United with my states

Homeland Is Where the Heartland Is

After a lo-ong few weeks, we are back in the US o'A. We've had a pleasantly surreal few days here in Seattle, in our own country but feeling as foreign as could be. We seem to require a brief retraining on the basics of American culture. The things which bothered us in CH somehow became normal. Now, for instance, I must remind myself that eye contact is not creepy.

The niceness of the US, Seattle in particular, must be overwhelming for complete newcomers. Why would the guy giving my sandwich tell me to "take care" in such a nice way? Why! And the constant smiling! Where do they come up with all the extra energy for this? It may be a sign of idiocy in some cultures, but to me it represents a kind of openness and care I never really noticed in my own people before. I am enjoying this generous perspective at the moment – beatific, really.

Though Swiss Ms. has plenty of other observations about Seattle, she's not sure whether she will continue public broadcast of them in the future. There's a time when enough is enough and one commentator more may be one commentator too many. (Also, it's hard to be a luddite and a blogger at the same time.) But she thanks you kindly for your attention and interest over the past few years and wishes you well in your own endeavors at home, abroad, or hovering interstitially in the blogosphere. Also, she heartily suggests, should any opportunity to escape your daily grind for a season or so arise, that you take it. A bit of early retirement is good for the soul, completely worth paying for later.

Not far from the 'fest

ahhaHA! You thought this post was going to be about how sad we are to miss Oktoberfest this year. But it's not! It's about our first official excursion from Seattle to Leavenworth, Washington's own little Bavarian village. We are planning it already. They have everything Munich has (sausages, overpriced Paulaner, Bavarian flags) and more (pulled pork! baked beans! The Smilin' Scandanavians!). The only thing missing, really, is Germans. But will we even notice that when we are listening to the festive tunes of the Polkatones, S-BAHN, and Alpenfolk? Seriously, can you even guess whether this is in Munich or Leavenworth?

Adesso BASTA!

I shall truly miss the excitement of getting the mail each day; surely it will never again be so entertaining or enlightening. In today's mail, a flyer against the proposed increase in value-added tax and a petition to keep banking secrecy in the Swiss constitution remind me that "Ticino is in danger!" Warning well taken, UDC – these foreigners are outie!

"Banking secrecy is part of our identity!"

This furniture ad made me laugh every time we passed it. Binacci multiplies my happiness.

Total eclipse of the heart

Also, this picture of Angela from the NY Times reminds me of a 70s album cover.

Kein Heineken!

Today (American Labor Day) may have seemed like a good time to pop open a bottle of Keineken. But sadly, you may have a hard time getting hold of one, due to the patent infringement proceedings initiated by Heineken, in which a (Swiss) judge ordered the beer to be confiscated. Keineken was in fact created to protest Heineken's recent takeover of Eichhof (with a nod to Unser, another protest beer formed after Carlsberg's takeover of Feldschlösschen).

But I say, let the Northern Europeans have your lame stinky lagers! What pride is there in those? How much better (and more Swiss) would it be to have instead a collection of cantonal microbreweries, cranking out a nice variety of beer that actually tastes good? Leave the oversized cans to 14-year-olds. Drink watery lager at a football game. And demand more from your breweries. This is my advice, CH. I hope you take it. If not, please lower the import tax on German beer.

Special papal blessing

"May The Force be also with you."

The Helvetians

Because, daft Protestants that we are, Swiss Mr. and I were unable to locate Pope Benedict during his Sunday noon blessing on St. Peter's Square, we had to watch his address on the jumbotron outside the Basilica with girls in short shorts. Had a few things been different, it could have been the final scene from a romantic comedy. I hear your voice, I see you on the screen, where are you, XVI? It's noon and I'm here but you will never know I came like you asked. You will go back into your papal residence and I will get on my discount airline and we shall never know what could have been between us. Vale in aeternam, my love.

As it turned out, we had neither romance nor comedy nor blessing. We might as well have been watching CTV at home. And this may have been better because we would have heard more than mrhmpf hurnf blerb grazie. So we missed the Pope but had plenty of time to unblessedly gawk at his colorful guards. They don't seem very Ticinesi, as I sort of assumed they might be, but it was still nice to see some fellow compatriots. They chat photogenically.

