It costs how much?!?! Pizza

You know that on a Friday night after a long week of work, kids, homework, Scouts and fighting traffic you just don’t feel like cooking.  You think of getting some Chinese take out, but quickly realize that you don’t feel like hearing the complaints from your rugrat, “Mommy, I don’t want to eat thaaat.”  You follow the path of least resistance and decide on pizza.  Even better, you order in.  You do that in America.  In Switzerland, you take out a second mortgage.

You call Domino’s.  And, yes, they have Domino’s in Switzerland.  You order an extra-large Margherita (plain) pizza.  That pizza just cost you 35.90 Swiss Francs (CHF).

35.90 CHF.  Yes, 35.90 CHF.  You try not to think about how much you just spent, but you can’t stop saying, “35.90″.  You know that 36 of any currency, except maybe the Japanese yen, is a fair amount of money.  Especially for some pizza.  Just flour, water, a little yeast, a bit of salt, tomato paste and cheese.  35.90.  Dang.  35.90.  You just can’t help yourself.  35.90.  You’ve done it again.

You don’t want to, but you have to know what that costs in dollars.  You have to know what it costs in dollars so you can compare it to how much you’d have paid back home.  But you’re afraid, very afraid.  Do you really want to know?

You do the math:  35.90 CHF X $1.15 = $41.29.  $41.29 for a 16″ pizza.  (Okay, a 40cm pizza is actually only 15 3/4″, but don’t quibble.)  $41.29. You can’t stop saying it, “41.29 for a pizza.”

$41.29.  Stop it already!

Yes, that’s over 40 frickin’ dollars for a pizza.  A pizza.  You know that tucked back into the recesses of your closet you have shoes that didn’t even cost that much.  Actually, you know you have several pairs of shoes that didn’t cost that much and some handbags too.

Say you want to add some toppings to that, a lot of toppings.  An extra-large Extravaganza  is 49.90 CHF.  Afraid to do the math?  That’s $57.39!

You shake your head and look down at your feet.  No, don’t do that.  You don’t want to see your feet because they’re kind of raggedy.   You’re long overdue for some personal upkeep.  $57.39.  That’s a mani/pedi, and a Brazilian!

$57.39!  Hold your voice down and stop cussin’ in front of the kids.

You don’t want to spend quite so much?  You go and pick it up in person.  It’s usually 33% off, but maybe you’ll be lucky and go on a night when they’re running the 19.90 special for any pizza, any size.

As you watch the other people pick up their orders you wonder why they’re only purchasing a medium pizza, a 12″ pizza.  People!  It’s on SALE.  Get the extra large!

(Now, Europeans are like that.  They only buy what they can eat in one sitting.  That’s why they’re skinny.  You, you buy two extra larges with the thought of putting the leftovers in the freezer.  Or, at least that’s what you tell yourself, when you know good and well that you and the hubby will knock them out watching a download of SVU.  You also know that’s why you’re both so doggone fat.)

Maybe, you feel like taking a drive, a long drive.  You hop across the border to France, where the same, plain Domino’s Margherita pizza cost just 14.90€.  Yes, another math problem. Get your kid to do it.  Wait, here it is:  14.90€  X  $1.45 = $21.60.

That’s almost half off for a 15-minute drive.  Since they don’t deliver across the border and you have to pick it up in person, you get the two-for-one take out special.  So, it’s only $10.80 a pizza.  Not bad.

$10.80, but you have to drive to Annemasse.  Annemass where your backpack holding the rugrat’s and your passports was stolen from you while you were loading the car up with groceries.  Annemasse where stores were looted during the G8 riots.  Annemasse where they might not have a Martin Luther King Boulevard, but they do have a MLK rec center.  And you remember what Chris Rock said about Martin Luther King Boulevard, “…there’s some violence going down.”

Hmm….  $10.80.  Riots.  $10.80.  Stolen passports.  Uh, maybe you will order Chinese.

Wait, somewhere in the back of your mind you hear a voice saying, “American pizzas cost more.  Go local.”  Local pizza as in directly across the street from your apartment local.  Local to the pizza joint that still wreaks of cigarette smoke even though smoking in restaurants was banned at least six months ago.

Local, European-style pizza is maybe is as big as a large dinner plate.  The local Margherita costs 18 CHF.   That’s a plain pizza, nothing on it.  Don’t even do the math.  That’s too doggone much for a 12″ pizza.

And, besides, the rugrat – and you – prefer American pizza.  They can keep those European-style pizzas with the egg, sunny side up, smack dab in the middle.  You want a slice that looks like it came straight out of Brooklyn.

No disrespect to the Italians, but they don’t know Jack about pizza.  They didn’t even invent it.  It’s French, from Marseille.  Or, at least that’s what the French say.

