How was your Fourth of July? I did absolutely nothing to observe it. This was not due to a lack of national pride (although I must admit that I feel a healthy dose of shame on that front these days); it was partly because I was horrifically tired, and partly because in Switzerland, the 4th is just the day that comes between the 3rd and the 5th. I arrived in Zurich Sunday afternoon, went to work Monday, went to Montreux after work, saw Sigur Ros in concert, then caught a bus at 2:45 in the morning. And then a train at 4:45. And another train at 6:20. And a tram at 6:40. Showered, changed, and still made it into the office by 8:30. So after working all day, I considered going out to celebrate, then thought I'd stay in and watch TV, a low-key, one-(wo)man celebration. And then I realized that I couldn't even watch TV without falling asleep, so I was in bed by 9 p.m. But I thought about going out to celebrate. And I thought about staying in and celebrating. And it's the thought that counts, right?
Lesson learned: taking five flights with long layovers, spending time in three time zones in ten days, running countless errands in between trying to see everyone you know, jumping back into work, then staying up all night to go to a concert does not leave you well-rested and ready to celebrate a holiday that is not observed in your country of residence.
California was great. My grandfather was quite pleased that his six surviving children, seventeen grandkids (and thirteen spouses), fourteen great-grandkids (with two more in the works), and other assorted relatives made it to Monterey for his 100th birthday. I met several new family members (mostly great-grandkids) for the first time, and none of them puked on me (not even my newly-married cousin's husband). Reunions in the old days included Yeye (my grandfather), the "grown-ups" (his kids), and the "kids" (his grandkids, my generation). Now that there's another generation added, we've started labeling ourselves like iPods. Yeye is G1, my parents are G2, the grandkids are G3, and the great-grandkids are G4. These are actually used. In the schedule that was handed out (yes, there was one), I had to check and see where I showed up, as Angela, G3, or #5 family (my dad is sibling #5), to make sure I was where I needed to be.
You may have gathered this, but my family is a little bit insane when it comes to organization and planning (if you think I'm anal, you will be shocked to find out that I am one of the most scatter-brained members of my family). Reunions are planned by committee, with copious input via our family email group. People are appointed Food Czar, Transportation Czar, Accommodation Czar, Gear Czar (over the years, we have collected family sweatshirts, jerseys, t-shirts, key chains, mouse pads, fleeces, pens, and mugs), Photo Czar, and Activities Czar. Seriously. G4, you may be carefree, puking, and potty-training now, but one day your Anal Gene will kick in and you will be telling G5 that they need to be ready for a group photo at 3:35, no exceptions.
New York was also great, although going back always awakens feelings of nostalgia. There really is no other place like New York, for better or worse. The sunglasses-shielded speed-walk down a squashed-gum sidewalk with an MP3 soundtrack. Dribbles of air conditioner spit coming from above. Grown-up hippies sitting on park benches next to sullen hipsters. Business casual-clad white-collar slaves gulping their drinks down in between furious bouts of Blackberry-ing. Strange(rs) sending drinks from across the bar and then making awkward conversation. Incomprehensible garbled announcements on the subway. The doorman who remembers your name two years later. The ear pop near the end of the elevator ride that means you're finally home.
Lesson learned: taking five flights with long layovers, spending time in three time zones in ten days, running countless errands in between trying to see everyone you know, jumping back into work, then staying up all night to go to a concert does not leave you well-rested and ready to celebrate a holiday that is not observed in your country of residence.
California was great. My grandfather was quite pleased that his six surviving children, seventeen grandkids (and thirteen spouses), fourteen great-grandkids (with two more in the works), and other assorted relatives made it to Monterey for his 100th birthday. I met several new family members (mostly great-grandkids) for the first time, and none of them puked on me (not even my newly-married cousin's husband). Reunions in the old days included Yeye (my grandfather), the "grown-ups" (his kids), and the "kids" (his grandkids, my generation). Now that there's another generation added, we've started labeling ourselves like iPods. Yeye is G1, my parents are G2, the grandkids are G3, and the great-grandkids are G4. These are actually used. In the schedule that was handed out (yes, there was one), I had to check and see where I showed up, as Angela, G3, or #5 family (my dad is sibling #5), to make sure I was where I needed to be.
You may have gathered this, but my family is a little bit insane when it comes to organization and planning (if you think I'm anal, you will be shocked to find out that I am one of the most scatter-brained members of my family). Reunions are planned by committee, with copious input via our family email group. People are appointed Food Czar, Transportation Czar, Accommodation Czar, Gear Czar (over the years, we have collected family sweatshirts, jerseys, t-shirts, key chains, mouse pads, fleeces, pens, and mugs), Photo Czar, and Activities Czar. Seriously. G4, you may be carefree, puking, and potty-training now, but one day your Anal Gene will kick in and you will be telling G5 that they need to be ready for a group photo at 3:35, no exceptions.
New York was also great, although going back always awakens feelings of nostalgia. There really is no other place like New York, for better or worse. The sunglasses-shielded speed-walk down a squashed-gum sidewalk with an MP3 soundtrack. Dribbles of air conditioner spit coming from above. Grown-up hippies sitting on park benches next to sullen hipsters. Business casual-clad white-collar slaves gulping their drinks down in between furious bouts of Blackberry-ing. Strange(rs) sending drinks from across the bar and then making awkward conversation. Incomprehensible garbled announcements on the subway. The doorman who remembers your name two years later. The ear pop near the end of the elevator ride that means you're finally home.
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