It turns out that being pregnant is a great way to meet people. It also helps to be the wife of a physicist. Who'd have thought it? I'd always assumed that being the size of a blimp and spending too much time with science geeks would be a sure way to ward of new friends. But since arriving in France I've been lucky to meet lots of new folk. It helps that Geneva is only 50% populated by Swiss people - I've nothing against them at all, but it means that the other 50% that also live in the city have created a brilliant network for getting to know people. Making new friends since moving here has been a strange kind of chain reaction, leading me from one new set of people to the next, each overlapping slightly with the previous in one way or another.
Being pregnant helps. There are lots of networks for new mums and expectant mums in the area, and when I arrived in Geneva a friend from back in the UK, currently living in Geneva, recommended a great MeetUp network called Geneva Mums, Tots and Bumps which, as the name suggests, links up mums with babies and ladies with bumps for a whole range of useful things. Aside from the website, which has a really useful discussion forum for asking questions and sharing information, they also organise meetups, playdates, activities, nights out and lots more, as well as simply allowing mums to be in touch with each other to arrange their own activities if they wish. Not forgetting dads - who are also catered for with nights out. Every month the group organises a 'Sushi and Sucklings' event, so-named because its geared towards parents with babies under 6 months old and expectant mums, and we meet at a sushi restaurant in central Geneva. I went along to the lunch in September for the first time and although the location was a little puzzling - you're not recommended to eat sushi in pregnancy (but there are noodles and rice dishes on the menu too) - it was great to meet other ladies in the same position, to share worries, and to hear reassuring birth stories from those whose little bundles have already arrived. At CERN there is also a toddler group that meets on Tuesdays and Fridays, and although I got a few odd looks for turning up without a toddler (who knew there are entry requirements?), there are also a few mums among them who are expecting their second (or third) child soon, so it's been nice to meet other CERN wives in a similar position.
The toddler group is run as an off-shoot of the 'Cernoises', the wonderful name for the Women's Club at CERN, which is largely made up of CERN wives and which serves as an umbrella organisation for a whole range of other activities. My weekly French classes are run by the Women's Club, and they also run classes in embroidery, art, music, gymnastics and yoga - as well as running monthly coffee mornings. It sounds pretty old-fashioned - and it is - but it's brilliant having a network of people who are so welcoming of newbies. Somehow, I've been coerced into doing some baking and jam-making for the Christmas Fair in late November, so as you can see my career as a full-time lady of leisure and budding WI member is blossoming.
In fact, that's not all. I've also joined a knitting group. Strictly speaking it's a needlework group, because we're not all knitters - there are embroiderers, patchwork makers, people who crochet and so on - but we get together once a week to make our own things and have a chat over a cup of tea. Very 1950s. I've only been to one meeting so far but I took home-made shortbread (can you see my WI halo glowing?) which went down rather well, so I think I'll be welcomed back. The knitting group came about through another new acquaintance, albeit a slightly random one. I answered a query on the CERN Market - a kind of advertising board for people who want to announce flats to let, cars to sell, baby equipment to give away and all manner of other activities or opportunities - from someone looking to organise a Come and Sing Messiah at CERN. I emailed to say I'd like to take part and received a reply saying that as well as looking for singers they were also looking for people to help organise it... Despite my best intentions I revealed my former career as a Freelance Arts Manager. Needless to say, I'm now organising it. The lady who emailed originally also happens to live in my village, and goes along to the knitting group - and so another link in the chain was added...
But the people in the knitting group surpassed themselves. That night, after my first visit to the group, I received an email which had been sent out to 'the ladies of Logras'. It turns out that the lady who hosts the knitting group knows pretty much all the ex-pats in my village and took it upon herself to announce the arrival of Jo Buckley in the village. I felt a bit like royalty. 'Please get in touch with Jo and meet up with her, she'd love that', the email said. The very next morning, two emails arrived in my inbox inviting me to two separate parties within the next week. My social life is being coordinated for me! The shortbread must have been really good.
Saturday, 27 October 2012
Sunday, 21 October 2012
Beautiful Annecy
We've been waiting for a nice day to take a trip to Annecy, and yesterday we finally got it. Blue skies, sunshine and 20 degrees - even in mid-October - it was perfect and we had a lovely day out. Andy played squash first thing in the morning while I took the rabbit to the vets (she's very much on the mend, described by the vet as 'the perfect patient'), and after the customary Saturday-morning-croissant, we set off for Annecy around 11.30am. Our sat-nav, affectionately known as Shaun (as many of you who have met him will know), excelled in taking us up the most weird and windy back-roads to avoid the expensive Geneva-Annecy toll road, which despite the short distance will set you back 20 euros for a return trip.
