Eurochristmas Part II

Christmas eve 2008

LOCATION
Onex, in the city of Geneva, Switzerland

CAST
Me
Trajtenberg family:
- Liliana (aunt, i.e. my father's sister, currently living in Montevideo)
- Mario (uncle, married to Liliana, currently living in Montevideo)
- Cecilia (cousin, native Genevoise, currently living in Madrid)
- Michel (cousin, native Genevoise, still living in Geneva)
Anneliese's family:
- Anneliese (friend of Liliana's and Mario's, apparently knew me when I was teensy-weensy, hard to imagine, I know)
- Stefan (first son of Anneliese)
- Vincent (son of Stefan, grandson of Anneliese)
- Laetitia (daughter of Stefan, granddaughter of Anneliese)
- Fanny (daughter of Stefan, granddaughter of Anneliese)
- Joachim (a.k.a. "Jojo," second son of Anneliese)
- Wolfgang (Anneliese's boyfriend - also, potential name for my next puppy)

LANGUAGES
French, Spanish, and German

I was inordinately grateful to Stefan for having the good sense to start the night off with three bottles of champagne (and a couple of bottles of non-alcoholic cider for the kids). I don't usually drink 2 and a half glasses of champagne before dinner, but paired with foie gras, it set a festive atmosphere right off the bat. Nothing like champagne on an near-empty stomach to get me smiling and feeling at ease. Also, nothing like watching Fanny, a round faced 11-year old, work through about a half kilo of pistacchios in 10 minutes flat to get me feeling, well, something.

Three months ago, Fanny took a nasty spill off her scooter, the traces of which are still evident on her face.

Cecilia: What happened to your face, Fanny?
Fanny: I feel off my scooter.
Cecilia: But how? Did you try to brake?
Fanny: I forgot to brake.

She still has a bit of a black eye, and her left cheek is still slightly chubbier than the right one, lending her an air of someone older and perhaps wiser, someone who's taken a beating but fought back.

Let me interrupt, for a second, and explain that Fanny, Laetitia, and Vincent have, in fact, taken a beating this holiday season. Stefan, too. Just a couple of weeks ago, his wife left him for another man. The whole family, Anneliese included, has taken it very hard. Joachim's wife also left him a few years ago, so you can imagine that for grandma Anneliese, these have been trying times.

But the kids are such troopers. It could be because Stefan and his soon to be ex-wife have worked out an arrangement where the kids stay put in the same house while the parents rotate weeks living with them. This may be a temporary arrangement, but you get the intention: to make sure the kids feel the least possible disrruption and the least possible instability under the circumstances.

No matter what the parents do, though, the fact remains that they are separating. And as a child of divorced parents, let me emphasize how much this sucks. It sucks a lot.

And yet, the kids were cheerful and gracious, Fanny especially ebullient after she received her Christmas present - a small, fold-up futon, for general lounging and having friends sleep over. I watched them all night for familiar signs of resentment, of anger, of depression, and was relieved to see none. Even Stefan seemed to have a good time, for which I was very glad. He jovially offered to refill my wine glass about ten times throughout the evening, and when the wine ran out, he brought me a white Swiss beer, none of which I could possibly refuse.

We sat down to dinner after opening the presents. Yes, even I got presents! I made out pretty well, if you ask me: a box of Lindt truffles, a ring from Mexico, a hooded shirt, a wheel of Spanish turrón, and a bottle of perfume (courtesy of Wolfgang, who used to work as a chemist for a perfume company - the perfume he gave me happened to be the exact same one I almost bought in Lisbon when I was bumming around the airport's duty free shop - talk about lucky).

Dinner began with lemon-soaked lotte (monkfish) served on an avocado mousse. Following, we tucked into the honey and orange infused Christmas ham and gratin dauphinois (one of my favorite dishes from this area, essentially just a whole bunch of sliced potatoes baked with gruyère and béchamel sauce). At this point, the evening became a blur with a few distinguishable moments. I'm sure I could have remembered more if I had drunk less, but what's the fun in being the only sober person at a Christmas party?

I remember my aunt, increasingly talkative and animated as the evening passed, prompting me to talk about my days of competitive horse-back riding. I have no idea why it occurred to her that this might be an interesting topic to me and to everyone gathered at the table (although in retrospect I think it may have been because Laetitia, too, is passionate about horses).

The only cogent contribution I muster for the conversation was, "Moi, j'adore les chevaux."
Me, I love horses.

To which most of the group added, "Oui, j'aime bien les chevaux!"

All but Wolfgang, who announced very amiably, "Moi, je mange mes chevaux."
Me, I eat my horses.

