ja! kinder und kultur

Today, while running errands, stymied by Bodum's rennovation and, in general slowed by tourists, I noticed that throughout the city were pockets of teens and young ones, playing music.
It is not as if music is never played in the streets of Zürich. Indeed, visiting fans of the Euro will be greeted by busking accordian and guitar players (though, if these musicians are in the "Fan Zone" their earnings will probably only be spendable on Coke and Carlsburg products) What surprised me was how many they were and how young they were. Finally, I stopped to get a closer look. A young group were just beginning a beautiful piece, all of them playing violin, in various levels of ability. They each had a sign on their music stand that said "JA!"
At first I thought that these sweet young musicians were just positive people. It was actually in that exact square when my path crossed the laughing day parade a few weeks ago. (I believe that I have already blogged about this unsettling group that march through the city forcing themselves to laugh the whole way.) A moment later my question was answered as two women approached me with clipboards and pamphlets and information on how I can vote in order to help these children recieve more funding for music instruction in their schools.
I shall now admit a guilty secret. Typically, when I am approached by anyone in the street with a clipboard and pamphlets I respond in my best Southern American accent "Ah'm sorry. Ah'm not from around here." his time, however, I took the information and thanked them for their efforts. The rest of my boring Saturday tasks had a lovely soundtrack and I was pleased.
Later, when speaking to my mother and describing it, I said "They were playing to stop the government taking away funding for music programs." I then needed to correct myself. That wasn't right. Their music stands had told us to vote "ja" on the proposition, afterall. I realized that in my american mind, I had instantly and automatically rebuilt the situation to fit what is now normal in the states. This idea of the arts as being irrelevant, when funding is concerned.

buttons and bells

My paternal grandfather once said that a woman could not be president because at a certain time of the month, she would push the button. I believed, at the time that "the button" had something to do with....some sort of irreversible military decision that is enacted by means of button-pushing. I can't be sure, however. Had I been a bit more aware as a child, I would have probably asked about the button. But then, I would have also probably pointed out that any woman old enough or accomplished enough to reach the race for the precedence, would probably be post-menopausal.

This morning I was listening to my podcast of NBC's Meet the Press and I am fairly sure that Clinton's Campaign Chairman was about to make the "tired" excuse for her again. This whole gross sound-bite in which Clinton seems to use "hard-working Americans" and "white Americans" interchangeably, was distressing. Terry McAuliffe merely said "It's been a long campaign."

Between McCain senility causing him to mistakenly referring to the wrong group in Iraq and Clinton being so tired that she wells-up, miss remembers a girl giving her a flower for sniper-fire and interchangeably referring to "hard-working Americans" and "white Americans", I think that I'll vote for the youthful and coherent Barack Obama.

The Doctor is Out

It's spring time. The weather is warm and lovely
and children are happy to replace donning Rain trousers for sun cream. This afternoon I was out in the Kindergarten's garden with the little ones and was taxed. Terribly taxed. Every single
child had a good cry today. A few were crying because of exclusion, misunderstanding or sleepiness. Most, however, were first aid situations. They were so orderly about it. One accident after another.
Girl with broken arm, falls on other arm.
Fall.
Fall.
Push.
Push - Fall - mouth-whack. Most asked if, after the bleeding or tears had stopped, they may sit by me a moment. This means that almost the entire afternoon I was accompanied by a child breathing heavily: post-sobbing-sighing. I like to be a giver of comfort, but all of that suffering, however minor, is tiring.

Sitting in Idealneyachashna cafe

-No anymore, but I shall write about the experience.
It appears that traffic cops are some of the least trustworthy people in all of Russia. I can believe this even more after my experience in the Idealneyachshna cafe.

A tow truck appears on the corner of a busy street. He takes photos of one of two parked cars. One from each corner of the car. He passes from passenger to driver's side. Then he knocks on the driver's window of the car in front of that which he is photographing. He gestures further down the road. He looks pessimistic and then gives the driver a last warning shrug. I interpret this to mean "your funeral, buddy".

I attend to my tea.

I look up. A happy police officer watches as the first car, the photographed car, is pulled upon the tow truck. The warned driver of the other car looks disappointed, and then drives away.

I attend to my carrot cake.