Annecy is known for its beautiful crystal-clear lake, the canal that runs through the old town and its picturesque old buildings, and it certainly didn't disappoint. It's a stunningly beautiful place, very fairytale-esque, and with such good weather we had one of the nicest days we've had since coming here. One of the most famous views of the town is that of the old prison, which floats in the middle of the canal, flanked by colourful old houses and cafes on either side. A swan obligingly swam up the canal for us just as I was capturing this lovely vista:
 |
| The canal and the old prison (left) |
 |
| Tartiflette: totally delicious and absolutely no calories |
 |
| Sometimes your mouth just isn't big enough... |
 |
| YUM |
We were pretty lazy tourists, it has to be said. We looked up and admired the castle, but decided against taking the steep climb up to see it properly. Instead, we walked off our lunch with a saunter around the pretty old town with its many shops and cafes, and then headed out to see the lake.
 |
| Bump goes to Annecy |
 |
| Old town streets |
Aside from the clear blue water, the lake is striking for being flanked by some amazing cliffs which Andy spent a while gazing at longingly, trying to work out how accessible they might be for climbing.
It's pretty rare for me to convince Andy to spend a day wandering aimlessly around a pretty place, as good weather usually = climbing. But his little legs were worn out from his squash matches of the last few days so I made the most of our day of unhurried wandering, and we made a detour on the way home to visit the Gorges du Fier. This huge river gorge features some impressive rock erosion, and gets extra points for a big sign advertising 'Marmite du Geant' - not to be confused with the giant's jar of yeast extract, it's actually a huge hole in the rocks, named after a giant's cooking pot. Sadly the bridge that takes you around the rocks and across the gorge was closed for the winter, but what we saw from the entrance looked fairly impressive. One to take bump to next spring I think.
 |
| Gorges du Fier |
Thursday, 18 October 2012
The times they are a changing...
Today something terrible happened. I was browsing the condiments aisle in Migros, when I heard something awful coming over the in-store radio. A Christmas song. Not just any Christmas song, but some dreadful modern arrangement of Little Drummer Boy, sung as a duet with the girl warbling away with X Factor-esque trills and squawks. This is my least favourite of all the Christmas songs in any case (closely followed by The Pogues - I'm sorry, I just can't stand it) but on 18th October? I know we moan about Christmas being thrust down our throats too early in the UK but I'm pretty sure this is the earliest I've ever heard festive music being piped over the airwaves. There are Lebkuchen in the shops too, along with candy canes, Santa chocolates and other Christmassy things. I'm not sure I'm ready yet. Christmas means 8 months pregnant and the imminent arrival of a noisy little bundle - I need more sleep first.
On the plus side, the season changing has some other, much nicer, repercussions. We were away in Belfast over the weekend to visit Andy's parents and when we returned, the stretch of the Alps that we can see from here had become noticeably whiter. Usually it is just Mont Blanc that glows big and white on the horizon, with the rest of the mountain chain alongside it looking, well, brown and rocky. But now it is all noticeably snowier, and Andy is starting to get that worrying 'ooh, winter climbing' glint in his eye. This snowy spectacle is a little dangerous for drivers though: I'm sure there must be several accidents every year caused by people just gazing up at these amazing big mountains as they rattle along the dual carriageway.
The Jura mountains aren't high enough to have a snow dusting yet, but they too are changing. Carpeted from top to bottom in thick green forest, the Jura are now steadily turning golden as autumn sets in. It's hard to believe that less than two weeks ago we were sat outside in shorts and t-shirts having a barbeque, as the temperature has suddenly dropped. The days are still warm enough - around 16 degrees or so most days - but at night the temperature is hovering around freezing and there was a deep frost on Tuesday morning that didn't lift until lunchtime.