Everyone burst out laughing, me especially, and I observed Wolfgang through my wine-goggles. Wolfgang is, well, he's a catch. At least I think so. Granted, he is 68 years old. Not in my target age range, not by any means. But he's got one of the most magnetic personalities I've ever seen in a near septuagenarian. Always smiling, always joking. And he has aged as gracefully as one can hope to age: he still has most of his hair, a shock of white, which he wears on the longer side, letting it cascade over his weatherbeaten brow and frame his crystal blue eyes. He is fit, too. An avid outdoorsman for whom a visit to the Grand Canyon last year was not complete without hiking down the Canyon. One of those people who tells you that you only get one go at life, and by the look of the deep creases on his face, wrinkles caused by smiles and laughter, and his air of being at peace with the world, he's made his count.

But enough about Wolfgang.

The kids' black-and-white kitty made an appearance towards the end of the night, after we'd all finished our second helpings of mousse au chocolat. The kitty was picture perfect: black all over save for his white belly, and a perfectly symmetrical white triangle down his face. He immediately (instinctively, one might argue) made for Michel, a self-proclaimed cat-lover.

Michel: I love cats. And they always seem to love me.

Michel works as an aeronautical engineer. He loves extreme sports. He has every issue of National Geographic that features sharks. He is one of my most badass cousins. I still remember two years ago, when I was last in Uruguay, he came out on my uncle Mauricio's boat with some other family members. On leaving the dock, Michel somehow managed to slice his index finger almost neatly in two with a wire. He turned a bit pale, drank some whisky, and clamped down on the mangled finger until he could treat it with some first aid materials. And that's about it. Not a peep of agony.

It's with this finger, and its neighbors, that Michel set to work on the kitty (forgive me for not remembering the cat's name and referring to him as "kitty"). Scratching gently behind his ears, down his spine, under his chin. The kitty never looked so happy and at ease. Watching Michel, with his rough, veiny hands, caressing him so tenderly and so sweetly, I have to say I felt about the same as the kitty. Happy. At ease.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

Eurochristmas Part I

When I was younger, Christmas was my favorite holiday by a longshot. And not for the reason you might assume (although I won't lie to you and tell you I disliked getting presents). Riding on the coattails of Thanksgiving, which my Uruguayan parents dutifully observed every year, Christmas felt more natural.

Don't get me wrong: I have some excellent memories of Thanksgiving. Like my mother waking me and my sisters up early on Thanksgiving Thursday so that we might "reflect" and compile a list of "the things we were thankful for." Or senior year of high school, when my friend Mikey came over and we smoked a joint outside the house before tucking into the turkey and trimmings. Mikey also brought over one of his trademark chocolate-pecan pies, of which I devoured approximately a third that night. I spent Thanksgiving, 2006 with four non-American friends washing down plates of jamón serrano and manchego cheese with bottles of Rioja and Malbec. And this year I reinvented my mother's "wheel of grace" by improving on our old family tradition of giving thanks: all of the French guests at our Thanksgiving celebration in Saint-Etienne were instructed to give thanks for one thing and down a shot of whisky. Before dinner, no less (Ma, I know I make you proud).

But, Christmas. Where to begin?

Christmas has Christmas carols and Christmas trees and Christmas cookies. Christmas has Handel's Messiah. More than anything, though, Christmas has no nationality. My parents, my whole family in Uruguay, they know Christmas. And you better believe it's a big deal. The entire family gets together on Christmas eve to eat and drink and talk for hours on end. Oh and also to "welcome the birth of Christ our Savior," although since my grandmother's passing, our Christmas has become more and more secular (my family is a mixed bag of hardcore Catholics and "take it easy" agnostics).

I haven't always been able to be in Uruguay for Christmas (although if I'm not mistaken I spent almost every Christmas between the ages of one to ten in Montevideo). Miami Christmas is the other Christmas I know, typically involving a Fondue on Christmas eve, followed by candlelight service at a Congregational Church (at which, growing up, I typically played or sang). In contrast to the Uruguayan celebration, we tend to eat our big meal on Christmas day - big meal for us being either the standard Christmas ham, potatoes, etc., or a full blown Uruguayan asado featuring a provoleta (grilled provolone seasoned with oregano, salt, and pepper), chorizo, chorizo parrillero, morcilla, morcilla dulce, mollejas, chinchulines, vacio and entraña.

Regardless of the minor differences between Christmas in Uruguay and Christmas in Miami, the common theme has always been family. Even after my parents' divorce, we'd typically have at least one parent present, and always me, Stephie, and Line. Which was great. Nothing like being surrounded by tens of relatives, near and distant, to bring three sisters closer together (like, really really close together - like cling-to-each-other-for-dear-life close together).

So you can imagine that spending my very first Christmas away from both the rents and my sisters seemed a bit daunting.

Christmas for me can be a time of great joy, joy at being with those closest to me. But it's also time of great sadness. Because Christmas is about being with family, the older I get, the more I feel the absence of those I long to be around. And I'm wracked by this deep yearning for something both nameless and familiar.

But I'm lucky. Lucky enough to have a Swiss side of the family, at this very moment residing in Geneva. And lucky enough to have been taken in by their German friend, Anneliese, who very generously opened up her home and family to me this holiday season.

