“Thank You, But No” or “Apparently We’re Not That Desperate”

As Kris and I have made our ways through the seemingly unending housing search, our criteria for an acceptable home have become increasingly vague. We have become willing to travel farther. We have become willing to live smaller. We have accepted the possibility of having to buy major appliances as well as furniture. Each week of sleeping on a couch has driven standards back to “available” and “not scary.”

As the likelihood of finding a place pushed from October 1^st to October 15^th to November 1^st, we added short-term sublets to our search. Crazy expensive residency hotels. Roommate advertisements. Our only available option at the moment is to buy an air mattress as sleep on the living room floor of a woman we have met once and emailed twice. Since moving from a couch in the city to a floor outside of town felt like a demotion, we hoped we could do better.

And then the email came.

We had responded to as advertisement for a flatmate for a two-bedroom apartment. It wasn’t near the university, but at least it was a real bed. We explained that, even though the advertisement was for an individual, as a couple we don’t require much space and are quite neat.

The response, in extremely poor English, explained that he was looking for a single woman to come live that he could spend some time with, so he was not willing to accept a couple. Then, between the end of that sentence and the start of the next, he had a change of heart. Actually, he explained, now that he thinks about it he might be interested. We could come, he told Kris, “if we could have fun together with your wife.” He went on to explain that, back when he was married, he and his wife had had fun with other people and that he had enjoyed that very much. If we weren’t interested in that arrangement, no big deal. Don’t worry about it, he said. Just let him know.

After some silence followed by hysterical laughter and a heebie-jeebie dance around the living room, Kris and I decided not to respond. Compulsory threesomes with an unknown housemate, we agreed, was an unacceptable compromise. Considering that the entire interaction had happened via the internet, it was more creepy than a compliment. At least the last time we were approached by swingers, they had bothered with an awkward conversation at a Borders bookstore first.

While we may be able to do better, we can certainly do worse. Tomorrow, I am buying an air mattress. 

Opening A Swiss Bank Account

When telling our friends and families that we were moving to Switzerland, we typically received one of three responses: 1) "Why?" 2) "So you're going to eat a lot of chocolates?" and 3) "Oh awesome! You will get to open a Swiss bank account!" For those of us who grew up in the states, Swiss bank accounts bring to mind millionaires and spy movies. Or perhaps millionaires in spy movies. Whatever the origin, we think of them as secure and (come on, just be honest here) awesome.

Now in the third week of the process of opening out account, I can at least vouch for the first.

To start with, all of those millionaires from spy movies who hid money and guns here have made it very difficult for the rest of us non-tax-evading-non-spies. Most banks here won't even open accounts with Americans. The bank we chose has a standing relationship with the university and is used to dealing with foreign clients. That being said we still had to sign multiple forms that we have paid and will pay all necessary taxes, otherwise they have rightful claim to our the souls of any of our offspring. It may not have said exactly that, but I can't be sure. The forms were in French and the manager was being quite severe.

After signing the forms, handing over our passports, and filling out a stack of papers in duplicate, we had an account. We just couldn't access it. First we had to wait one week for a notice to arrive in the mail. This notice sent us to the post office to pick up a letter with photo ID. The letter contained a password, an account number, and instructions for how to register your cellphone with the account. We entered the account number, password, and phone number on the website and received a text with a second password. Upon entering that password we received a message telling us to wait three days for a confirmation code to arrive in the mail. Once that code arrived we were able to enter the original password, account number, and confirmation code to activate our online banking. Now, any time we simply enter the password and account number, wait for a text, and then enter the text code to receive access. Voila! Now that the online account is activated, we should receive an ATM card in the mail in a matter of days.

In talking to the other postdocs we've found that this procedure isn't unique to our bank. One postdoc was given a card scanner with a keypad to hook to his computer. To access his online banking he has to hook up the scanner, scan the card, enter a code on the keypad, and enter a code on the website all within a given time limit. I cannot speak to whether these accounts are awesome, but I can assure you the security is intense.

So the next time you are watching a spy movie and hold your breath as some spy has to access his Swiss bank account and transfer money with 15 seconds counting down on the box of dynamite, know that in reality everyone in the room would have died waiting for a text message.

