Wanted A Dog – Got A Chamois Instead

My best friend Skippy died the year I moved to Europe. Ever since I lost my childhood sidekick decades ago, I have longed to own a dog!

But ze Frenchman was adamant, “Dog or me!”

Well, that’s a no-brainer!

I’ll never forfeit my number one chef, chauffeur, work-out partner, hiking buddy, electro-technician and soulmate for a four-legged friend.

My pleas for a dog fell on deaf ears!

I got a pet chammy instead.

One day I looked out my window; there he was in all his majesty.

He hangs out in my backyard, which is actually the side of a mountain.

What’s a chamois?

Chamois are medium-sized, goat antelope, a bit larger than deer. Native to the mountains of central and southeastern Europe, they stand up to 31 inches tall at the shoulder and weighs 25–50 kg (55–110 pounds)

White contrasting marks on the sides of the head with pronounced black stripes below the eyes, a white rump, and a black stripe along the back are distinct, identifying characteristics. Even more telling both sexes possess vertical horns that hook sharply backward at the ends.

These quintessential mountain dwellers can jump 2 m (6.6 ft) vertically into the air or over a distance of 6 m (20 ft). Chamois, perfectly adapted for their challenging alpine home, can scale the near-vertical rock face. Exceptional climbers, their strong fore and hind legs give them great jumping power. Their split hooves, with sharp outer edges and a soft inner section, provide perfect grip on wet rocks and ice.

Like deer, chamois change colors to blend into their habitat. Their rich brown-colored coat of fur turns light grey in winter. As members of the Bovidae family, their lineage traces back millions of years to common ancestors of cattle, goats, and sheep. Their distribution spans several major European mountain ranges and extends into parts of Asia.

The agile acrobats of the Alps hold a special place in the folklore and traditions of mountain communities. Seen as symbols of agility, freedom, and the untamed spirit of the mountains, chamois have a tuft of hair from the back of their neck, called the gamsbart (chamois “beard”). It is traditionally worn as a decoration on hats throughout the alpine countries.

Chamois are social animals. Females and their young live in herds of up to 15 to 30 individuals; however, adult males tend to live solitarily for most of the year. They can run at 50 kilometers per hour (31 mph).

Their milk and meat are good, but they are best known for their hides. The soft, pliant skin of the chamois is made into the original “chammy,” or “shammy,” leather. It is used for cleaning, buffing, and polishing because it is smooth, absorbent and won’t scratch,

On a cold day in April, when the last snow melted and the sun slinked behind the mountainside, I bid farewell to my favorite four-legged friend.

In Europe, chamois disappear into higher levels to spend their summers above the tree line. They prefer high-altitude environments between 800 and 2,500 meters. But when winter rolls around, they’ll come back down to lower elevations to live in forests areas dominated by pines.

Fortunately at about the same time the chamois fade into the clouds, farmers here haul truckloads of cows up to graze in lush green mountain meadows for the summer season. I will miss seeing my favorite chammy, so now I’m adopting a cow! Ssshhh Don’t tell ze Frenchman.

Surviving Driving in Europe’s Mountains

My dad, once a driver’s ed instructor, taught me to drive on the backroads of Illinois and Wisconsin. I’ve never had a collision as a driver, but as a passenger, I have been in major accidents, one for each time period of my life from adolescence, to college, to the pro’s, to living abroad.

I thought passing my drivers license in Paris France a decade after my basketball career ended in a car accident was the scariest thing I’d ever done. But getting behind the wheel after a major brain surgery in Switzerland takes balls.

Four decades after a traumatic brain injury, I have to learn how to drive again. Never one to shy away from a challenge, I take my driving lessons in the Jura Mountains where we now live.

The drive from Nyon, down by the lake, is a six and a half mile climb on a treacherous road with sixty curves, six of which are hairpin turns.

73 injured and 4 dead

marks the number of accidents

Before we begin the ascent, a sign warns that 73 were injured and 4 people died in the last decade. At every sharp turn, road markers remind driver where an accident or death occurred on the Route Blanche aka the corkscrew.

On weekends youth play motorcycle madness, a type of Russian roulette where they attempt to see who can beat the record for the fastest up or down.

If that isn’t challenging enough for other vehicles, the rugged route is also a favorite for hardcore bicyclists.