You head out to the Domino’s praying that there will be parking.  And, no, they don’t have parking lots.  You’ll be lucky to find a spot on the street – two blocks away.

The rugrat is so hungry that she eats hers in the car.  You wait until you get home to grap your slice.  You feel satisfied until the heartburn kicks in.  At least that will keep you distracted so you won’t think about how much you just paid.  For some pizza.

In France it's even cheaper on Tuesdays, but who wants pizza on a Tuesday?

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It costs how much?!?!

Even after living in Geneva for more that ten years, I’m still flabbergasted by the prices. According to Mercer, the consulting firm that calculates cost-of-living indices around the world, Geneva is the fifth most expensive city in the world.  I know that.  I live that.

Still, even though I know that Geneva is expensive and I know that wages here are very high, I still can’t stop myself from exclaiming, “It costs how much?!?!”  That question is usually followed by some sucking of teeth and a, “Shoo, they must be crazy.” Occasionally, that’s followed by some cussing.

I plan to share some of my “It costs how much?!?!” moments with you.  Maybe you’ll want to pass the hat for me.

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Think gas prices are high?

Price per liter, not gallons.

I’m rather bemused by the American news stories about gas being $3.91 a gallon.  People are up in arms!  They’re riding their bikes; taking the bus.

$3.91?  That’s a downright bargain!  Do you see those prices in the picture?  Those prices are for liters not gallons.  Gas prices in Switzerland are now averaging 1.85 CHF a liter for unleaded.

So what’s that a gallon?  Let’s do the math:

1 US gallon = 3.79 liters*.

3.79 X 1.85 CHF = 7.00

Swiss franc = US $1.16

1.16 X 7.00 = US $8.11.

$8.11?!?  I shouldn’t have done that calculation because I’ve depressed myself.  I had never converted the cost per gallon because I really didn’t want to know.  Dang, ignorance was indeed bliss.

Our car runs on diesel, which is even more expensive.  At 2.05 a liter that’s $9.01 a gallon.  Another calculation I shouldn’t have done.  If I weren’t already sitting I’d be on the floor.

My husband George likes to remind me, “It’s not apples to apples.  European gas has a higher octane.  Swiss gas has 95 octane and the high test is 98.  That lousy American gas is only 87 or 89 for premium.”  Octane, shmoctane.  I just need something in the tank.

The Swiss might grumble about gas prices going up, but no one’s talking about toppling the government.  In fact, there is a proposal in parliament to increase gas prices by 23 centimes a liter.  That would make gas cost, heck, I don’t even want to think about it!

You’d think that with gas prices so high, the Swiss would drive small cars.  Nope, there are more Land Rovers and ridiculously-large BMWs on the road that I can possibly count.  I’ve even seen a Hummer or two.  If you want to see small cars, cross the border to France.

Swiss gas prices aren’t even the highest in Europe.  We were in England last week where the average gas price was $8.60 a gallon.

When I come back to the States for a visit this summer, I bet I’ll be only person at the pump with a smile on her face.

 

 

 

 

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I’m melllltiiiing!

After

There is nothing that can bring on a hysterics in an eight-year old faster than a melted Easter bunny.  Ever since Claire’s chocolate Easter ducks melted (actually, their heads imploded) a couple of years ago, I’ve been reminded, “Don’t put the Easter bunny in the window!!!!”

But, I forgot.  And, she had reminded me.  We had unexpected company for lunch and I quickly cleared all of the Easter candy from the dining room table and put in on the buffet – the buffet next to the window, the west-facing window.  At about 4:00 p.m. every day the dining room floods with light.

At about 4:30 my little drama queen started SHRIEKING, “It’s MEEEELLLLTEEEED!!!!”  What, the Wicked Witch of the West?

“What melted?”

Sob, sob, sob, “The Easter bunny!”

“Oh, Claire, calm down. It’s just chocolate and you got too much this year.  Eat the other bunny.”  I didn’t have the heart to tell her that the foil-wrapped bunny had melted too, but she hadn’t noticed that.

“Take it away!  Throw it away!  I can’t even look at it!”  Her performance was worthy of a telenovela.  She had her hand in front of her eyes to shield her view.  She fell onto the sofa in gales of tears.

“A melted bunny is not worth all of this drama.”

“But I TOLD you not to put them there and you didn’t listen to me.”  Now she’s throwing guilt at me.  There was no consoling her or resurrecting that bunny.

Oh, man.  What should I do? Throw money at the problem.  “Here’s ten francs.  Run around the corner to the supermarket and see if there are any bunnies left.”

Ten minutes later she came happily skipping back with a new bunny and change, “It was on sale!  Fifty percent off!”  Not only had she gotten a new chocolate bunny, she’d gotten a bargain.  A double win in her eyes.

