I’m not suggesting the Easter Bunny is a rational fictional character. Rabbits don’t lay any eggs at all, let alone chocolate ones, and a giant silent bunny is (thanks, Donnie Darko) actually really creepy. However, we both grew up with that mythical animal leaving chocolate for us come Easter morning, so when we realised the Swiss don’t have a bunny but rather the Easter Cuckoo (which biologically makes a little more sense, apart from the chocolate thing) we were initially surprised, but decided we’d best roll with it. For the sake of the chocolate our daughter, of course.

Update: I have, since originally writing this, been informed that the Easter Cuckoo is not actually a Swiss thing. Guess it’s my own fault for believing a combination of internet research and a few generic questions thrown at acquaintances . Our German teacher and one of Tim’s colleagues, both Luzern natives, have clarified that the appearance of the Easter Cuckoo is not a local thing – or indeed a Swiss thing – and must have been a one-off appearance to our house alone. Nonetheless we were happy with the Cuckoo’s generosity and won’t mind if he and the bunny team up next year for double the treats. 

Easter here is, like in many predominantly Christian countries, a significant event. There are multiple parades with different foci depending on the area of Switzerland in which you live, all reflecting aspects of the holy week. There is Osterkucken, a tart made from rice and almonds and served only at Easter. There’s Eiertütschen (Easter Egg tapping), where coloured boiled eggs are smashed together and the person with the intact egg at the end can exchange it for money or treats. There are Easter Trees, which are decorative twigs with colourful eggs hanging from them. And, of course, there’s the afore mentioned Cuckoo who does the rounds for children on Easter morning. Kids are given or make Easter baskets and spend the morning collecting the Cuckoo’s eggs, and it’s then that international traditions merge when the inevitable sugar highs and subsequent lows hit.

Tim arrived home from Australia on Good Friday, and we had some friends staying with us the following day and a dinner party with them and some neighbours planned. It turned into Great Saturday as we ate, drank, caught up with old friends and made new, and – in the wee hours – planned the Easter hunt for our own bunny the following morning. Lloyd and Jonathan prepped the chicken trail.

Unbeknownst to us daylight savings kicked in the following morning, so it was a rude awakening by the Cuckoo. We had hidden a few small presents (and maaaaybe some chocolate) in familiar spots around the house and taken photos of them to show our lass to help her fill her Laideybird basket. She was a little confused as to what was expected until I told her to ‘pack up the chickens’. I am delighted to report that the hours of teaching her to do my chores for me have paid off, as she nailed it.

One by one she found the Easter treats ‘hidden’ around the house (it seems the cuckoo had a few too many wines and got over hiding things, as one of the treats was left on the couch, suspiciously close to my location the previous night).

The final stop, complete with ridiculous headband that I forced her to sport for the rest of the weekend, also gave our little leprechaun her second taste of chocolate ever. Like the first, it was a revolting dribbly success and carried her until she crashed and burned a few ugly hours later.

The adults finished the morning with some hot cross deliciousness (and who am I kidding, chocolate of our own) prior to making our way up a nearby Alp for some much needed refreshing mountain air. 

At an exrtemely rudimentary estimate, I have spent about 10,800 hours with my lass since she’s been born. This includes time we’ve not been physically together but I’ve been more or less on call (like when she’s asleep in her room) but obviously not the times she’s been babysat (such as our wedding) or when I’ve been away (that heavenly trip to Dublin). I am, undoubtedly, her primary carer and have spent more time with her than anyone else by a long shot. I know what makes her giggle (any exaggerated walk, a random spin, tickles under the chin), the circumstances under which she’s going to lose it (when she sees her toothbrush, when she’s not allowed to play with my phone, and just this last week – for no apparent reason – breakfast), her favourite foods (avocado, egg, smoked salmon, any berry), and her favourite books (thank goodness no longer ‘What the Jackdaw Saw‘. I’d had way more than enough). And yet, somehow, when Tim had to head back to Australia for the week my first instinct was that I wasn’t going to be able to manage her, that I was poorly qualified and ill-equipped for the job. Of course that’s completely ridiculous and we’ve been absolutely fine; our days have been much as they always are, which is to say sometimes lovely, sometimes dull, sometimes screechy and always, always filled with pointing out the kitty cats and honking as many noses as dot her little horizon. Regardless, I’m counting down the days until he returns, if only for the care package stuffed with Tim Tams and brown sugar arriving from home. (Nope, no brown sugar here. How’s a girl supposed to eat butterscotch pudding sans brown sugar?)