Luckily, I can practice my skills on the route d'Arzier, the other road from town that has wider turns and loops through villages.

“Allez, allez … faster!" Gerald insists.

“I know,” I answer, “I am going at a speed where I feel in control.”

“Okay, Pat, but we haven’t left the parking lot yet!”

When I turn onto the highway, clutching the steering wheel, Gerald insists that I loosen up and use finger tip control. I hit the brakes before every curve, lean into every corner.

“Focus straight ahead. Don’t look at cars coming the opposite direction!” Gerald barks. “If you keep swerving into the field, you’ll hit a cow!”

Invariably as soon as I see another vehicle approaching, I jerk the wheel and hit the brakes, as if I am on Mr. Toad’s wild ride at a Disney park.

“Don’t cross your hands when turning the wheel, you could lose control,”
he reminds me,“If you squeeze the steering wheel any harder, you’ll break it. Besides, it's is illegal in this country and could cost you CHF 120 a ($135) fine.”

“Relax. Lean back. You’re sitting on the dashboard!”

Arrhhh.

As I swerve around curves, cling to the mountain side and try to maintain the 50 mile an hour speed limit, I scream, “Wheeee, I feel like a race car driver!”

Obstacles abound: logging trucks, farm vehicles, train crossroads, pedestrian crosswalks, motorcycles, buses, cars, campers and bicycles.

But the greatest distraction is the incredible view. The spectacular Swiss panorama makes it difficult to focus on the highway. To my right the snow-covered Alps rise above Lake Geneva. Mont-Blanc, the majestic crowned jewel, reigns over the land. If I look to my left, cows graze in green pastures and golden rapeseed fields wave in the wind.

Honestly, I don’t think I will ever master driving in Europe.

I’ll keep practicing, but the world will be safer, if I just ride shotgun daydreaming, window gazing, writing stories about my sublime Switzerland.

The Fine Art of Cleaning à la Swiss

When my sister, a neatnik, first visited us in Switzerland decades ago, she was delighted by the orderliness.

“Wow the streets are so clean you eat off of them!”

Almost.

Switzerland is the only place I know where sanitation workers regularly sweep the streets, pick up litter and blow leaves away from fountains and monuments.

The sight of the bright orange clad service technique (technical branch) brushing leaves off the forest-lined highway leading to our village was so remarkable, I wanted to stop the car and snap a photo.

Unfortunately, tidiness may be a lost cause for a Pig-Pen, pack rat like me. The Swiss inherit the “clean gene” as a birthright. My sister was the only McKinzie born with that chromosome .

In Switzerland garbage is verboten. Litter taboo.

Citizens pay a trash tax and also must discard household waste in special designed bags that cost 3 dollars a piece. Most towns and cities have garbage collection service, but in our village, there is no garbage pick up for people living in chalets and single family dwellings. Most residents carry their rubbish to dumpsters, housed in mini chalet-like sheds, dispersed throughout town.

Our state of the art recycle center is so efficient, it could become a tourists attraction. Surrounded by pine trees, our disposable hub could win awards in cleanliness and sanitation. With the Swiss flare for organization, waste materials are separated into labeled compartments. Citizens drive to our wooden-framed building carved out of mountainside to recycle bigger items of glass (by color) wood, paper, electronics, batteries, metals, plastics (two categories), aerosols, paints and oils.

Litter is extinct. The propre en ordre “clean and orderly” is ingrained as part of one’s civic duty. Training starts at a young age. Even tiny tots learn how to pick up trash and recycle. In front of our primary school, blue, green, red and black colored Crayolas-shaped bins help teach children to discard plastics, papers, and disposables items in separate containers.

Switzerland is the only country I am aware of where the city’s technical department employees regularly sweep sidewalks, blow leaves, pick up litter and wash the lamp posts’ light fixtures.

Snow plowing in our mountain village is also impressive. With every fresh snowfall, we can hear plows out at 4 am to clear the streets.

The government is fully committed to conserving energy and preserving the environment. They require new homes and buildings to use renewable energy sources like solar panels, heat pumps and pellets. Natural gas and oil furnaces are banned.

Get this! 24 Heures (Swiss newspaper) recently reported 40% percent of its residents even clean their homes before the cleaning lady arrives! No kidding!