"The Helvetians are a people of warriors, famous for the valor of their soldiers." –Tacitus

In case you couldn't put your finger on it, "the colors which make the uniform so attractive are the traditional Medici blue, red and yellow, set off nicely by the white of the collar and gloves. The blue and yellow bands give a sense of lightness as they move over the red doublet and breeches" (The Vatican). And in case you were thinking these colors look really nice on you, here are the criteria for joining the Guardia Svizzera Pontificia:

They're apparently considering to allow women into the Guard. First Swiss Guard then the Camerlengo, I know it: the Helvetians are going to bust the Vatican wide open.

We're back, with the experienced knowledge of why most Romans leave Rome in August: it hot. Thankfully, Rome is a fountainful city and we kept relatively cool by fountain-hopping. Swiss Mr. was predictably enamored by this one near Augustus' tomb.

One last trip this weekend - to Rome! I plan to eat and drink myself silly – a fitting conclusion, I think, to this lovely life pause I've been enjoying. And then I will store up these memories like treasures for use in dire situations, like when I cannot bear another rainy day or find it impossible to get out of bed or get attacked by a shark in Puget Sound. Nothing wrong with a few secret vacation hits to get you through the withdrawal.

Having rather ignorantly prepared Pasta all'Amatriciana for some time now, I look forward to tasting a real Roman version. Or at least a realer version. There is (surprise!) some dispute among Italians over what constitutes real Amatriciana sauce; ingredients vary by location. But in Amatrice, the town outside of Rome where the recipe originated, real Amatriciana sauce uses guanciale (pork cheek), spaghetti, and avoids THAT ROMANO STUFF. (Technically that part is one of the few parts of the recipe not in caps, but I don't feel out of line in using them here. I'm sure some Italians have shouted over this before.)

Here's the recipe I've used in the past if you'd like to try it; you'll notice in addition to being corrupted by Romano cheese, it's missing the pork cheek. (Oh Marcella, what will we do with you?) I'll let you know if this makes a difference when I get back. A dopo!

Pasta all'Amatriciana
Serves 4

2 tablespoons vegetable oil
1 tablespoon butter
1 medium onion, chopped finely
1/4 inch thick slice of pancetta, cut into strips 1/2 inch wide and 1 inch long
1 1/2 cups Italian plum tomatoes, drained and chopped
hot red chili pepper, chopped, to taste
salt
3 tablespoons Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese
2 tablespoons Romano cheese
1 pound pasta (bucatini (hollow spaghetti) is traditional in Rome)

Put the oil, butter, and onion in a saucepan and turn on the heat to medium. Sauté the onion until pale gold, then add the pancetta. Cook for about 1 minute, stirring once or twice.

Add the tomatoes, the chili pepper, and salt, and cook in the uncovered pan at a steady, gentle simmer for 25 minutes, being careful it doesn't burn.

Taste and correct for seasonings

Toss the pasta with the sauce, then add both cheeses, and toss thoroughly again.

Maggia

Our recent trip into Val Maggia this weekend reminded me how we never got around to visiting Spluga, a little community of old stone cottages in the Giumaglio valley where we once planned to stop overnight during a long hike.


The Swiss love to hike (or steadily plod, as "Hiking the Swiss Way" explains). The entire country is a network of well-marked trails, so it's quite easy to have a lovely excursion wherever you may travel. High in the mountains you can all kinds of small cabins at which you can stop, sleep, and eat. At least in Ticino, these capanne (huts) are beautiful old stone houses, with just enough accommodation so that you can sleep and have a meal indoors before continuing on your next leg. If you're lucky someone's nonna will be cooking you some polenta, but that's not very common.

When I retire for real, I'd like to return to Ticino and find my own stone house (though preferably the kind that has been finished inside with modern Swiss über-quality), perhaps in a village needing an eccentric expat to nonna some street urchins and tame the local cats. If you saw these sweet little villages nestled into these magical, foresty valleys, you'd be planning this, too. Only Swiss Mr. seems immune to the siren call of these towns: these are solo retirement plans. I find it best not to think of the details of how this will work. No need to be overly practical when making dreamy life plans, anyway.

Did you know you can actually get a sunburn on your eyeballs? Even wearing sunglasses. Current experience proves it to me. It is not very pleasant. So be careful, my blue-eyed friends – protect yourselves. I'll be going granny-style from now on. I suggest you do, too.

I had planned to do a series on graffiti in honor of Banksy, revealing my secret anarchic tendencies, but it appears I have forgotten. Sad, Graffiti Week had a nice ring to it. Anyway, here are a few graffiti from our trip:


(Unrelated, of course, except in that they are both graffiti)

Please enjoy your Friday.