A Brief Tour of the City

While there have been a number of downsides to this rather intense apartment search, it has resulted in Kris and I getting to know the city fairly well. We know which parts we like. We know which parts are the most expensive. We know which parts are lined with hookers on weekend nights. You know, all the important things.

To provide context for our tour, we start with a map. This map!

This map shows many of the great aspects of the city - the mountains, the wooded areas, cathedrals, downtown pedestrian zones - but our understanding of the city at the moment is a bit simpler. 

Of course, almost anywhere along the way you could stop and see something like this. 

And then of course there is the downtown area ... 

That particular street is excellent for window shopping if you like feeling unstylish and poor.  One afternoon when waiting for Kris I tried to find the most expensive item in a window display. There were 700 franc purses, 1500 franc coats, and 3000 franc dresses. But the winner was in was the 19,000 franc pair of earrings in the window of the Rolex store. 

To make this a more representative tour, I should really have some pictures of the buses and metro system. Kris has already learned to love public transportation as much as did from my time in Germany. At least, to love public transportation in a place where it is efficient, widespread, and reliable. I imagine this will spoil us for almost anywhere back in the states. 

Well, for the moment that completes the tour. I will add of some from the wooded areas in the north. I can also probably convince Kris to take some pictures of EPFL, which looks like a campus full of microwaves. It's very "tech school."

Until next time.

 Apartment count:

12 visited 

9 applied

3 rejected

A Study in Feeling Useless

I am a smart person. I received straight A's throughout high school, triple-majored in undergrad, and finished my PhD in four and a half years. I am fluent in German, functional in Spanish, and have been teaching myself French since May. I have a black belt in taekwondo and am a certified personal trainer. I accomplish things. It is what I do.

Now I spend every day feeling useless.

I know this isn't the castle-laden Europe-fest everyone is hoping for, but it is the truth of how I have been passing my days. It is something for which I, apparently, have no coping mechanism.

The first issue is that I do not speak French. I can make a reservation, pay for food, and catch the bus to get where I am going; but that is where my general effectiveness ends. When my phone stopped working a week after we bought it, I had to wait for Kris to go back to the store. When I tried to call to set up appointments for viewing apartments, I made it as far as the opening question before the flurried French in response left me confused or hung-up-on. Most frequently when I ask a worker at a government agency whether they speak any German or English, they simply stare me down and say, "Non."

Beyond this is the fact that finding an apartment here is hard. At the best, it will take weeks. For many, it takes months. Kris and I have each been living out of a carry-on suitcase since the end of July and it is starting to grate. At the moment we are living out of a French couple's living room and store any food that we don't refrigerate next to the bed. Despite the awkwardness and size we have adapted rather well. Unfortunately, the landlord wants us out in a matter of days. We have no desire to become a problem for our hosts.

The crux of all of these issues, though, is the lack of control. If I knew I had to live out of a suitcase for another month - fine. If I knew it would take 20 more applications - ok. If I knew that some aspect of how I spent my days was actually bringing us closer to having a roof that could stay over us for more than a week, I could do it. I would throw myself at it. But that isn't what is happening. With each rejection and each botched phone call it doesn't feel closer; it feels pointless. I actually find myself to be motivated less, and that is somewhere I have never been.

I also don't have a job. While this does result in an abundance of free time, it means that I spend all of that time with nothing of value to do. When you don't have somewhere to live, any other pursuit feels like thumb-twiddling.

This may sound like a string of complaints, but that is not my intent. This blog is supposed to be a faithful representation of what everyone has been calling our little "European Adventure" for the last six months. Right now, this is what that adventure has come to be. Yes, the buildings I walk past are beautiful. Yes, there are crepes being sold on cobblestone plazas and freshly baked bread at every meal. There are lakes and mountains and an abundance of wine. But at the moment, all that really sinks in is the logistics.

I keep trying to come up with some cheerful anecdote to share with everyone, to write about going to the museum or finding the wooden tower that gave a panoramic view of the whole city, but at the moment it feels forced. I want to enjoy writing about those things. I want to make you smile. But today, after another day of applications and rejections, I felt like sharing this side of the adventure. Hopefully this part of it will be over soon.