Earlier this month marked six months since our arrival. It’s flown. Partly due to all the lovely guests we’ve had, and partly because there are so many exciting new things to see and do and eat and smell and experience together. We’ve finally started those German lessons – a lovely Swiss woman (named Irene, funnily enough) swings by on Tuesday nights and has taught me to explain that my name is Wendy, my schön Mädchen is indeed a Mädchen despite how much she looks like her father, that we are from Australia and that I hold that most glorious of occupations: a Hausfrau. We spend a fair bit of time in ‘fantasy conversation’, where we make up professions and nationalities of fictional people, and order meals with multiple variations for them in cafes or get them to identify their lost mobile phones, newspapers, or pets. (These people are clearly quite indecisive and absentminded, and as such I’d prefer not to encounter them in real life.) Last night the teacher (a stand in, not the lovely and hopefully more open-minded Irene) was horrified that I identified ‘Peter’ as a Hausmann. An emphatic nein, apparently. Peter could be an Ingenieur (engineer), or Lehrer (teacher), or IT-Manager (self evident and nerdy) but definitely not a stay at home dad and housekeeper. ‘Maria’, who worked for Stadt Luzern (the local council) as a garbage truck driver, fared little better. Fictional peeps aside, it’s great to finally be giving it a bash but it is definitely challenging. Other than scheduling nap times and meals (like Peter) I am not used to thinking particularly hard so attempting to understand male, female and neutral nouns and then adapt sentence structure and words for tense is…well….difficult. On the plus side, I now know how to order myself a whole bottle of delicious red wine, so I count it as a win.

Although we get away a reasonable amount, one of the most pertinent changes we’ve experienced during our time here is getting to know a new local landscape and experience its subtle nuances. McMotsMots has his daily commute to Rotkreuz, and the lass and I walk virtually the same route along the lake every day, giving us all the opportunity to witness the merge of season into season. The last week alone has heralded so many changes. Flowers are popping up everywhere: golden narcissus circling trees, heady-scented freesias scaling embarkments, the outline of cherry buds against the backdrop of the Alps, and miscellaneous white-and-yellow numbers everywhere else. The light is lingering later and later and becoming increasingly glowing of an evening. Birdsong has become clearer and more discrete – one could almost interpret their conversations (mine back to them was ‘shut up, it’s 4am, haven’t you heard of a civil waking hour, or are you just in cahoots with my daughter?). And the temperature, if not exactly balmy, is down to three-layer-weather, which feels wonderful (both in a physical and laundry sense).

On the recommendation of a friend via this article I am currently reading a Swiss French book, Beauty on Earth. Completely coincidentally timing wise, the plot surfaces and develops as spring unfolds and cuts across the mountains, lakes and village where the story is set. It’s translated from the French and as such I’m uncertain how much of the abstraction of the writing is due to interpretation versus culture, but nonetheless there’s an otherness to it that aligns perfectly with this hazy, remote, ethereal landscape. The following passage is from the perspective (and there are multiple perspectives, almost alternating in every paragraph) of the central character who is newly arrived to Switzerland from South America, and trying to come to grips with the country, its people and its landscape all the while influencing it herself with, like spring, her own vibrancy. This passage, to me, captures the glimpses of the Alps over the shimmering uncertainty of the lake, the almost tangible beginnings of twighlight, the smudges of Swiss spring.

Below is the water, but there are three things. The water is below, then she looks a little higher and sees the land (if it is truly land on that other bank, when it looks more like sculpted air, air which has been squeezed between your hands). It was like air surrounded by air, blue surrounded by blue, until higher up, but then she didn’t understand at all anymore: up there the beautiful laundry-like fields of snow were hanging on a rope of sky…

It was just as well we’d received warning that a canon would be blasting at 5am in downtown Lucerne last Thursday because I suspect Tim would have recanted his staunchly atheist state, thinking that the apocalypse was nigh. Hearing a canon and its reverberations across the lake and mountains was only the start – Dirty Thursday had begun.

