Enter: Earl. Academic Director of our program. The most quintessential Swiss man you could imagine. Soft spoken, magical hand gestures, French accent with a hint of British, quizzical facial expressions, etc. etc. Nous aimons Earl.

Ma Famille

The whole process of meeting our host families was a little bizarre. We sat along the wall in a hotel conference room and waited (with terror, at least on my part, after being informed my family spoke ZERO english, which is true) for the families to arrive. Mine, the Andrés, were the first to show up, with a picture of me that we had to send in with the application in hand. I met the mother, Catherine, who quickly proved to me that I would become her own daughter quite quickly. The only thing that I had heard about my family before meeting them was that Catherine loves to cook and loves it even more when others love to eat her food. She tells me that she expects all of her students to gain a good bit of weight when staying with her-which shouldn't be too hard since we had steak fondue with rice and cheese for lunch the day I got there. At every meal (actually, at every conversation, regardless if there's food or not), I am told in some way or another that all the food in the house is mine, asked if I want any food, or told to eat more food...Ce qui est dans le frigo est le mien. C'est mon frigo (everything in the fridge is mine, it's my refrigerator).

Which brings me to my next point-no one speaks English. At all. I can understand most everything that is said (even on top of the extremely heavy Spanish accent my host mom has), but responding is a little harder, so hand gestures and roundabout descriptions/awkward synonyms are a must. Catherine is Spanish (speaks Spanish, French, Italian) and the father, Richard, is Swiss. There are 2 kids, Valentin (12) and Helène (14) plus Igor, the golden retriever (who might as well be considered one of the children...he takes family vacations to Spain...) living at home. Valentin takes Judo lessons and wants to be a police officer when he grows up, and Helene wants to be a doctor, which is actually a pretty legitimate claim, even at her age, because this is her final year of obligatory schooling, after which she will choose to continue her studies rather than go into apprenticeship (our version of an internship but more of a vocational training without school). For a 14 year old, Helene is one of the most mature and well-spoken people I have ever met. She took me on a tour of their Village, Yens, and was more knowledgeable about its history and happenings than I think I am about all of the United States, let alone Atlanta.

Speaking of Yens, it's absolutely breathtaking. All of the students on the program live in a small village outside of Geneva, because we have class in both Geneva and Nyon (both reachable by train). My house is surrounded my miles of vineyards (apparently Switzerland is known for their wine?) in every direction, and the view from this hillside wonderland is a horizon of neighboring France along a backdrop of the Alps (in which the Andres have a ski chalet, to be visited next weekend...yikes). In the 'commercial' part of the village, there is a school, playground, church, and BAKERY. A necessary establishment in every town here. Bummer...

Sundays are a day of rest, and most everything is closed, so we are spending the day relaxing and watching the snow...baking pastries (a favorite pastime of Helene) and playing with Igor. Rough life...

À Genève

3 days at a hostel and I've finally settled in. For those of you who are actually reading this and know me, which I'd hope is everyone cause if not, that would be a bit strange, I'm not very good at these types of things. But here goes- my apologies in advance...

As our plane crossed over the Alps (which were taller than the clouds...who knew real mountains even existed?), it seemed only fitting that none other than Miley's "Party in the USA" came on my iPod. Welcome to Europe. My first experience of a full meal on an airplane was...exactly what I expected. They served apple danishes for dessert, and in failed efforts to heat the frozen cakes up, we managed to turn our first European pastry into an apple pancake. Erin and Nicole can attest. Ick.

Everyone has told me to bring back either chocolate or watches from Switzerland, and from the second I stepped off the plane, it was pretty clear that finding the latter wouldn't be a problem. The walls of the airport in Geneva are lined with ads, just like in America, but EVERY single one was for a different watch company, from Swatch to Rolex, they were all there (one could aptly call Tik Tok the theme song for this trip, especially after Erin and I were jammin on the plane...). No guarantees for souvenirs to the family though...funds are limited.

Upon getting in to the city, two observations made it glaringly evident that I was an American in Europe for the first time: Switzerland is expensive and Switzerland is quiet. About the first: exchange rate is pretty close to 1:1-i.e. it's pretty accurate to think of everything in terms of dollars. However, bagel and cream cheese at the airport=9.00 CHF. That's $9.00. for a bagel. Coffee runs between 5 and 6 CHF per cup, but its some of the best coffee I've ever tasted. So much so that I've quickly become accustomed to drinking it black.

Concerning the eerie silence here: Earl, our academic director-more to come later-told us during our first meeting that its simply not part of the Swiss culture to raise one's voice, and that couldn't be more evident. Friday we went in to the old city of Geneva in which there is a main road that cuts through the town. It was almost reminiscent of New York in the sense that there are tons of upscale shops and restaurants along a wide street packed with cars. The sidewalks are jammed with people, even on a weekday afternoon, but it's SILENT. I have heard 2 horns honk over 4 days, and you can hardly hear a single voice when walking down the street. No one talks on their cell phones on buses or trains even though those are the most popular methods of transportation. People automatically assume that our group is American simply because of the level of our voices, and it's pretty easy to find other Americans, as well. Poor Earl is probably going deaf during our class discussions because he speaks so softly, but all of our responses in comparison sound like we're shouting to be heard in a crowd. A product of American schools? I'll blame that...