I can't climb a mountain in my Louboutins....!

Yesterday I walked 14km - and part of it up a mountain....  Now - that in itself isn't a phenomenon - I'm used to hard exercise - usually in the form of a gruelling 1-hour hardcore session, 3 times a week with my personal trainer back in Streatham, who'd put me through my paces like a Royal Sergeant Major BUT in the comfort of my Virgin Gym, where there were no random deer staring at  me from the sidelines, or 80-year old men running (yes RUNNING) past me when I am half way up a steep mountain, thinking I'm on a par with Sir Ranulph Fiennes because I've managed to go a km without a snack.  Actually it was remarkably easy, and next time someone tells me they have climbed a mountain I'll be a lot less impressed than I used to be!

However, I am caught in something of a dilemma when it comes to 'dressing for the climb'..... I come from the school of thought that it doesn't do any harm to look the best you can when indulging in any activity - be it running, climing, bobsleigh, shot-put, sky diving, shopping or doing the housework... its ok to make an effort!!  One thing I have noticed since being here is that people (the women in particular) dress for comfort rather than fashion.  DON'T get me wrong - I know (now) that you can't climb a mountain in Louboutins (believe me though, if you could, I would...) and my wet-look leggings haven't made an appearance since I've been here.... but there is a happy medium and it is possible to be groomed, wear nice clothes and look feminine even if you are about to embark on a hike.  The men here manage to do it very well - they look great at all times, whether its in the office, in the pub, on the slopes or halfway up a mountain.  The Swiss Banker look (and salary) really does work - whatever the occasion, trend or season.  But the women just can't seem to get it right - you're either faced with BOBFOC (Body of Baywatch, Face of Crimewatch) when a tall, skinny chick with an amazing figure appears in front of you in a queue, and you're just starting to feel the heart-stabbing pangs of jealousy, and then they turn around and either have a face like Jimmy Saville on a bad day, or one that has been lifted so high that they must have had to get a 'hollywood' on their chin.... 

Either that or they just succumb to the housewife/frumpy/stay-at-home lifestyle and let themselves go to the point that when you do see them (albeit not very often) with the aforementioned banker husband, they look like they're the housekeeper allowed out on on a rare day away from scrubbing floors.  The funny thing is that I have never ever in my life seen so many hairdressers and beauty salons per square foot than I have here.... WHO GOES TO THEM?  Maybe the men?!  I finally realised why, (back in around 1990 when it was slightly popular among teenagers in the UK) there was suddenly a shortage of that awful 'cherry red' DIY hair dye which never really returned.  Did it die out forever?  Was it proven to be dangerously full of E numbers or chemicals?  Was it so unpopular that it couldn't sell (you'd think...)!  but no..... it was all being shipped over here!  To serve the women of Zurich for the next millennium....  and don't even get me started on the mullets.... .  I'd bet that you're as likely to see 'Red Mullet' here on a hairdresser's price list as you are in a seafood restaurant!

Luckily my impending unemployment has meant that I have avoided clothes shops for the most part, but a week or so ago (see previous post) it became prevalent that I was in dire need of a new black jumper so I had no choice but to venture out to find one.  I was aghast (but also relieved in the short term) to find that 'good quality affordable high street stores' do not exist here.  I had to choose between spending 2500 francs on a beautiful, perfectly cut, cashmere Chanel black polo neck, or going to BIG (yes this really is a clothes store - the male version being BIG BOYZ) for a misshapen equivalent that was made of a material that would have rendered me a fire hazard had I gone within a km of a naked flame.  It seems to be that the wealthy women of Switzerland (which is pretty much all of them) progress from wearing nothing but cheap tat and flammable acrylic until they hit 50 at which point they have so much botox that if they cracked a smile (not that many of them would) they'd split their face, and then make up for the years of not buying decent clothes by hitting the designer gear so hard that they adorn themselves in so much of it, all at once, at all times.....  It just is not attractive to see every possible logo, insignia and monogram draped on one person, all at the same time, who can barely walk because they are weighed down by the layers and lashings of gold, leather and fur, and whose husband has already run off with the secretary anyway - because even acrylic is more fetching than BOBFOC (as long as she's kept away from the fire)....

Now - don't get me wrong when I say the guys always get it right... Yes they seem to make more of an effort and generally know how to groom themselves to a higher standard, BUT white jeans, over-gelled hair, pastel over-the-shoulder sweaters and a serious air of arrogance and one-upmanship can be very off-putting.  Not to mention the fact that a Porsche here is as common as a red double decker bus in London and to be honest I'd rather be hopping onto a 133 bus in Streatham, knowing the only sacrifice would be £1 off my trusty Oyster card, rather than a mind numbingly boring journey to work with a mind numbingly boring, overly fragranced, hair-gelled-to-lego-head, pastel jumper wearing playboy whose only large appendage is his Gucci man-bag....

Needless to say, my initial fears that I'd arrive here, in my soon-to-be-unemployed status, to be the only female that can't afford to look good in a world of designer-dressed beauties, were short lived.  Beauty really is only skin deep, but moreso when the skin is one's own, and in the same (or thereabouts) part of the body that it was intended to be in......  Style on the other hand, is something that needs a bit more work in these parts of the world.  Anon...!

Highs (heels) and Lows (income)...

I promised myself when I started this blog that I'd write about the lows as well as the highs.  When I decided to pack up and start a new life, the one thing that I knew was inevitable was that there would be some really fantastic times, but that there would be some really low points too.

