And just like that, a built-in identity crisis was formed. I opened the pantry door, not unlike the way Lot's wife looked back, and there stood the false witnesses. Three lying cans of sauer kraut acting as if they belonged there. Mom was mumbling on about farmers and being a peaceful people, blah, blah blah. Peaceful? This frau with the furrowed brow was anything but at peace. Swiss? I had no idea how to be Swiss. This was a game changer.
I have spent the last week immersing myself in Swiss culture trying to make up for lost time with my true heritage. The following report is what I have learned thus far. To begin, I am the first stop on the bell curve. If I had learned German, it wouldn't have been quite as daunting, but now I must master French and Italian as well if I hope to move seamlessly through the homeland.
I started with what I knew: cheese, watches, knives and banks. I enjoy a mushroom and swiss burger when I am at Hardee's as much as the next guy. I would be less than truthful if I didn't admit I would prefer to hail from the land of Philadelphia cream, but I digress. So cheese, check. Watches. This is going to be a problem. You see, I never wear a watch and I'm supposed to; I'm a nurse, after all. No check. Knives. Oh, good heavens. Any of you who have served time in my kitchen are familiar with my knives and would know to grab a spoon first if an intruder broke in. No check. Banks. Math and technology. Need we go further? I didn't think so. I am one for four on Swiss things I know about. On an up note, my son Luke who is fascinated with all things militant will be thrilled to learn he is genetically predisposed to guard the Pope as a member of the elite Swiss guard. Not everyone can pull off striped knickers and a red-plumed helmet, but I plan to be a supportive parent.
When you consider the typical, physical characteristics of the Swiss, a portrait of repression begins to emerge. Think about it. I just went deeply brunette, I use a self tanner daily, and remember that little surgery I had about three years ago? Uh huh. Its like I was trying to hide the Inner Heidi. The first Bond girl, Ursula Andress was Swiss. I know. The resemblance is uncanny, especially the abs, but we have more to uncover here, so we must move on.
From here on out it only gets more difficult to assume my assigned destiny. First we have a dog problem. There is no way that Lincoln is going to pass for a Saint Bernard. Let me go ahead and take this opportunity to utilize some free advertising space: Free schnauzer to a good, German home. Doesn't like children, demands full reign of the house, barks at leaves, enjoys Corn Chex, answers to no one.
The last hill is the hardest to climb, as we Swiss like to say. Come July, when we all sit down with our strawberries and cream, tune in to McEnroe and the lady with the man voice as they bore us to tears through inevitable rain delays, I will be forced to forsake Mi Amore, Rafael Nadal. Naturally, I will be expected to cheer for cousin Roger and my love of country will be brutally tested. There is only one thing that could make this less painful, more palatable. This Swiss miss is off to have some hot chocolate.
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