I know that there are people who have it vastly worse than I do: I am educated, I have enough money, and I am married to the man who makes my soul better. I am not about to die. But I have spent the past two weeks feeling useless, and apparently, to me, that really matters.

Thank you for the love and well-wishes. Hopefully we will have a crepe soon.

Until next time,
Amanda

Of all the pictures I could post...

Greetings All!

This week has been an extension of the chaos of week one, kicked somehow into an even higher gear. For those of you who have been in touch with us, you know that the housing situation here is less than ideal. The people we are staying with at the moment are wonderful, but it is a temporary situation that has to end by October 1st. Their landlord has issues with us staying in the living room. So as of October 1st we need to be out, and at the moment we have nowhere to go. It will likely have to be another temporary living arrangement of sorts, because finding a long-term apartment here in under a month would be a record. Seriously. They would either egg us out of jealousy or present us with medals for accomplishment. Or both.

In the past five days we have visited ten apartments, applied to seven, and already been rejected from one. For nice apartments there are easily 20-30 applications for each spot. That collection of numbers has proven to be both exhausting and frustrating. We have two more visits arranged for Monday.

In addition to all of the apartments, we have spent a fair amount of time in the waiting rooms of government agencies. The most interesting was probably the debt office, which provides statements of no outstanding debt. This document (which basically states that we are not being pursued by any past landlords) is required for any apartment application. Thankfully the office was nearby, so Kris and I once again took all of our personal information for a walk.

Finding the building on the first try and making our way to third floor, Kris and I felt like we were finally getting a handle on things. This feeling ended the moment we entered the waiting room. The waiting room had white walls, seven white chairs, a grey floor, and nine grey doors. Next to each door was a small panel with a buzzer and red, yellow, and green lights. After pacing around the unnervingly asymmetrical room and not receiving any indication as to a course of action from anyone waiting in the white chairs, we pushed the buzzer for the door labeled "Reception." With the flash of the green light we shrugged and went through the door. The "room" on the other side of the door was about 3ft by 3ft with a chest-high counter at the far side overlooking a large room filled with desks. Once Kris had managed to both fit into the room wearing a backpack and close the door, one of the women at a desk across the room asked how she could help. We fumbled through explaining the document we needed and were sent back into the waiting room to wait for a green light on one of the four doors on the left-hand wall.

We went back to the waiting room, saw that all of the lights were red, and took seats in two of the white chairs. We then spent the next ten minutes trying to ignore that fact that none of the walls in the rooms met at right angles. Eventually one of the doors opened and a young man left, letting the door swing closed behind him. No one moved. Kris shrugged in silent question of whether he should go press the buzzer when it went off and the old man to our left shot out of his chair and through the door. Gradually the waiting room emptied out, buzzers and lights flashing, people appearing and disappearing through the grey doors. Kris felt like we had stepped into some set piece from The Matrix. Finally, the green light flashed and we were called into an equally tiny room/counter/closet/thing. A few minutes and 34 francs later we had our letters and headed back into the world where walls were perpendicular and waiting rooms had a receptionist.

Though this process has been trying (and we don't yet have somewhere to live) Kris and I have already become quite fond of the city. We have gone on numerous walks. We have taken pictures of mountains and lakes, grand buildings and cobbled plazas. But today I am going to post only one. This picture, for me, represents a piece of Switzerland: the organization and control of a highly efficient society reaching into places that just seem excessive. Today, I give you the dog toilet.

Thank you for all of you who have been reading. For those of you who have had issues commenting, I have fixed the settings. You should have no problems now. Thanks again. I promise to post other pictures soon. 

Au revoir. 

Amanda and Kris

Everyday Living

Thinking back to when I first moved to Germany, I vividly remember being exhausted at the end of each day. Our first week here has reminded me that this is not entirely an artifact of changing time zones, but the effort that goes into everyday living. 

