I counted 147 cows and one roadside donkey on my way to the grocery store this morning. It's my Swiss version of 'I Spy'. Amelia shouts "Cows, mooooo" with a glee I could never muster for such large, filthy animals while I use my imagination to turn them all into filet mignon.
Everyone comments that I only wear black these days. It's the French in me, I tell them, though I subconsciously wonder if I'm mourning fast food. Black dresses, black shoes---I even don the black fingernails. Why am I not adorned in yellow in the land of paradise with my 147 cattle?
I miss noise---the rumbling of the gas guzzling SUV; the high decibel American conversations; the Stephanie Peck's of the world.
I miss the unrefined.
Everyone is so damn proper here. I can't even drink out of a Coke can without receiving bewildered stares. Silly me! Where are my manners? I must have left them behind with my fine crystal glasses.
Back in the states, where anything goes, where nobody gives a damn, I used to grocery shop in my flannels and rain boots. Here, I feel underdressed picking out spaghetti sauces in an evening gown.
Even though I knew we would be here for at least a few years, a part of my subconscious always thought they would deport me for my disrespectful attitude towards aged cheeses. I just recently realized we've been here for an entire two years. I can't believe I've survived this long without a Taco Bell Gordita Crunch, let alone thrived. We're doing well here, and as much as I'm missing Kyle Wiese karaoke nights and wine dates with the girls, I can say I'm okay. This is a segment of my life I will one day look back upon and see quite differently. I think Switzerland will have a certain invaluable charm when it's well in my past; when I one day accept the wonder outside of my American close-mindedness; when I finally see it with Amelia's eyes.