Now, I must deal with an important bit of other business. In my last blog I waxed lyrical about the food in France, essentially giving the impression that it's all fine patisserie and nice markets and that the French could do no wrong when it comes to food. I need to clarify the situation, because in the days after posting that, we experienced some of the worst food that Europe - never mind France - has ever seen. We went to stay in a hotel in Autrans, just outside Grenoble, for a couple of days, where Andy was attending a physics workshop and I was... well, tagging along for the ride. Aside from the fact that the hotel looked rather too much like it was once used as a Nazi mountain hideaway (built in 1939 too...), it had a swimming pool that I seemed to have to myself, cows clanging away in the fields and beautiful mountain scenery. The food, however, was categorically awful. Dinner on the first night was a piece of cremated meat and some stodgy pasta. No sauce. For lunch on the second day we were served some kind of pungent (i.e. on the wrong side of ripe) overcooked fish with a bizarre curry-esque sauce and cauliflower so over-boiled it was reduced to piles of mush. We couldn't wait to leave and promised ourselves that we'd get away that evening in enough time to stop at a nice restaurant on the way home to re-stock our bodies with nutrients. Unfortunately, Grenoble was too traffic-heavy to consider stopping so we ploughed onwards and had hit the motorway before we had managed to find anywhere. Becoming increasingly ravenous and grumpy with it, I insisted we stop at a motorway service station just outside Chambery. Surely the French, of all people, know how to do motorway services properly?
I will never speak ill of service station food in the UK again. Andy ordered a macaroni cheese and was presented with a dish of dry, brown tubes, all the life completely sucked out of them. I ordered a burger, which to be fair was cooked freshly for me, but which was served with totally disgusting, overboiled and totally inedible 'mixed vegetables'. We paid 20 euros for the privilege. When Andy plucked up the courage to take his macaroni back, trying to work out how to explain in French that he simply couldn't eat it, he began by saying, 'I'm sorry it's....' At which point the lady jumped in and said 'awful, I know. What would you like instead?'
Unfortunately, the evening got worse before it got better. We missed our turning on the way home and ended up at a Swiss border we didn't have permission to cross, or else we would end up on the Swiss motorway without a pass. On the approach, we were flashed by a speed camera. We then did an illegal u-turn in front of the police and had to drive 10km in the wrong direction before we could turn around and head for the correct turning. In turn, this meant we had to pay the motorway toll (péage) in both directions for 20km of road we didn't intend to travel upon. We're interested to see if the Swiss motorway authorities manage to track our car down to our UK address to send us the speeding ticket... Andy says, 'Of course they will. They're Swiss.'
On the plus side, the season changing has some other, much nicer, repercussions. We were away in Belfast over the weekend to visit Andy's parents and when we returned, the stretch of the Alps that we can see from here had become noticeably whiter. Usually it is just Mont Blanc that glows big and white on the horizon, with the rest of the mountain chain alongside it looking, well, brown and rocky. But now it is all noticeably snowier, and Andy is starting to get that worrying 'ooh, winter climbing' glint in his eye. This snowy spectacle is a little dangerous for drivers though: I'm sure there must be several accidents every year caused by people just gazing up at these amazing big mountains as they rattle along the dual carriageway.
The Jura mountains aren't high enough to have a snow dusting yet, but they too are changing. Carpeted from top to bottom in thick green forest, the Jura are now steadily turning golden as autumn sets in. It's hard to believe that less than two weeks ago we were sat outside in shorts and t-shirts having a barbeque, as the temperature has suddenly dropped. The days are still warm enough - around 16 degrees or so most days - but at night the temperature is hovering around freezing and there was a deep frost on Tuesday morning that didn't lift until lunchtime.
Now, I must deal with an important bit of other business. In my last blog I waxed lyrical about the food in France, essentially giving the impression that it's all fine patisserie and nice markets and that the French could do no wrong when it comes to food. I need to clarify the situation, because in the days after posting that, we experienced some of the worst food that Europe - never mind France - has ever seen. We went to stay in a hotel in Autrans, just outside Grenoble, for a couple of days, where Andy was attending a physics workshop and I was... well, tagging along for the ride. Aside from the fact that the hotel looked rather too much like it was once used as a Nazi mountain hideaway (built in 1939 too...), it had a swimming pool that I seemed to have to myself, cows clanging away in the fields and beautiful mountain scenery. The food, however, was categorically awful. Dinner on the first night was a piece of cremated meat and some stodgy pasta. No sauce. For lunch on the second day we were served some kind of pungent (i.e. on the wrong side of ripe) overcooked fish with a bizarre curry-esque sauce and cauliflower so over-boiled it was reduced to piles of mush. We couldn't wait to leave and promised ourselves that we'd get away that evening in enough time to stop at a nice restaurant on the way home to re-stock our bodies with nutrients. Unfortunately, Grenoble was too traffic-heavy to consider stopping so we ploughed onwards and had hit the motorway before we had managed to find anywhere. Becoming increasingly ravenous and grumpy with it, I insisted we stop at a motorway service station just outside Chambery. Surely the French, of all people, know how to do motorway services properly?