Fasnacht is, basically, an epic party over the five day lead up to lent. The Old Town is filled with revellers warding off winter and cutting loose before Ash Wednesday. And I mean cutting loose. I’m not sure if they were all on acid, or simply European, but hoo boy – Fasnacht is nuts.

The party starts at 5am. Tim’s folks who are currently staying with us made their way down and came back, pumped with adrenalin (and acid?) at what they’d seen. Grotesquely gaudy masked brass bands – scores of them – wound the tiny streets, playing music while costumed hoards followed, dancing and casting confetti.

As we had built in babysitters, Tim and I made our way in to check it out that night, as the party warmed up again. We strolled through confetti littered street and got to town at about nine, to find Lucerne buzzing. People lined the streets – drinking, dancing, laughing – all consumed. Bands both small and large were dotted throughout the city. Some were perched in makeshift grandstands (the dudes below were pumping out ‘Come on Eileen’ on our arrival) and others snaked around the Old Town’s laneways. All wore some variation of the Fasnacht mask – oversized and grotesque. There was a definite gothic feel to the city. Every turn revealed a new sound or sight. At one stage, we turned a corner and heard a requiem being pumped out while I’m pretty sure the original Mozart stood, playing to a king and queen, atop a podium. I reiterate: trippy. As we wandered the streets (trying to find a beverage. Not having done our research we didn’t realise that the unfamiliar drinks being advertised were actually a Fasnacht special – local plum liquor, a bit of coffee, topped up with hot water. In hindsight, it could explain a few things) we saw aliens, angels, arabs, steampunk-themed people, prisoners, renaissance-styled people and more animal onesies than I’d hoped to see in this lifetime. And a super creepy Parisian (sorry, happy reveller, whoever you are). The party couple below thought Tim was an official photographer and demanded their snap was taken in numerous poses. After passing the ghostbuster car and some psychedelic mushrooms we really, really needed a drink ourselves, so retired to a nearby bar and let Dirty Thursday do its thing.

The party continued into the very early hours (happy, tuneless, party peeps woke us up heading home throughout the night)(in an aside, I’ve always liked lying in a toasty warm bed and hearing merry people making their way places) but on the following day – Switzerland being Switzerland – there was barely any evidence it had occurred at all. The weekend quietened down (although there were still animal onesies everywhere), but Fasnacht will return for Fat Monday and Tuesday today. The two days apparently merge into one long, even more epic, party. My punt is Lucerners will be happy to see the arrival of chaste lent, which I guess is entirely the point.

As of last week, we have a high school band serenading us on Wednesday evenings from the campus across the road. It’s every bit as hideous as it sounds. I’ve just listened to the ‘Hello Mary Lou, Goodbye Heart’ refrain about a dozen times and I now have a song I wasn’t even aware I knew stuck in my head. I understand that’s not much of an opener, but hoo boy Mary Lou leaves little room for other trains of thought.

As predicted, the week has dripped along. It’s definitely winter now; most days are in the minus temperatures and the roads have turned into treacherous ice-slicked death traps (just ask Tim, who had the first tumble of the season en route to work the other day). We’ve had snow for the last few week or so and the novelty still has not worn off – it’s just so beautiful. We’re astounded with the way it dances through the grey sky as it falls, the mimicry it makes of the objects on which it lands, the various rustles and crunches as we traipse over it. Pretty obvious we’re from a warm country, no?! Even the view from our apartment and surrounding neighbourhood has us disproportionately excited.

We spent last weekend at home: wandering around the hood, picking up bits and pieces and practicing my ever pathetic German at the market, auditioning new coffee shops and giving the Christmas toboggan a its first outdoor run. Tim was always about three blocks behind us, snapping the pretty snow.

I insisted he capture my fave roundabout (what, you mean you don’t have a fave roundabout?).

