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.
There was a definite festive feeling. Tim had the first of his Christmas parties: he went to Germany on Friday night and arrived back in Zurich on Saturday considerably shadier. Neighbouring apartments and businesses have started hanging Christmas lights – a glimpse out of any of our windows is guaranteed to reveal golden twinkly stars, angels or trees. And my contribution? Eating all the Christmas snacks. Yup, they’re a thing and yup, they’re gingery and delicious.
We’ve not had much to do with snow before (as was painfully clear based on last week’s enthusiastic post) and this just blew us away.
The town itself is small but its scope vast. Every now and then the clouds would part and Alps would reveal themselves, disturbingly sneaky for masses so enormous.
We all watched, agape, as the flakes grew and whirled, and the mountains became increasingly white throughout the day. Some right on the horizon looked as though they had been covered thickly in icing sugar.
The adults in the house would have preferred to lie on the couch and soak in the view however our wee boss had other ideas. After a day indoors on Saturday there was an epic case of cabin fever, so even though the snow hit Lucerne again on Sunday – this time a heavier shower that coloured all the nearby rooftops white – we decided to suck it up and get outside. A fortifying breakfast was in order (yeah, our little Swans bruiser is knocking back egg, bacon and beans. And looking to pick a fight while she’s at it. It was Sunday morning, right?!)
We rugged up in pretty much all our clothing. Laidey appears to have no feet here, or to have sunk into an uber plush rug, but in fact her pants are just embarrassingly large. 
We made our way to the park at the end of our street. By the time we arrived most of the snow on the ground had melted, but the mountains around held it proudly (and allegedly will now until April). 
During Loz’s visit, she and I took a tour of Lucerne city, hearing about its medieval and dark ages history, as well as more recent information on voting (all the time and on all manner of matters, like whether to hang original art on the bridge or not). Of course the tour took us to one of the city’s most famous sites: the Löwendenkmal (Lion Monument). I decided to play tour guide for Tim and we made our way across town, huddling into our jackets against the snow (but still peering out of them enthusiastically to ooh and aah as we walked).
The monument was paid for by many monarchies of Europe, all of which used Swiss mercenaries for their bodyguards. The pay, however, was not satisfactory and the sculptor was displeased. Rather than deface the monument itself, he instead carved a (definitely unrequested) pig in which the lion is dying. 
The snow started to fall again, so we legged it home to drink fortifying red wine. 
It has continued softly falling all week – and if you come back in April I suspect I shall be moaning about how tedious and miserable it all is, but for now every morning’s fresh touch of white is exciting. Apparently the Swiss buy their little ones skis for their first birthdays, so that they can learn to navigate the slopes as they start to navigate walking. It seems fitting, then, that our first snow has fallen the week our little Addie took her first bumbling, drunken-old-man steps, not too far from her first birthday (for which she will not be receiving skis. Sorry, Adelaide, no future winter olympics career for you)(frankly, the chances were slim anyway with her heritage).
Ordinarily, we’d usher you into the kitchen and shove Tim’s cocktail of the moment (usually gin, usually too strong) into your hand. But as this is Switzerland, you need to derobe first. Just to the right of the entry way is the ‘shell cupboard’ (Tim’s words) – a wardrobe that holds shoes, scarves, beanies, coats, gloves; all the outerwear. It’s usually a world of fluster as I’m running late for somewhere or other and, as usual, underestimating the weather and my child’s patience.
Tucked in the door in the far left above is our laundry slash general dumping zone. It includes all our recycling, which currently consists of a disgraceful number of wine bottles. From the windows here, you can see the twin spires of the St Leodgedar (built in the 1600s, it’s one of Switerland’s most significant churches apparently), some reflections on the lake if you squint, and of course a bunch of neighbouring apartments. 
To the right of the living room we have an indoor balcony, a type of sunroom (in a wintery, wintery land). We’ve got views of the Alps (as well as a bunch of miscellaneous rooftops and a bus depot) from those windows as long as the day is clear, which it appears is rare this time of year. 
It’s been fun moving our existing possessions into a new space. The bookshelves, as I’ve mentioned, have been the only real fail as they are 15cm short for the new ceiling and are subsequently reclining sideways (I like to imagine them doing so sleazily, with one arm supporting their heads). It makes no difference – the girl’s current fave activity is to pull all the books out and throw them on the floor (repeating as quickly as I can reshelve them) (Sisyphus much?).
If we head back now towards the entry and turn left – let’s top our glasses up on the way through the kitchen, shall we? – we’ll hit our room. I once went on a tour of a friend’s new house and she described her boudoir as the room ‘where the magic happens’. If ‘magic’ is going to bed before double figures, reading trashy detective fiction and being woken in the fives (if we’re lucky) by the baby, then the description also stands for me.
The door you can see there leads out to sunroom balcony, and subsequently we also have views of the Alps slash bus depot from our room. Which makes for a scenic, and occasionally noisy, experience.
Our dirty laundry aired, let’s make our way back to the living room for the afore mentioned olives and drinks. Do your best to make sure it’s in real life soon, yeah? Lauren’s room is waiting for you!
We had an early handover at the new apartment, followed by the unloading of the container that had made its way from Australia, registering in the new Canton, moving our possessions from the temporary apartment to our new home, and of course cracking into celebratory champagne. Once again the relocation people were fantastic and there were only a few hiccups (a delayed customs clearance due to our apparently suspicious sofa, a few breakages, bookshelves too large for our new home which are now stylishly placed on their sides as opposed to their upright position, and I’d bought only one bottle of bubbles). We’ve spent the week settling in and getting familiar with both our new space and the local neighbourhood. Thus far, we’re delighted.
Her help was indispensable with the move: there was assistance with crappy Buykea trips, assembly of furniture, recycling runs and distracting of baby. Most importantly, though, she was able to mediate between Motsy and I in furniture and art placement debates and therefore circumvent an early divorce. I’ve missed her.
Due to the move, we’ve mainly hung out in Lucerne, but we made a trip out sans baby last weekend. My hometown, Wagga Wagga, used to hold an annual festival called the 
Root vegetables, and cauldrons of Glühwein. We did our civic duty and indulged in a few glasses.
It was, indeed, so fein.
The parade was a trifle confusing. It featured large billboards with turnips fixed to them in a variety of images. There didn’t appear to be a particular theme and we watched disney characters, local monuments and a variety of creatures – including an octopus with an unlikely pair of lips – go past. I also suck at taking snaps and we were vying for a good position with a ten year old boy, so you’ll excuse the blurry images.
We had no idea who this guy was. The local sans-beard Santa? The father of twin Ponnochios?
The kissable Octopus, followed by Caspar. 
This turnip-embossed monument had an operating fountain dispensing water (sadly, not Glühwein).
Darth Vader made a (somewhat lacklustre) appearance. 
We argued about this guy – Loz thought it was Hugh Jackman in his Wolverine days. I asked a local and he confirmed it was an actor but the language barrier prohibited us finding out exactly who it was. Either way, the parade was paused for a turnip to be replaced (or a blackhead to be picked, if you’ll excuse our Glühwein fuelled humour).
We didn’t stick around for the grand finale (which looked like the ‘What, Me Worry?’ Mad Magazine guy) which may have been a good thing if the pig poo bombs from the Gumi were anything to go by. Instead we lumbered back to the new apartment, where we’ve spent the rest of the week carving a new home for ourselves.
I knocked back a cheeky prosecco while Adelaide tried her hand at stealing post-halloween pumpkins.
Hey Mamalaide 