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.