Bathroom advice

Though I try rigorously to avoid it, I've seen my fair share of public bathrooms recently. My three-pronged approach – drink as little as possible, breakfast strategically, avoid preemptive strikes (also known in some parts as "breaking the seal") – is quite robust but occasionally fails me on long trips, usually because I do something wussy like get thirsty. It is wise to weigh the options well before an emergency situation arises so as to avoid experiences it will take a lifetime or possibly extreme old age to forget. I am a big fan of the museum bathroom, my experience in the superheated, permanently-occupied National Gallery of Scotland toilet notwithstanding; hotel lobbies are also nice. But if you want plan this out way ahead of time and/or become a total bathroom snob, check out The Bathroom Diaries.

There you will find among other over-the-top bathroom venues this flowery "Golden Plunger" winner over at the Shoji Tabuchi Theatre. Down in Branson, Missouri, they prefer "good old-fashioned hedonism." Either this is one PDG bathroom or their fan base is not quite representative of the general public – I only know two other people who even have the pleasure of knowing about Shoji Tabuchi (up until this moment, of course). Anyway, Golden Plunger or not, who needs to visit Branson now that they make VHS tapes of the show?

Banksy, indoors

Swissify America!

I was going to comment on the Swiss health care system one of these days, in light of the ferocious debate going on in the US, but Paul Krugman beat me to it. As most of our past visitors know, we are big fans of the Swiss system and have long thought it would make a smart model for the US. To summarize it in short: every resident is required to have a minimum level of coverage, insurance companies (all private) have to make certain plans available and must accept all applicants, and the government provides assistance to families who need it. Finding a reasonable health care plan was surprisingly one of the easiest things to do here (considerably easier than getting access to the laundry). There were many companies from which to choose, even at the lowest level of coverage, and the policies were easy to compare. We chose the cheapest option possible and have received excellent (and, I might add, very high-tech) care. We have not one complaint (though my teeth are annoyed we did not add dental). Just my two francs' worth.

In which Swiss Ms. relates some real-life daydreams, gets temporarily nostalgic about weird things, and grudingly admits to missing her homeland

Sometimes I really long for a few American-style errands to run – the soothing and mindless Saturday morning kind. Slip into the car, catch familiar NPR voices in between purposeful jaunts, sip a coffee maybe, stop in somewhere you never have time for during the week, buy a book on World Religions from a yard sale, avoid the baseball traffic, put on Dick Biondi if the errands take too long and Garrison Keilor shows up. Or walk down to Kim's Hardware, overpay for a specialty tool, write a check for the box of vegetables next door, and stroll home. (Actually huff my way home, since I am carrying the big box of vegetables, but feeling pleased about the exercise I won't have to do later. Also everyone will be impressed and feel guilty when they hear I've done it myself.) I can think of a thousand versions of Saturday morning and somehow they all seem pleasant to me. Especially if we happen to run into Kim and Ryan.

I am overlooking the hateful truth in these real-life daydreams, of course. That is, that errands always take longer than you think, chomp up your fresh weekend energy, and leave you really hungry in the middle of the afternoon with a stupid amount of time left in the day. Distance makes the heart grow fonder, my mom recently pointed out, even of inanimate objects. I guess we can add "horrible and grueling tasks" as well. Maybe this is why I also feel nostalgic about cleaning graffiti off our building? And why people run more than one marathon?

The real story is that, despite loving so many things about the lovely lifestyle and setting and culture here, it is about time to come home. It's hard for me to admit that, by the way, like I'm exposing some sissy weakness. I never was the kid crying to go home at the end of camp, I swear. I was the one conspiratorially telling my parents in the car how some suckers actually had to call their parents in the middle of the week. It's not really about the errands or having a car or writing checks (which if nothing else is way more satisfying than making a bank transfer, by the way). I don't even think it's about feeling purposeful. I'm not sure what it's about. It's just the mystery of home.

Sorry, no time for posts lately. Been drinking beer.

“Pronto? Sono il piromane…”

Hooray! Lugano's rogue pyromaniac, responsible for a good number of local building and dumpster fires over the years, has been captured. Not long after he called the local newspaper to identify himself as "Serial Fire" and have a chat about his handiwork last week, the police caught up with him. (Bragging always gets you caught, I know that from my own experience stealing library books.) Anyway, it was fun to have a real Lugano supervillain while it lasted

You can find the full (Italian) transcript of the whole weird conversation (which begins, "Hello? I am the pyromaniac from yesterday's fires...") here.