Lucerne is a lakeside town, and although we obviously get the white stuff it’s not nearly as heavy as higher locales. It was enough to thrill us but still leave our apparently pow-pow loving girl spectacularly unimpressed.

As lovely and novel as the snow is, I’ve not quite worked out how to exist with a toddler in inclement weather. We get out and about as much as possible, but nonetheless some fairly serious cabin fever is setting in. Personally, I’d (always) be happy to warm up some chocolate and sit on the couch (listening to gems like this podcast, a fascinating history lesson and economic evaluation of Switzerland’s little known cheese cartel) however the little madame has other ideas. Especially now that she’s rocking her first haircut – she clearly just wants to show it off.

Finally, the band appears to have said goodbye to Mary Lou, however The Saints Are Marching In, and with their arrival I shall depart (mainly to action closing the window and hopefully shut out the semi-tuned blast of brass invading our house).

(As a delicious aside, these happened last week. Australian lamingtons bathed in Swiss chocolate, for an aperitivo we went to at our neighbour’s gaff. Everyone thought they were brownies – Tim tried to get people to remember them by referencing Lemmings, ha – but they got demolished nonetheless. Mostly by me prior to said drinks.)

Obviously our life here is not all trips away and long boozy lunches made entirely of cheese, more’s the pity. There are quiet times, the in between times, where one lot of visitors have sadly left and we’re waiting excitedly on the next, where Hotel is out of town for work and I’ve got long days with the little one, where the next getaway is only in planning stages, where the weather is sleety and it’s only epic cabin fever that forces me to leave our toasty little apartment.

These are not bad times, not at all. They’re homely and satisfying, restful. They’ve included lots of cooking (soup! bread! cheeky non-new-years-resolution-muffins!), mama/daughter haircuts (I really need to write a list of hairstyles that I should never get again. I currently belong in the 80s and Adelaide looks like a wee lad), a trip to the local swimming pool (with a snow-covered mountain viewable from the heated pool) and lots of giggles (also, to be honest, screams) from our now-officially-toddling toddler.

Although not bad, it’s hard not to look at these in between times as lesser: less fun, less adventurous, less interesting (and due to silly season excess, there’s also significantly less wine, less cheese and less chocolate, sigh). Possibly because our last four months here have been hectic, filled with travel and guests, it doesn’t feel like we have a normal life, a ‘usual’, a routine. It can feel like we’re biding out time until the next event, and there’s something slightly depressing about that. As much as I disdain the Cult Of Positivity, there is something to be said for appreciating the moment in which you find yourself. (However my chores today include changing the car’s number plates and buying a new iron, and frankly there’s not much innate joy in either of those things.)

In between sleety outbursts this afternoon, I took my little Laidey for a (non-new-years-resolution-muffin-induced) run along the shore of the lake. It’s clean, crisp and cold and even stepping outside, as much of a challenge as that can be, invigorates. The vista was as breathtaking as ever; I don’t believe I’ll ever tire of seeing the Alps. Today the snow was rolling across the horizon, a heavy grey smudge in the distance, and the visible mountains were a craggy black and white, almost cartoonish. (I’d like to say the impending weather made me run faster, but that would be an outright lie.)  The water of the lake is always crystal clear but the chill made it seem thick, like glycerine (glycerine that crazy Swiss people are happy to swim in sans wetsuits). It’s always a visual slap in the face to remind me how fortunate we are, an immediate uplift at how amazing the world is.

This doesn’t make me miss my sweet nephew’s ‘ay-o!’ any less, or the purchase of banal household goods any more thrilling, or my hair look any less wretched. It does help, though, with making each day more rounded and satisfying, like I’m not just counting down the time in between naps and meals and picking up yet again the bloody bag of pom poms she is currently obsessed with (and it’s not unique to this country; a good solid stint outdoors anywhere always makes me feel that way). I’ll always count down to holidays, though. Because holidays.

One of the loveliest things about having a little one (other than not being in gainful employment and dressing her in animal-themed outfits) is building family traditions together. We can’t wait until she’s old enough for Easter Egg hunts (and Easter Nests, my family tradition where you tart up a box and fill it with shredded paper in which, on Easter Sunday, the Easter Bunny lays its delicious chocolate eggs. Yeah, I am aware there are lots of flaws with this concept but it apparently kept us quiet), camping trips, hopefully our annual ‘sisters October long weekend’ (a dismal failure after only one installation) and of course Christmas, the latter made even more exciting by her birthday occurring five days prior.