I look up. A woman holds a video camera. A man sits in the would-be-towed car. It is being lowered back onto the street. The woman is recording this experience.
The car is now safely on the street. The waitress takes my crumb-covered plate. The driver mops his brow. Mops his eyes. Shouts a few select words. Mops his mouth. The truck and car both depart, both lighter and heavier than before.
We leave the cafe and look. The rest of the curb, that which was not visible from the cafe window. The curb is full with parked cars.

testing, testing, one, two.....

My mother in law had surgery on her wrist last month.
Before and after, we were discussing surgery. She said that I would know best. I don't. I don't know best. I don't know anything at all about wrist surgery on a broken wrist.
Here she was with a definite problem, that was totally finite. This very definite problem. There was a surgical solution. The surgery happened. The problem was solved. That is it. Never in my life have I had a problem with my person that was quickly and easily understood and repaired. Until now.

I had a hearing test today. In two weeks, I'll pick up a trial hearing aid that will help me to hear voices a bit (only in front of me) with my right ear. The biggest benefit is that it will keep my left ear from being strained. Apparently it's having to pick up a bit to much slack these days.
Problem - Solution - No Problem. Whole new concept for me. Kind of weird.

guest at home

Ivo and I went with my friend Terry to an FCZ and GZ match. It's called a derby, but it is the Zürich soccer rivalry equivalent of Sox and Yanks.

Ivo has never been nervous as a result of my football attendance before. He was a bit, however, this time. It may have had something to do with the waiting vans of police, the water canon or the scary fans.
The two teams share the same stadium. This is, of course, imperfect, but has to do with renovation and rebuilding of Swiss soccer stadiums in preparation for our hosting the EUFA cup this summer. Previously, the "away" team would walk to the "home team's" stadium. They shut down a nearby bridge for the marching fans. Are you getting the fact that this is a big deal?

Terry was using his work-place's season tickets, which means that we were sat securely in the family section. (This means that I was engaged by a number of papas with daughters with the request "könnt ihr schnell lüege, dass sie ok gönnt?") Looking to our right, GZ was seated in what I have always considered the "away team seating". To my left, the "SüdKurve", where we normally sit, was full of the three groups of rabble-rowsers who are always there, if not, at times, in less of a force.
The two teams were announced and although I am no hard-core fan (I sing along with the songs, cuz it's fun, but I don't live and die for the wins and losses) I was a bit injured when FCZ was announced as the guest, or visiting team. I'm sure that there is some understanding and that this decision makes complete sense to the more regular attendees. I only know that somewhere inside me, I felt pained. A guest at home. I know that feeling. As I fought with the foreigner's police on the telephone and they couldn't find my records and said that I was not listed as a resident, that is how I felt. Guest at home.

The game was lively and exciting. The GZ fans sang a song about a hockey stadium, which slightly confused me. In the all-or-nothing rite of fandom we needed to, of course, mock everything about the fans. From the bread rolls that they threw toward the field in anger, to the fact that they had absolutely no flags. The FCZ fans were practically canopied with flags and banners. Beautifully drawn, cleverly writen and placed here and there to show the three sorts of fans and their diverse levels of crazy. Now and again, they would light a flare and a fire would begin and Ivo and I tried to keep track of how much of a fine they were chalking up and if it would be bigger than last year's derby.
Yesterday, having asked Steff, we discovered that the GZ fans had flags and banners. The fires that we'd seen in the FCZ fan section was the FCZ fans burning the flags that they had stolen off of the GZ fans. He wanted to try and explain the history of tit-for-tat and how this all made sense, but I needn't hear it really. It was pretty much all explained in the action itself and I was still feeling oddly empathetic for the guests at home.

Sunday stroll

I visit a new church as often as possible. I like those which are across town the best. This means that I get to take a quiet walk through the city. The whole town is closed up and only the tourists are out blinking in the early light, scanning the street for an IHOP or something, as it would seem. They often seem hungry and confused.
This week, I was headed across town to a baptist church. The city seemed quiet enough. Then I saw barriers. Then I heard cow bells. Then I saw that I was not the only one who was taking advantage of a lovely Sunday morning.


As I passed by tourists shouting things like "HOW IS THAT RÖSTI FEELING NOW?!?!", and an Oschner float with Swiss people dressed in Brazilian costumes I began to realize what I may need to expect this summer when the European Cup rolls in. Ugh.