Imagine you want to make dinner. Risotto perhaps. You go to the grocery store (but not on a Sunday) and try to pick out the ingredients. You get to the store and try to grab a cart only to find that it is chained to all of the other carts. After an initial inspection you find that the chain can be removed by inserting in a 1 franc coin that you will get back upon returning the cart. After digging and finding a coin (which you promise yourself you will remember to bring the next time you go) you enter the store feeling triumphant. Not only have you caught the correct bus and found the store - now you have a cart. Well done. 

You are immediately greeted by the produce section, in which all of the prices are given in kilograms. How many kilos are a bag of onions? Mushrooms? A butternut squash? What is a good price in kilos? You decide that these are questions for another day, you decide just to buy the amount of ingredients you know you need. After selecting the perfect squash you notice that everyone is weighing their produce and sticking the printed price on their bags. No worries; you did that when you lived in Ithaca. All you have to do is enter the item number, set the food on the scale and press print. But there is no number. Perhaps you just search for the item number from a list at the scale. No. The scale has 133 buttons. You know this because there are 132 numbered buttons and "print." No list. You return to the squash and search for a number and can find nothing. Time to enter surveillance mode. You start watching the people who so confidently walk up to the scale, place on a bag of carrots, and press "23." Perhaps it is simply common knowledge that carrots are 23; something you learn in swiss schools, along with riding scooters and applying tasteful amounts of makeup. After deciding this is unlikely you go in search of the carrots yourself and discover that, yes, in the corner there is a small 23. Triumphant, you return to the squash and look at the corner of the tag to find that it is blank. Alas. You sigh, put the unlabeled squash in your cart, and hope that the cashier does not tell you off in French.

Happy to leave the produce section you head over to the dried goods for some Arborio rice. After an initial moment of excitement upon locating the rice, you realize that there are 12 varieties. Fine. For your budget’s sake you settle for the store brand. Or you try to. There are three types of Migros brand Arborio rice. A brief inspection of the labels reveals that you, in fact, know very little French and you put the one with the red packaging in your cart. The same goes for the broth.

Standing in line for the cashier you pat yourself on the back for remembering to bring reusable bags along (so that you don’t have to buy any) and place all of your items on the conveyor. The cashier efficiently rings you out and (using the screen as a convenient guide) hand over the appropriate amount of cash. Well done you. Stepping out of the way to put the change in your wallet you notice that the cashier has started on the next customer and all of your items are pooled at the end of the counter. You hurriedly pack your own bags, thankful for the little metal divider that allows for two sets of groceries to collect, providing you a solid four minutes to pack your bags. Returning the cart, retrieving your Franc, and walking to the bus you feel triumphant. And awkward. And heavy. Surely you can’t need this many groceries. By the time you reach the apartment you have sworn off the purchasing of canned goods for a diet consisting of cotton candy, marshmallows, and puffed cereals.

You unpack your groceries and start to set out the ingredients for one of your favorite recipes - one you have made so many times that you know it by heart. It starts with five cups of broth and one cup of rice. The only measuring device you can find is in grams. How many grams of rice in a cup? How many (not joking, the package was labeled this way) deci-liters of broth are in five cups? A quick trip to the magical internet machine gives you an approximate answer and you are on your way. Isn’t making dinner relaxing? I bet you can't wait until breakfast tomorrow.

Red Tape in Switzerland

This is my feeble attempt to represent the convoluted process that we are going through to move here officially. For each item (ex. Bank Account) all of the required items are indicated by red arrows (ex. Mailing Address, Phone Number, Work Contract, Passport, and Declaration of Residency). 

As you can see, many of these arrows form loops. Loops can be frustrating. 

The Mailing Address is the biggest problem. It is required for almost every step, including the application for a new apartment. Most of the official institutions, including the bank and department of migration, do not want to ship to temporary addresses. In fact, if your name is not on the mailbox, your mail will be sent to the main post office of your region and destroyed. Your name cannot be put on the mailbox without being declared with your landlord. The bank will not hand you account cards, only mail them. These facts led to one of the other post-docs having his account closed because the letter officially opening the account could not be delivered (his name was not on the box). 

As we continue to navigate this quagmire, we will keep you posted. For now, we must run to the post office. 

Welcome to Lausanne.

