in French.

Once I was all set up for a wax with Marisa, she confided that Earnest Eric had recently moved himself, and his lovely hot-potato-in-the-mouth British accent, to Lausanne on a generous package which afforded him a home with a yard. For him, no home could be considered complete without a dog. A properly trained dog. Not knowing how dogs were trained in Switzerland, Eric figured he’d get a puppy and train the dog himself. Any race would do. His only requirement was that the puppy be female.

He had prepared his call to the local animal shelter by reviewing a few key words and polite phrases. Dog = le chien. Female = femelle.  Would you have = Auriez-vous He remembered, vaguely, that some words for animals change completely, depending on the age and the sex of the animal.  He googled a chart that looked something like this:

Animal Male Female Baby
Sheep un mouton une brebis un agneau
Lion un lion une lionne un lionceau
Dog un chien une chienne un chiot

 It was disconcerting that only the masculine, un chiot, was given for puppy, since he really wanted a female puppy. If he were to say,

Bonjour, Madame/Monsieur. Auriez-vous un chiot disponible, s’il vous plaît?

Hello Madam/Sir. Would you have a puppy available, please?”

the person answering the phone would have no way of knowing that the puppy had to be female. Eric googled some more and found a chart somewhat like this:

How to make a word ending in  -ot feminine           

idiot idiote
sot sotte
viellot viellotte

At this point in the story, I was to remain, shall we say, splayed. Marisa smeared hot wax on me and told me not to move as the wax hardened. On she went, imitating Eric’s accent,

Aha! I get it! ‘un chien’ must become ‘une chiotte’!  our Earnest Eric said to himself. He duly corrected his question and called the animal shelter.

Bonjour, Madame. Auriez-vous une chiotte disponible, s’il vous plaît?

Un chien = dog. Une chienne = female dog. Un chiot = a puppy.

Chier = to shit. Une chiotte = a shithole/toilet.

Translation: “Hello Madam. Would you happen to have a shithole available, please?”

I tried to keep it together and not to move. Really, I did. But this sent me into a laughing fit so severe that I became unsplayed  ̶  meaning I crossed my legs on reflex. In fact, the only thing that held together was the wax. Hard and fast.

Come to think of it, maybe I should stick with the French and give up waxing.

©2018 by Elizabeth Boquet. All rights reserved.

French II graduate backpacked and heading out the door to France 

LizToFranceNMH

 

 

Backpacks and mammograms

I wrote this piece in 2006 for an expat-immigrant mag called Swissnews. All rights reverted to me upon publication.

Annual doctor’s check-ups are never fun … especially in a foreign country, when you just aren’t sure what to expect. And having to deal with the entire ordeal while topless? Well, that’s another story altogether…

Last week, I dutifully went for my annual mammogram at Lausanne’s university hospital – known as the CHUV. Now, I wouldn’t call this a pleasant experience, but I’d prepared myself psychologically: I’d arrived early, so I wouldn’t stress about parking and would still have time to treat myself to an English magazine in the coffee shop.

On the dot for my appointment, I was directed to a small closet. No, not a room, but a closet. In the closet – which held one metal chair, a mirror and two doors facing opposite each other – I was supposed to remove all clothing from the waist up, and wait. So I did. I turned and faced the door opposite the one I’d entered, waiting as instructed, until a friendly lady opened it and escorted me directly to the mammogram machine. Leave it to the efficient Swiss, I thought. This will be over as quickly and discreetly as possible.

Yet, a slight awkwardness began creeping over me. Let’s face it, it is rather weird to have a stranger, male or female, manipulating your breasts – where does one look? Does one smile politely? Does one make small talk?

Anyway, the friendly lady and I got through it, with a bit of light chatter. The awkwardness dissipated, as the relief spread that it was over. She escorted me back to the little closet, and again told me to wait … as I was.

Taking stock

To avoid imagining things, I decided to sort my purse; however, with no trashcan available, I just inventoried its contents for future reference. (I am always surprised at what I find in its depths, since I’m not one of those ladies who changes her purse to match her outfits: chestnuts from last fall that my son made me promise to keep, my Swiss Army Knife, bits of sticky watermelon-flavoured sugar free candy, expired coupons, and pen caps without pens, etc.) This helped pass the time until the friendly lady came and asked me to follow her … just as I was: nothing on from the waist up.

Okay, I can handle a topless stroll, I tried to convince myself. Who cares about my breasts? This is medical! Get on with it! But then came the matter of my purse …

I considered leaving it in the closet room because, just how does one carry a purse with any sense of dignity whatsoever when one is topless? Casually over the shoulder? Neatly, with two hands? Across the chest meter-maid style just didn’t seem reasonable.

Mine is a backpack model, but I just couldn’t picture the backpack method naked either. So, I opted for the ladylike, two-handed method and headed out the door determined, with my chin up, down the little hall into a room where a tiny, rather tense-looking man stood up with his hand extended to introduce himself. I stuck out my hand and, red faced, laughed out my name mumbling an apology that I wasn’t used to introducing my half-naked self to men. He said he did it all the time, to which my response was an awkward and undignified silence.

 

 

To Switzerland With Love

I think I’ve finally figured us out.
It took long enough! Twenty-one years, to be exact.
I know, I know, you being the quiet type means
I have to go first.
And I will. But only because
I’m so in love with you, Switzerland.

How’d THAT happen? you wonder.
I want you to embrace this fact — and me — close
even though I’m still just an immigrant.
So, since you asked:

Because, instead of scissors, you gave my kids knitting needles in Kindergarten to   punch along dotted lines so they’d learn precision, perseverance, and patience.
Because you made them walk to school.
Because you made them come home for lunch.
Because you made them walk back to school.
Because you have people with The Secret whom I can call for free, and they’ll make 32 warts on the sole of my foot disappear. Just like that.
Because, by far, you have the sexiest watchmakers in the world.

It took some getting used to, but I’ve learned to love the peace and quiet,
that Sundays are sacred, no matter what your religion; thank you
for insisting that I NOT mow the lawn or shop on Sundays and
for ensuring that nobody vacuums, mows or flushes when we all could be sleeping.

Because you’re the heart of peace processes worldwide but can rarely name your own president.
You have the only direct democracy, Gruyère to die for and the creamiest chocolate on the planet.
You’re neutral but have enough bunkers to house the whole country and
your highways convert into landing strips by removing the guardrails.
And because, even though over half of you have guns, shootings are rare.

Did I mention that your watchmakers are the hottest? Everything keeps on ticking, no matter what — right on time because of your dashing watchmakers. Right on! Right on!
What I won’t do for a blissful kiss from a Swiss Watchmaker!

Because you’re tolerant and inclusive, even though one in four of your residents is foreign — including me and mine.
You even tolerate my French and let me teach you English.
Because I love teaching you English.
You somehow manage to communicate despite having four languages;
perhaps because you demand respect from everybody, and for everybody, and you expect everyone to be on time — except for cocktails,
for which you’re always 15 minutes late, exactly, which is possible
thanks to those clever watchmaking party animals. God, they crack me up!

You expect the world to know that CH stands for Switzerland and
that S is for some other country.
You can adjust your speeding fines to income and your army knives rock.
You have multicolored carpets of Alpine flowers up there,
palm trees down here in Montreux, and
watchmakers in both who get me going — keep me going —
my time would stop without them.

You’re a 5-star country, Switzerland. I get you. I dig you and
the watchmakers who create gloriousness, inside and out,
that reflect you, themselves, and each precious moment in life
and really know how to      make       me       tick.

LizSwissMiss