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.