Last year’s Christmas Day was surreal. She was five days old and we were shell shocked. We’d left the hospital two days previously, unsure why we were allowed to leave with a small human who we didn’t know or know what to do with, and we’d barely slept or eaten since (nor had she, due to a undiagnosed sucking problem and tongue / lip tie). My best friend – her Guidefather – was hosting a Christmas lunch which we’d made tentative plans to attend, depending on whether we were coping or not. If it was anyone else in the world I would have cancelled and eaten frozen lasagne seasoned with my own tears however we put her in the car seat for the second time ever and made our way across town for a lovely lunch with very tolerant friends. That afternoon, both sets of grandparents arrived at our place with the fixings for Christmas dinner but by then things had deteriorated. She was hungry and couldn’t feed, and it was anything but a silent night as Tim and I sat at one end of the house with a screaming baby while our folks ate their dinner and cleaned our kitchen at the other. In the midst of the newborn haze, all festive cheer was forgotten.

This year we’re hoping to make up for it. Christmas has definitely descended on Lucerne. The town is lit up with sparkly lights that reflect across the lake. The old town’s fountains are dressed up – some as advent wreaths, some as candles, some with nativity scenes. There’s a building that has turned its windows into an advent calendar. There are Christmas markets, with a scented cloud of spices and wurst hovering above them. There’s an outdoor iceskating rink next to the lake, surrounded by glittering fir trees, with carols drifting through the chilly winter air. There are glühwein stands everywhere (I enjoyed a cup while doing my grocery shopping earlier this evening, only spilling a small amount on the baby). I love it here.

Today is St Niklaus Day, which in Switzerland is the day that the dude we know as Santa visits (it’s the Christkind aka the Christchild aka Baby Jesus who delivers the gifts on Christmas Eve). Here, though, Santa is known as Samichlaus and he does not come alone. He has a trusty sidekick, dressed in a black coat sporting a beard and carrying a bundle of sticks, named Schmutzli. The dynamic duo fly no deer but trudge through the snow with a donkey and visit nervous children to determine whether they have been good or not. If they have, the children traditionally receive nuts, gingerbread and tangerines (and more recently, small toys) from jolly Samichlaus’ bulging sack; if not, they are beaten with surly Schmutzli’s sticks and kidnapped in his empty sack. Children recite a poem (not an option for our girl, whose language skills extend to calling everything electronic ‘Dad’. Given how nerdy Tim is that’s unsurprising I guess, but does not make for good poetry recitals) and promise to be good for the following year. Kids put their boots outside the door on the night prior to St Niklaus Day, and hope for treats.

Despite not being in the position to beg repentance for all those sleepless nights, our cowgirl decided to try her luck.

She must have been good, because there was no beating and no kidnapping, and instead a ridiculous pair of snowman tights that will be worn every day this silly season.

Of course, bright and early this morning, I was a little more excited than she was about our overnight visitors, but she nonetheless rose to the occasion. She tried her first gingerbread (a sugar fuelled success, of course) and smashed her best fruit, a tangerine, for breakfast. And those tights went on immediately.

We’ve got a road trip to Germany today and I suspect will live to regret dosing her up on refined sugar this early, however it’s her first St Nick’s Day, so what could we do? Get behind the sugary Christmas spirit, is what.

Another Swiss tradition is that Christmas trees get put up on Christmas Eve (along with gift giving and, apparently, fondue bourguignon). For a Christmas enthusiast that felt a little drawn out; I was delighted, then, to wake one morning to find my own Samichlaus delight.

A few branches found in the bin room (he insists subsequently washed), some lights from home and on the top a happy character made out of afore mentioned snowman tights packaging and voila: a pre-tree tree courtesy of McMotsy.  I actually screeched with Christmas delight, and Laidey has been feasting on the fronds ever since. At least they are sugar free, and road trip friendly.