(Please, no comments on my poor parenting skills.  I’ll admit that my daughter is, well….. What’s the word I’m looking for? Oh, yes, indulged.)

Quick reminder: Before

So, now I have to figure out what to do with a bunch of melted chocolate.  Any ideas?

 

 

 

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Girlfriend was lost

The Palais des Nations - not Palettes

After French class few weeks ago I boarded the #13 tram in front of the Cornavin train station heading towards Palettes.  I prefer to take the #15 because it’s more direct, but the 13 came first.  It was just a typical morning for me.

I ran into a Dutch gentleman who does volunteer work with me and we started chatting as we got on.  I noticed that the well-dressed African woman who boarded with us was listening to our conversation.  I think that when people hear English in a sea of French they listen in.  Maybe it’s comforting.

When my friend got off she remarked, “We’re getting a real tour of the city.”

“Yes, the 13 goes a more circuitous route than the 15.”

“About how long to we get to Palais?”

I looked up at the computer screen that said 13 minutes to Bachet de Pesay and added the extra five minutes to Palettes.  “About 18,” I responded off-handedly.  I had already started to read my newspaper.

“I can get the #8 bus there?”

“No, there’s the 22, 23 and the 42.”  Wait!  Did she say Palettes or Palais?  I put down my newspaper.  “Where are you going?” I asked with alarm.

“I’m going to Palais.”

To my knowledge there’s no Palais stop.  “Palais?”

“Yes, I’m going to the Palais de Nations.”  Oh, no!  This poor woman was going to the UN, which is across town in the opposite direction.

“We’re heading towards Palettes not Palais.  The UN is in the opposite direction!”

She looked like she was about to burst out into tears.  “I’m already late for my meeting.  How can I get to the Palais?”

“When we get off at Palettes you can get on the 13 or 15 trams in the opposite direction, but the 22 bus is more direct.”  She still looked like she was going to cry.

“You got on a Cornavin right?”

“I got on at the gare.”  The gare, or train station, in Geneva, is in fact Cornavin.

“Do you know that if you’d crossed the platform at Cornavin and gotten the 13 or 15 going the opposite direction you’d have been at the UN in about 7 minutes?”  Oh, man.  I didn’t mean to rub salt into her wounds.  I thought I saw her eyes start to glisten.

As we got off the tram she said, “I’m already late for my meeting.  How long will it take?”

“On the 22 about 20 minutes.”  That didn’t seem to comfort her.

She looked around the very residential neighborhood.  “Is there somewhere I can use the toilet?  I really need to go.”  She not only looked like she needed a toilet, but a hug as well.

I debated on whether I should bring her home with me.  I normally don’t bring strangers home, but based on how she was dressed and the tears about to pop out of her eyes, I felt pretty safe.  I decided against bringing her home because I was afraid that she’d get lost again finding her way back to the tram stop.

Almost a month later I’m still wondering if she found her way to her meeting without incident – or an accident.

 

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Just buy a car already!

Every year my husband anxiously awaits the Salon International des Inventions de Genève.  It takes place every year in early April and is billed as the most important inventions show in the world.  Personally, I was underwhelmed, but I think that it’s a guy thing.

Exhibitors came from 45 countries.  The presentations ranged from the extremely professional to junior-high school science fair.  Some of them could have truly benefitted from some good marketing or at least a color printer.

There were all kinds of inventions, but primarily industrial applications.  I was captivated by an exhibition from a drought-afflicted country in Africa.  They were showing how to pump water from deep, sandy terrain – a noble product especially for their part of the world.  I was especially intrigued because when I was there they never quite got the water out of the pump.  I gave up long before they did.

One of the slickest and most popular exhibits was the Tow Case, a rear carrying car for a motorcycle.  It looked sort of cool, but I couldn’t help thinking, “Why?”

Since I’m not a motorcycle aficionado I just don’t get it.  If you have a lot of stuff to tow wouldn’t you just take a car?  Do you really need to feel the wind on your face when you’re bringing home a month’s supply of Pampers?

For those of you who do enjoy motorcycles, it’s made by Wipi and costs 1,490€ and 2,890€ for the upscale model.  And, yes, you can buy a used car for that price.  Not a great used car, but a car that runs nonetheless – and one with a trunk where you can put the groceries.

 

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Too lazy to dye?

I spotted these shiny eggs in Globus, the upscale department store in Geneva.  They’re 70 centimes a piece.  They’re extremely pretty and crack-free – something we never seem to manage – but where’s the fun in buying dyed eggs?

Dying eggs is a tradition in our household and we’ve in fact done it twice this year.  Yes, I’m a glutton for punishment – and deviled egg sandwiches.

The tricky bit with dying eggs in Europe is that most of the eggs are brown.  And, dyed brown eggs are, well, brown.  My husband and I had to run around looking for white eggs. The cheap ones had already been snapped up and we were stuck with the expensive jumbo-size eggs.