So, yesterday I hit a low. 4 weeks in, and the honeymoon is over!  The impending unemployment, the inability to understand a word that people are saying, the strange surroundings, the remoteness from friends and family, and the total and utter isolation have all finally hit me, like a giant slap in the face - all at once!  No gradual slide  / slow burn / easy entry into it - just a great big rude awakening all at once!

My (probably unrealistic) positivity that I'd arrive in Switzerland, descend the steps of my learjet (never mind that we drove) - hair blowing in the (non-frizz-inducing) Swiss air, all glitz and glamour, and make such a great impression that the first person I met would fall at their feet to offer me a fantastic, high-flying job with an amazing salary and a sports car to go with it.....hasn't quite panned out the way it did in my (clearly over-active) imagination.  Add to that the fact that my 'I'll pick it up in an instant' attitude towards the German (not to mention Swiss German?!) language was totally unfounded... and I'm amazed I lasted this long without falling hard and fast into the pit of 'why? how? when? what?!' questions that I am now starting to ask myself. 

'Its only natural' I keep telling myself (as do my friends) but that doesn't really ease the mental pain when I find myself desperately longing for a hooded, limping gangster of St. Reatham to slam into me in the street, spit at my feet and mug the nearest pensioner just to give me a glimmering taste of home...

4 weeks in an office where the most I've spoken is to myself, in the loo when I had to give myself a talking to after bursting into tears at my desk when I received a parcel from friends in London filled with all of my favourite things - gossip magazines (with D list celebrities I've actually heard of in them), books (in English!), M&S Bucks Fizz (I know, I know...) etc. I think the lowest point came after a day at work in the silent office, having been rejected for a job I could have done standing on my head (and would have, given half the chance), walking home in the pouring rain (because the buses only go every 30 mins after 4pm and I can't afford a cab)... to find myself watching 3 hours of German TV (seriously - 'enders in German?!), wearing a jumper with holes in it (because I can't afford a new jumper), drinking cheap beer out of a can (ditto champagne), eating the Swiss version of Peperami (because they don't have real Peperami here),  and wondering where the fairytale life was that I'd given MY fairytale life up for.... maybe I'll find it tomorrow....

Fon-due excuse me while I just go and puke....

Ok, so I wanted to embrace the Swiss way of life, and what better way than to have a bunch of people round for fondue?!.....  Especially for a cheese lover like me.  Sounded like the perfect plan.  4 people, a kilo of cheese (yes this is the correct amount for 4 apparently), and a few bottles of wine.  What could possibly go wrong?

Well - first and foremost I discover that fondue is (contrary to what I initially thought) not just a block of cheddar whacked in a pan and melted with a bucketload of plonk to water it down and liven it up and get you pissed enough to stop caring that you're eating enough fat to literally increase your bum size from TopShop to Evans in one meal sitting.  There is actually a special cheese blend (the 40 Swiss Francs blend as I now know it..) and a special 'art' to this creation of bubbling gooey heart-attack in a pan.

The initial taste of a roasted mushroom dipped into the heavenly mixture rendered me speechless (not least because my throat was filled with a viscous liquid that was rapidly solidifying and blocking my airway), with a taste that was simply divine.  So much so that once I'd resucitated myself with a hybrid move combining a self administered Heimlich maneoevre with a bird-like regurgitation reflex (which I felt I managed to do quite stealthily in the company of guests!), I went straight in for the next dip, and the next and the next and the next....all washed down with a giant glass of red, thank you very much...

When I finally managed to get up from my seat, I thought someone had put rocks into my pockets - it took me a while to realise that actually I'd probably just eaten my own bodyweight in cheese-soaked snacks, and hence had to readjust to my new stomach which was clearly growing a cheese baby, (obviously named Baby-Bel) who was going to be born encased in an easy-to-remove red wax sheath and pop out singing that Ba-ba-ba-ba-Babybel song from the advert whilst wearing a cheesy grin..............aaaaaargh!!!!!  Oh, it's ok - its just a horrendous, torturous hallucination of a nightmare, brought on by an overdose of cheese.... phew.

Needless to say - I won't be having fondue for a while......
Raclette anyone?

The day of (forced) rest.... no one forces me to do anything!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So, I am the laughing stock of my new group of friends  - one of whom texted me on Saturday to ask 'what are you up to tomorrow?' to which I innocently and truthfully replied 'probably another trip to Ikea followed by a flat-pack assembly session'.    Next time I saw 'the group' I wondered what all the sniggering was about until one of them eventually asked me...'so, how far did you get until you realised Ikea doesn't open on Sundays here, and nobody does any kind of DIY on a Sunday!  In some cantons (that's like a borough btw) you can get fined for making too much noise on a Sunday'.....

JESUS!  I'm surprised Swiss people even fart on a Sunday!!!

Anyway - needless to say I didn't get very far - Dan kindly informed me as I was donning my coat and (heeled) boots with my 'come on, lets hop to it' expression, mini pencil and paper measuring tape at the ready, that Ikea, and every other shop in the whole city was shut on a Sunday except for those in the main train station.

So, after an enjoyable yet somewhat surreal afternoon in the train station, including lunch in a train station restaurant, and the purchase of some much-needed hosiery in the train station equivalent of Sock Shop, I at least managed to achieve the tiniest glimmer of Sunday retail therapy, albeit a barely-there one.....

Anyway - luckily Ikea reopened on the Monday, and then the only dilemma we were faced with was whether to go to Ikea Dietikon or Ikea Dietlikon - yes, they are 2 different stores.  In different parts of Switzerland.  Separated by just an L in name.... not confusing at all??  Especially as most of the other towns here end in '...kon' (pronounced 'corn') or '...egg' (pronounced 'egg').... I'll talk about that another time.