This country looks like a postcard. Tidy Swiss chalets with flowered window boxes and painted shutters dot the countryside. Villages, like ours in the Jura Mountains, offer gorgeous, pristine views of the woods, Lake Geneva and the Alps.

Natural resources are precious resources and Swiss folks do their best to keep it that way.

The sheer beauty of the land inspires people who live or visit here to respect nature and protect the spectacular vista.

As for me, my house remains a cluttered mess, but I have learned to automatically remove my shoes before entering any one else’s home.

Easter Tradition in Normandy

Though Gérald and I will dine tête a tête this Sunday, our hearts are filled with memories of holidays past when our children were younger and we were surrounded by family. As with every celebration in France, Easter begins and ends à table.

Normandy is appreciated the most at mealtime when land and sea are perfectly marinated. Mamie cooks the traditional Easter favorite, leg of lamb. At the head of the table, Papie carves the tender meat fresh from a newborn romping on the rolling green hillside only days before. But back up, each course is an event worth savoring.

toasting champagne

First a toast of champagne and a light aperitif. Next is naturally an egg based, a soufflé as light as cotton candy, followed by a platter of seafood: shrimp, crab legs, clams, oysters, something for everyone’s palate.

The main lamb course is always served with flageolet, a mini lima bean, that reminds me of the word flatulence and of course, bean jokes inevitably enter the conversation, sending the children into gales of laughter. Mamie always has a special dish for every family member, so a garden of vegetables -beans, broccoli, potatoes, spinach, tomatoes - also grows out of the linen tablecloth.

The children eat with the adults where they risk being reprimanded to sit up straight. However, I never notice table manners; my fork and knife are usually in the wrong hands. Softhearted Mamie excuses the grandkids early and they scamper upstairs to read Lucky Luke or Astérix comic books until called for dessert.

Each course is accompanied by wine, a light white Burgundy for the seafood starters and then a heavier Bordeaux for the meat and cheese. Every big meal is followed by a green salad and cheese platter with triangles of creamy local cheeses like Camembert and Pont L’Evêque.

family feast

Dessert always includes seasonal fruits, which in the spring means luscious strawberries. Like little elves, the children reappear to gobble up berries dipped in fresh cream. The kids magically disappear again when they smell the coffee brewing. Papie ceremoniously opens the antique Normand hutch and pulls out his bottle of Calvados offering, “a little taste.” True Normands swear that the fiery apple brandy aids the digestion. During weddings and christenings, the “trou Normand,” a shot served on sorbet in the middle of the feast, is customary.

boy with easter basket

Throughout each course a lively repartee of sarcasm, word play and arguments ensue that to a soft-spoken Norwegian American sounds like verbal abuse, but is only part of the French art de vivre and their love of language and debate.

Just when you think your belly will burst, Mamie rings a bell and the children race downstairs, for in France, bells, not bunnies, deliver eggs. As a token of mourning for crucified Christ, church bells remain silent from Good Friday until Easter Sunday. On Easter, when the chimes ring again, children rush outside to see the bells fly home to Rome, after dropping chocolate Easter eggs from the sky.

The children crowd onto the wrought iron balcony to find eggs tucked behind the potted geraniums and tulips. While they devour the chocolate figurines, the adults, too, savor a delicacy from the local chocolate shop . Everyone moans of stomachaches and swears they will never eat again, but a few hours later after a stroll by the sea, we are à table again discussing the favorite French topic, food.

The Village Shop, Soul of the Town

In a nondescript, brick building across from the Malt Shovel Pub, Gaydon’s Village Shop opened in May 2010 as a non-profit co-op where volunteers provide locals with staples and simple necessities that households might run out of on a weekend.

The shop’s shelves were stacked with a hodgepodge of essential toiletries like shampoo, soap, deodorant, toilet paper and toothpaste, as well as milk, eggs, butter and cheese and a limited selection of fruits and vegetables, canned goods, pasta and cereals.

Surprisingly, the Village Shop also sold fresh pastries and bread delivered daily from a bakery in the hamlet just down the road.

Beverages, such as bottled water, alcohol, beer, wine, cider, juice and sodas are also available for purchase.