 Kris and I have arrived in Lausanne, and considering we have just moved to a new continent, things are going quite well. The city is beautiful, the couple we are living with are wonderful, and with the exception of jet-lagged we are feeling quite well. The journey here started with a slight hitch in the form of Cleveland Airport’s grumpiest customer service representative. Standing in line with all of our bags Kris and I were eyeing her up and saying how everything should go well as long as we didn’t get her. It was clear that at noon she had already had a very long day. We were pleased when we were called over by a friendly young woman, only to have her call over Mrs. Angryface for help. She promptly took over the interaction and tried to tell us that our final destination was London, not Geneva. After trying to gently explain that the leg to London was part of our return trip, she told me that clearly I must have booked wrong. After asking her to at least look at our printed itinerary, which she took like I was handing her a bag of dog droppings, she continued to tell us we were wrong. It got frustrated, to which she handed me back the itinerary and told me she wasn’t going to help me anymore.

 Eventually things got straightened out, and our interaction with her turned out to be the worst part of the trip. Our flight crews were friendly, our planes were on time, and Kris’s boss was kind enough to pick us up in Geneva and drive us to Lausanne. The couple we are living with have given us the living room as our home, which conveniently has a door to allow for a little privacy. After dropping off our bags, we left to buy cell phones and some groceries. Like those in much of Europe, the stores in Switzerland are closed on Sundays, so finding food was one of our top priorities. Fanny and Vic live within walking distance of the city center, so we walked down and after only a few wrong turns found our way. Cell phones and food in hand, we walked home and took a much-needed nap.

View from our window. 

 In the interest of showing us around, Fanny and Vic took us to the lake for a picnic with some of their friends. At this point I should mention that the couple we are living with - along with all of their friends - are French. Considering I can see France from my window, this isn't surprising. All of my previous interactions with Europeans were in Hamburg. So not only Germans, but north Germans. All those stereotypes about punctuality and cleanliness and eating french fries with forks: that is where they come from. Switzerland has a greater diversity of cultures, being a mix of the french, german, and italian cultures they border on. Lausanne, the city we are living in, is 40% non-Swiss residents. Our picnic clearly pulled more from the French side: showing up fashionably late, eating with our hands, and sharing bottles of French wine. All in all, it was a wonderful first evening.

Picnic on the lake. Those mountains you see across the lake? France.

 The next day Fanny and Vic took us to the "beach," which apparently counts as any bit of land next to the water. Our particular bit of grass had people speaking French, Italian, English, German, and at least two other languages Kris and I couldn't identify. The water was cool, there was plenty of shade, and walking in view of Lake Geneva, the Alps, and numerous vineyards certainly made for a beautiful day.

Monday morning marked the start of the great logistical marathon, which - by the looks of it - will last at least a month. After going to the university to talk to his department secretary, we were sent to the information desk. The information desk sent us to HR. HR sent us back downtown to the Department of Migration. At the Department of Migration we fumbled through with a man who only spoke French, initiating our B-permits. The B-permits are our long-term visas for living in the country. We have already been approved for them by the country, but apparently they have to be issued by the state. This requires the straight-forward process of:
1) Arriving with the D-permit and approval for the B-permit, then initializing the B-permit process.
2) Waiting 4-6 weeks for a letter to come in the mail telling you to go to the Biometrics Center.
3) Going to the Biometrics Center, having your photo and fingerprints taken, and then waiting for that information to be sent back to the Department of Migration.
4) Waiting 2-4 more weeks for the Department of Migration to issue an official B-permit.

This, of course, is further complicated by the fact that we are living at a temporary address. The days since have been filled with a mix of logistics, cooking, and starting our apartment application. It is about 20 pages long. I will save that story for another day.

Despite all the running around (we had to go back to the Department of Migration two days later to get an attestation of residency in order to open a bank account) Kris and I are getting used to the city and the time-zone. We have taken some pictures and found a grocery store we like. We have public transportation passes and an almost regular sleep schedule.

Hopefully I will have more exciting stories soon. Please feel free to write or Skype us. We know the time difference is awkward.

Au Revoir! Amanda and Kris