-continued in next post

Joyeux Anniversaire, Martin et Marie Hélène (or how I soiled on my to-do list but had the Frenchiest day)

If you know me well enough, you'll be the first to recognize (or bemoan) my dogmatic passion for organization. I revel in dusting off my books and storing them in alphabetical order, I can pick myself up by aligning every item on my desk and night table, and I can spend hours creating a to-do list. If you really want to get under my skin, the simple act of misplacing a sheet of paper on my work space (the "mis" being at anything other than perfect 90 degree angles) will leave me visibly unsettled.

So last night I mapped out a plan of attack for my first day in Lyon. I arrived without an apartment, without a cell phone, and without a bank account. Today, my intention was to obtain all three. Oh, and since the pair of glasses I bought before leaving Harvard is still pinching the back of my left ear, a trip to the optical shop was my extra credit.

I'll give you a hint as to how my day panned out: I didn't accomplish a single task I had set out for myself.

What, then, did I do today?

I have the great fortune of currently residing with Maria Reinita and Gérard Guenot on the Boulevard des Tchecoslovaques in the center of Lyon. Maria Reinita is a vetrinarian from Uruguay with an eye condition that causes her to tear uncontrolably (when she picked me up from the airport yesterday, her glasses were sprinkled with tears that I mistook for her great emotion at seeing me again after twenty-some years). She also happens to be, in some magical, legal way, my aunt. Her husband, Gérard, collects old film reels and the machines that play them. So far, the only questions he's asked me are "Do you think Barack Obama will win the election?" and "Would you like some more wine?"


Their eldest daughter, Éleonore, is my "cousine française," and a friend of mine from when I lived in Buenos Aires (she was doing the French equivalent of study abroad in Montevideo at the time). I think she has appointed herself my guardian until I'm settled in, or "installée" as people keep telling me ("Bonne installation!") Éleonore is one of the sweetest and most giving people I know, and you would be hard pressed to find someone with such generous qualities. Except that she happens to date such a person - her boyfriend, Benjamin. So when they offered to give me a ride to Saint-Etienne this morning, I smiled and accepted with an enthusiastic "Oui, oui, merci BIEN!"

Éleonore and Benjamin actually live and work in Grenoble which is a little under a 2-hour drive from Lyon. Their reason for being in Lyon on my arrival was, coincidentally, a family gathering in Saint-Etienne. Benjamin's older sister, Raphaelle, lives in the center of Saint-Etienne with her husband, Ferréol, and her, as of today, two-year old son, Martin, who shares his birthday with his grandmother, Marie Hélène. Ferréol looks like his name sounds: he is a thin, balding thirty-something with round red-rimmed glasses and small teeth that endear you to him immediately.

And so, I hitched a ride with Benjamin and Éleonore, who followed Marie Hélène, Daniel (Benjamin's father), Marie (sister), amd Laurent (sister's boyfriend) to my soon to be new home.

I get very mixed reactions when I tell people I will be teaching (and living) in St. Etienne. The general consensus seems to be that it is a primitive town ("Saint-Etienne? Bah, c'est primitif.") I was comforted when Marie Hélène described it as a quiet town of very kind and friendly people and a certain quaintness that bigger-city dwellers tend to dislike. I assured her that this sounded exactly like where I wanted to be this year (and hopefully that will prove true).

We arrived a bit before one and made our way up the three flights of stairs to Raphaelle's apartment. Initially, the plan was to get a map and get me oriented so that I might venture forth and find some place to live. I figured I would come across a bank and a cell phone provider en route. Only the entire clan of Benjamin insisted that I stay for lunch, which is just as well since I later discovered that none of these tasks was feasible on a Saturday. Banks close, as do cell phone stores, and the student residences I hoped would open their rooms to me were also unavailable (all four of them).

But none of this actually mattered to me. The minute I bit into the fig and foie gras toasts appetizers Rapha served as an opening to the birthday lunch, all I could think about was how I'd tasted just about the most delicious morself of food that has ever passed my lips. That is until I tried the mozzarella and basil. And then the blue cheese, honey, and balsamic vinegar. All washed down with a sparkling wine that made me question why I've all but forsaken wine for beer in the last couple of years.

When I wasn't stuffing my face with French delicacies, I was trying to translate my belly's affinity for all things French into my tongue's ability to mobilize on behalf of the French language. Which went more or less well until jetlag caught up to me and I began to fuse Spanish words into French. The entire family still understood when I used the word "compartir" instead of "partager," and "orientacion" instead of "information." At least I didn't confuse my neck with my ass ("cou" versus "cul"). I'm sure something like this will inevitably happen to me in the next month, so stay tuned for "quand je fais la cagade."

I've failed to mention that Marie Hélène's father (Benjamin's grandfather) is a pâtissier - a pastry chef. He'd prepared a tarte de poires (pear tarte) and home made vanilla ice cream in honor of the birthdays. Rapha made the cake, built like a train with licorice wheels and licorice train tracks.

In conclusion, Martin is one lucky two-year old. And if I continue to neglect my to-do lists for my other great passion, I won't be able to button my jeans.