We dyed eggs with my Scout troop and I was surprised to learn that some of the girls had never dyed eggs before.  They had a blast.  We had a technical glitch with heating the water so the colors were pretty muddy, but the kids didn’t care.  One first-time dyer went home with ten eggs; I’m sure her parents were absolutely delighted.

We got back yesterday afternoon from a quick vacation in the UK.  After getting up entirely too early to catch our flight and being in desperate need of a nap, my daughter reminded me, loudly, that we HAD to dye eggs.  ”Mommy, it’s EASTER!!!”

I invited one of her friends over and they had lots of fun arguing over how many drops of dye they’d need to make watermelon red.   (No, no boxed dye for us.  We get out the food dye and vinegar.  I really must learn to loosen up.)

I hope that you had fun dying your eggs or at least eating the inevitable egg salad sandwiches!

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Happy Easter!

I hope that the Easter bunny was good to you!  She got a bit carried away at our home – that and my daughter was very successful at an Easter egg hunt.

My munchkin was so proud of her Easter haul that she composed this tableau.  She’s chomping at the bit to bite the ears off of that bunny.  She might get to do it tomorrow because she’s already eaten her chocolate ration for the day.

The large dark chocolate egg in the brown box on the left came from Marks and Spencer in the UK.  They ran a commercial for the egg that was down right sexy.  It made the cranberries and pecans sound almost pornographic.  It’s since been cracked and while good, it didn’t quite live up to expectations.

Wishing you a joyous, peaceful Easter – and lots of high-quality chocolate!

 

 

 

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Hmmmm….

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Happy Pancake Day!

I never heard of Pancake Day until I moved to Europe.  When I learned of it, I didn’t pay it any attention.  Today I had to.

Claire, my eight-and-a-half year old, came skipping out of Sunday school saying, “We have to have pancakes on Tuesday.”  “Why?”  “It’s Pancake Day!” She said it with that sigh that says, “You don’t know anything Mommy”.

She taught me that Pancake Day, aka Fat Tuesday or Shrove Tuesday, is the day before Ash Wednesday.  Traditionally, people used up all of their rich foods, e.g., eggs, milk and sugar, before the Lenten fasting began, hence the pancakes.

Claire reminded me – twice – yesterday.  I promised her that I’d make the pancake batter after she went to bed so she could have them for breakfast.  We even shook on it.  Mommy was going to make pancakes for breakfast.

Then I forgot.  At 11:30 p.m. last night just as I was drifting off to sleep I rolled over and said, “Doggone it!  Pancake batter.”  I was too tired to get out of bed.  Instead I prayed that she wouldn’t kick up a fuss in the morning.

“Sorry, Mommy forgot.  How about pancakes for dinner?”  “Okay.”  Prayers answered.  Fine, I’d make the batter in the afternoon.  And, yes, I make pancakes from scratch.  It’s something to do with my being a perfectionist and Aunt Jemima pancake mix costs a fortune over here.

As I started to make the batter I remembered what else I forgot:  my contribution for tonight’s snack table at an evening event at school for her catechism class.  I panicked.  (Lots of panicking going on today.)

Okay, I’ll make spinach onion dip.  Oops, used up the last of the onion soup mix.  I can get onion soup mix, but over the border in France not in Switzerland.  That was out.  What else could I make?

I started digging in my enormous freezer, which is full of food, but usually has nothing to eat.  I dug around for my emergency chocolate chip cookie dough that I save for times like this (made from scratch, of course, because I’m a bit crazy like that).  Nope, all gone.  I did find the rest of my birthday cake from last August and cupcakes I made for Thanksgiving.

Then I had a divine inspiration or maybe it was the Barefoot Contessa.  Cheese straws!  How hard could they be?  Well, if you don’t have any of the ingredients on hand, very.  I ran around the corner to the supermarket and got what I needed.

Technically, cheese straws very easy to make, but hard to make pretty like on TV.  They’re especially hard when you’ve got to pick your kid up from school in 20 minutes.

I picked Claire up from school and ran her to a 5:15 doctor’s appointment.  We didn’t get home until 6:40.  We had to be at school at 7:00.  The poor kid was hungry.   I managed to make two pancakes for my child before we flew out the door.

We arrived at school late and got stuck in the back of the multipurpose room.  I could barely hear the presentation, which didn’t matter since it was all in French.

We finally got back home at 9:10; bedtime was at 8:30.  My exhausted child started crying, “Mommy, I’m still hungry!  I didn’t have enough pancakes and no bacon and nothing else either!”

So, my daughter with her eyes barely open finally got her pancake dinner at 9:20.  Mommy promised her baby that she’d have pancakes and she delivered!

And a happy Pancake Day to you too!

 

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