I perused the shelves with childlike wonder. I picked up a chunk of cheddar, waved it at the woman behind the counter and asked, “Do you have grated cheese?”

“No” the lady at the till told me, “but I have grater at home that you can borrow.” Then, she picked up the phone and called her daughter and asked her bring it over.

Minutes later, the shop doorbell jingled and her daughter dashed in and handed me the family’s cheese grater.

Meanwhile, as we were talking, a middle aged man walked in with his father, who hobbled on an artificial leg from the knee down.

“Oh dear, what happened?”

“Felt my knee cap slip up me thigh when I fell,” the elder man told the woman at the cash register. “And that was my good leg!”

A spontaneous discussion between strangers unfolded as can only happen in these quaint, little communities where the time seemed to standstill.

Another shopper asked me, “Where you from?”

“Illinois,” I answered in my midwestern nasal twang. My very unBritish inflection was a dead giveaway.

“I’m from Normandy,” Gerald added in English with a heavy French accent.

“Normandy!” the elder gentleman exclaimed. “Lost my great uncle over there during The Landing. He was shot down parachuting over Ranville (towards Caen).”

“Me and dad were paratroopers,” the man’s son explained. “I parachuted in the WWII reenactment in Arnhem, Holland.”

Then the friendly fellow went on to recount his tales traveling to US and being in whiskey bar in Florida.

“We’ve just been to the pub,” the jovial, older man said, “Had a wee pint or two or three!”

Another young lady in the shop overheard us talking. She peeked into our baby buggy and asked, “Oooh, is that Nic and Larissa’s baby?”

“Yes,” I said beaming, “we are the proud grandparents.”

“I’m their neighbor,” she said.

“Glad to meet you!” I said. “I’ve heard so many nice things about you from our son and daughter-in-law; I feel like I know you already.”

If the Malt Shovel Pub is the heart of Gaydon, the Village Shop is its’ soul. Where else in the world does the pace slow enough to chat with locals, so trusting, that they’ll lend their own kitchen appliances to complete strangers?

Everyone feels at home at the Village Shop.

Even the “foreigners.”

Proper British Tea in Warwick’s 500-year-old Oken Tea Rooms

On a recent trip to England, our son took us to visit historic Warwick, an enclosed city. The highlight of the afternoon for me was going for a proper English cream tea at the Oken Tea Rooms.

The Tea room is actually several quirky rooms of the 500 year old house where the wealthy merchant and former mayor, Thomas Oken, once lived near the Warwick Castle. The house of yesteryear is enchanting for its’ old world charm.

The walls of the half-gabled house slanted and the roof sagged, looking like a picture in a fairytale. When we walked into the reception area by the till, sacks of 30 different loose leaf teas - jasmine, lemon grass, mango, Japanese cherry and others - could be purchased along with other sweet treats like caramelized clotted cream nuggets.

The waitresses, donning aprons over casual slacks, shorts and T-shirts, bustled about looking like they stepped out of the back kitchen where they baked homemade cakes and scones. Patrons spilled out of the ground floor tea rooms, so our waitress led us up a rickety, winding, ancient staircase that made me feel like I stepped into the old nursery rhyme.

“There was a crooked man…He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse,
And they all liv'd together in a little crooked house.”

We ducked under the doorway and stepped into the past of what looked like a parlor from the eighteen hundreds. Stuffed sofas and antique chairs surrounded wooden tables where families whiled away time sipping tea.

We squeezed around a low table designed for short-statured folks of earlier times. We folded our long legs; our knees knocked into the furniture.

The tea was served on crockery that looked like it came straight out of great granny’s china cabinet. The tea, served in individual pots, included a strainer to separate the tea leaves. Fist-sized, fluffy, light scones balanced on trays alongside ceramic bowls, one laden with strawberry jam and thick, clotted cream in the other.

One bite of a cream topped scone was bliss.

Hungrier visitors could enjoy a full lunch or dinner or you could make a meal out of Tea for Three option, presented on a cake trolley, with a tiered glass plate towering with scones, cakes and finger sandwiches cut in triangles.

The only thing missing from our traditional tea was our lovely British daughter-in-law. I wished she had been with us to explain the difference between low tea and high tea. She’d probably say what any British person would tell you, anytime is a good for “a cuppa.”