I will never speak ill of service station food in the UK again. Andy ordered a macaroni cheese and was presented with a dish of dry, brown tubes, all the life completely sucked out of them. I ordered a burger, which to be fair was cooked freshly for me, but which was served with totally disgusting, overboiled and totally inedible 'mixed vegetables'. We paid 20 euros for the privilege. When Andy plucked up the courage to take his macaroni back, trying to work out how to explain in French that he simply couldn't eat it, he began by saying, 'I'm sorry it's....' At which point the lady jumped in and said 'awful, I know. What would you like instead?'
Unfortunately, the evening got worse before it got better. We missed our turning on the way home and ended up at a Swiss border we didn't have permission to cross, or else we would end up on the Swiss motorway without a pass. On the approach, we were flashed by a speed camera. We then did an illegal u-turn in front of the police and had to drive 10km in the wrong direction before we could turn around and head for the correct turning. In turn, this meant we had to pay the motorway toll (péage) in both directions for 20km of road we didn't intend to travel upon. We're interested to see if the Swiss motorway authorities manage to track our car down to our UK address to send us the speeding ticket... Andy says, 'Of course they will. They're Swiss.'
Sunday, 7 October 2012
Fromage and financiers: Food in France
I had fairly high expectations about the food in France. I pictured myself cycling along to the local market and coming back with the basket laden with fresh vegetables, smelly cheeses, cured meats and of course the obligatory baguette sticking out at a jaunty angle. Breakfasts would be grabbed from the local patisserie and we would eat our dinner on the terrace each evening, making the most of the late evening sunshine, savouring the delicious salads and fresh quiche I had conjured up during my leisurely day at home, before finishing the meal off with a tart made with fruit from the garden.
To some extent, the food here has definitely lived up to my expectations. The fruit and vegetables here are a world apart form what we get in the UK. The melons taste amazing, so sweet that they are almost pungent, and the tomatoes are so good that you need very little else in a salad. It's all incredibly fresh and even though it's now October, the shops and markets are still full of what I would consider summer produce. I have made a few cakes with fruit from the garden and I think there has been one homemade quiche. But it's not all fromage and financiers. My first wake up call came with my first visit to the market in Thoiry one Sunday morning, where I was greeted with stall after stall of stinky cheese, heaps of the local cured sausages, and butchers selling amazing cuts of steak. It looked wonderful.
Lesson number one: all of the above are off the menu for pregnant ladies. True, you can have a steak if you like, but it needs to be well-done - and what's the point in massacring a good piece of meat? Cheese is fine, but not the stinky soft kind. And cured meats are only to be eaten if cooked, not savoured as part of a nice cold platter (also comprising the afore-mentioned cheeses) with a little glass of vin (also forbidden, bien sûr). It is actually pretty tough being pregnant in France. Of course, the French are quite laissez-faire about the whole thing: 'Wat eez ze problem weez a bit of toxoplasmosis fur yur bébé?' But in the UK we're a bit more strict, and I can't help feeling that I must do everything I can to keep the little octopus inside me safe and well.
All of which makes eating out quite difficult too. One Friday evening we decided we'd throw caution to the wind and venture out of our little village for a meal in a restaurant. Eating out costs roughly twice what it does in the UK, so it's not something we are doing very often. Expect to pay at least £20 for a run-of-the-mill pizza; a nice but not particularly special three-course meal with wine for one will set you back around 80-90 euros. We considered our options: steak restaurant, steak restaurant, steak restaurant... oh and a few places that do pizza. Some of the steak restaurants do have a few other items on the menu: goat's cheese salad (forbidden), foie gras (forbidden) and horse (not forbidden but no thanks). Unfortunately for Andy, for the next 4 months it's pizza all the way.
Lesson number two: the French only eat lunch between 12-2pm. Turn up at 1.45pm expecting a late lunch and you will be turned away and left to starve. We found this out to our cost the day we drove all the way up to the top of a mountain at 2.30pm only for them to turn away a ravenous pregnant lady without so much as a bit of baguette. But today we decided to try our luck again and ventured out to Gex in the hope that a bigger town might have more options for a leisurely Sunday lunch, and we got lucky. We chanced upon a lovely restaurant called Le Convivial, where Andy had the biggest steak tartare I've ever seen:
I had a delicious plate of guinea fowl with wild mushrooms, decorated with wild flowers. Sadly the camera didn't pick up just how colourful the plate was:
There were desserts too - pain perdu with caramelised pears for me and some tiny cakes called cannelés, which we'd never come across before, for Andy. They were both scrummy, but we scoffed them too quickly for me to get pictures.
Lesson number three: you are never more than two minutes walk from a patisserie. Really. How the French stay so slim is a mystery to me, given that every village is filled with the sweet smell of freshly-baked pastries. And in Saint Genis, just a short distance from CERN, they have one of the best patisseries around: Sebastien Brocard. So good it's won awards. This is how happy I was when Andy took me there on our first day:
Row upon row of beautifully-crafted little financiers, tartlets, macarons and exquisite celebration cakes.
And it doesn't say anything in the books about endangering your baby with one too many macarons.
To some extent, the food here has definitely lived up to my expectations. The fruit and vegetables here are a world apart form what we get in the UK. The melons taste amazing, so sweet that they are almost pungent, and the tomatoes are so good that you need very little else in a salad. It's all incredibly fresh and even though it's now October, the shops and markets are still full of what I would consider summer produce. I have made a few cakes with fruit from the garden and I think there has been one homemade quiche. But it's not all fromage and financiers. My first wake up call came with my first visit to the market in Thoiry one Sunday morning, where I was greeted with stall after stall of stinky cheese, heaps of the local cured sausages, and butchers selling amazing cuts of steak. It looked wonderful.
 |
| The market at Thoiry |
Lesson number one: all of the above are off the menu for pregnant ladies. True, you can have a steak if you like, but it needs to be well-done - and what's the point in massacring a good piece of meat? Cheese is fine, but not the stinky soft kind. And cured meats are only to be eaten if cooked, not savoured as part of a nice cold platter (also comprising the afore-mentioned cheeses) with a little glass of vin (also forbidden, bien sûr). It is actually pretty tough being pregnant in France. Of course, the French are quite laissez-faire about the whole thing: 'Wat eez ze problem weez a bit of toxoplasmosis fur yur bébé?' But in the UK we're a bit more strict, and I can't help feeling that I must do everything I can to keep the little octopus inside me safe and well.
All of which makes eating out quite difficult too. One Friday evening we decided we'd throw caution to the wind and venture out of our little village for a meal in a restaurant. Eating out costs roughly twice what it does in the UK, so it's not something we are doing very often. Expect to pay at least £20 for a run-of-the-mill pizza; a nice but not particularly special three-course meal with wine for one will set you back around 80-90 euros. We considered our options: steak restaurant, steak restaurant, steak restaurant... oh and a few places that do pizza. Some of the steak restaurants do have a few other items on the menu: goat's cheese salad (forbidden), foie gras (forbidden) and horse (not forbidden but no thanks). Unfortunately for Andy, for the next 4 months it's pizza all the way.
Lesson number two: the French only eat lunch between 12-2pm. Turn up at 1.45pm expecting a late lunch and you will be turned away and left to starve. We found this out to our cost the day we drove all the way up to the top of a mountain at 2.30pm only for them to turn away a ravenous pregnant lady without so much as a bit of baguette. But today we decided to try our luck again and ventured out to Gex in the hope that a bigger town might have more options for a leisurely Sunday lunch, and we got lucky. We chanced upon a lovely restaurant called Le Convivial, where Andy had the biggest steak tartare I've ever seen:
I had a delicious plate of guinea fowl with wild mushrooms, decorated with wild flowers. Sadly the camera didn't pick up just how colourful the plate was:
There were desserts too - pain perdu with caramelised pears for me and some tiny cakes called cannelés, which we'd never come across before, for Andy. They were both scrummy, but we scoffed them too quickly for me to get pictures.
Lesson number three: you are never more than two minutes walk from a patisserie. Really. How the French stay so slim is a mystery to me, given that every village is filled with the sweet smell of freshly-baked pastries. And in Saint Genis, just a short distance from CERN, they have one of the best patisseries around: Sebastien Brocard. So good it's won awards. This is how happy I was when Andy took me there on our first day:
 |
| Oh my... I'll take one of everything. |
Row upon row of beautifully-crafted little financiers, tartlets, macarons and exquisite celebration cakes.
And it doesn't say anything in the books about endangering your baby with one too many macarons.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)