Keine Vögel und ein bißchen des Tod

Up until now, I know I have probably given off the impression that the whole purpose to my stay in Switzerland is to eat chocolate, make coffee, and run away from birds. You see, during my first several weeks here, my research wasn't exactly hunky-dory, and it seems that the more confused or frustrated I am, the more my blog becomes a bit trite and silly. However, now that I've managed to take a picture with the ugliest bird alive and have had to stop buying chocolate because I've made myself sick one too many times, it is time for me to talk about what I am actually doing here.

Yet, we can't simply just jump in with my research topic; so let's go back about seven weeks to my second day in Switzerland. It was my first meeting with my supervising professor here. Nervous, jet lagged, and confused, I showed up to our meeting fifty minutes late after a little misunderstanding. In any case, I managed to come prepared with some notes, a list of planned interviews and contacts, and a timeline. Originally, I had applied and received the ThinkSwiss grant to research issues of identity and justice surrounding art reparations following the Holocaust. However, during that first meeting, my professor told me that he thought we should do another topic, one that was more interesting to me. Although I tried to explain that this topic was my idea, and that I had been following art reparations for years, he ended up being a good deal more adamant than I. Reluctantly, I relinquished my original research idea and began the search for a new one.

Unfortunately, in Hilaryland, focus is a bit of a rare commodity. Hence, a good part of the first portion of my stay in Switzerland was simply finding a new topic. My searching took me to Amsterdam, various monuments, cemeteries, a concentration camp, and numerous libraries. About three weeks ago, I began to finally settle upon a new topic: death and nationality.

Benedict Anderson, who wrote Imagined Communities, the first major book about nationality, claims that our concept of nation first took root in the printing of vernacular languages. However, it seems to me that mere language isn't enough to convince people to lay down their lives for a country. What is it that makes our affiliation with a nation state so strong and potent? How does death play a part in strengthening social ties? Particularly, are enemies and sacrificial bloodletting necessary in national building?

Cheery, no?

Along with settling in with a topic, I am more easily finding my way around the libraries in Basel. This too is contributing to an alleviation of my angsty control-freak ways. That having been said, I was unfortunately wrong in thinking that I would be allowed to check any books out from any of the libraries. Apparently, since I am an Auslanderin (foreigner), I cannot leave the libraries with any books. In one respect, I suppose this is nice because now I am forced to work within a certain time. On the other hand, sitting in the same library reading about death for several hours on end is driving me a bit bonkers.

More Baby Steps

In Uganda last year, my aversion to seeking medical attention was effectively stamped out. One can only projectile vomit for so long before thinking it might be time to see a doctor. This year, as I stated in an earlier blog, I am going to overcome my fear of birds. In efforts to keep everyone up-to-date on my progress, I've attached a photo depicting the leaps and bounds I've made in this endeavor of mine.


Please note how terribly hideous that bird is. Also note there are birds above my head as well. I'm rather pleased with myself.

However, I sadly cannot claim to have triumphed completely over my issue. When I returned home from my trip this weekend, I turned on the light only to find bird poop everywhere. On my computer, my books, some papers, bed, windows, backpack, floor, pens: everywhere. (I am actually wondering whether there was a flock of birds that commandeered my room; I don't believe it is possible for one bird to produce that much waste). After dousing all my belongings in bleach, I managed to calm down a bit. Unfortunately, my room still reeks strongly of about three different household cleaners, and I am still a little wary of touching anything.

The Woes of a Monoglot

Generally, I can bother people into oblivion playing 20 questions. There are no limits to my curiosity, and in most cases, it gets the best of me. However, while I can ask for help in my classes, reading through a paper, or filing out an application, for everyday general things, asking for help is simply not okay. It is as if there is some line I am unwilling to cross; a line dictating that about which I can and cannot inquire. This little issue of mine is exaggerated here. Often times, when I finally foster up enough nerve to ask a question, I can't understand the response. I remain at square one, but now I have an audience to my ineptitude. So instead, I prefer to fumble through things on my own, making an idiot out of myself rather often.

When I first arrived in Basel, I searched high and low throughout the kitchen for a drip-coffee machine. What I found instead was a moka pot or macchinetta, a strange contraption of a coffee maker I had only seen once in my life before. Could I have simply asked how to use it? Yes. Would that have been easier and smarter? Yes. Alas, I did not. Rather, I studied the moka pot, attempted to open it, or tapped it against the table hoping it would just magically open on its own. I read articles online and watched youtube videos explaining how to use a macchinetta. It was all to no avail. Although I had figured out how to use it through my extensive studying, I couldn't seem to get it open to actually make any coffee.

My inability to simply ask my housemate how to open the moka pit had a negative effect on my mental stability this past month. During the school year, I down somewhere between three to six cups of coffee daily. I'm a college student; coffee and water are synonymous in my world. Thus, for the first few weeks in Switzerland, I went through caffeine withdrawal paired with jet lag. Everyday I enjoyed headaches, supreme sleepiness, and accidental three hour naps. (Granted I could have gone to cafés, but Switzerland isn't terribly economical. The cheapest coffee I've been able to locate is the equivalent of six dollars or more for roughly six ounces). I didn't give up however. Every couple of days, I would angrily pick up the moka pot and try to open it. Finally, my efforts have paid off, and I sit here today thoroughly caffeinated and pleased with myself.

What have I learned from this? Apparently nothing.

For my research, I really need to pick up some books from the library here. Unfortunately, it isn't quite as easy as pulling a book of the shelf and checking it out. For starters, I am having some problems figuring out their cataloguing system. Secondly, only one of the books I need is in the main library. I also need books from departmental libraries, the museum of culture, and the art museum in town. Some of these books I am allowed to check out; other ones I can only read in their respective libraries. Add in the fact that I still haven't settled completely on a single topic, and I am feeling a little lost.

At most of these places, there will be librarians to help me, and I know that I need to ask for help in locating the books and following the protocol of each library. As I see it, I have three choices:

1. Hope that the librarians speak English. However, since I have a slight command of German, this would equate to me being lazy. Also, I don't think it is fair for me to be in a German-speaking area and expect people to talk to me in my native tongue just so that I am comfortable.
2. Ask for help in German. A little better than the first one; however, it also means I have to haltingly stumble over my inquires and try the librarians' patience. And then, there is no guarantee I will understand whatever response they give me.
3. Try to figure it out on my own. But this may mean I am looking at another coffee scenario, and I don't have a month to figure out Basel's extensive library system.

Unfortunately, one of the woes of being a monoglot is constantly watching your dignity spiral down the drain.

An American Appetite

There were never any clues, and nearly every day the location would change. In search of a little sweet peanut-buttery goodness, I would dedicate hours to finding where my mother had hid the Reeses Cups. Originally, she began with stashing whatever little sugar we kept in the house in remote kitchen locations. But as I became more clever in my methodology, she also became more cunning in her hiding places. For years, this little dance between our wits and cravings continued. Even today, the chocolate is never in an obvious location.

I should probably thank my mother for making it nearly impossible to use chocolate as a crutch while I was growing up. Obviously her aims had my best interests in mind; however, I think her tactics may have backfired a little bit.

It began innocently enough. I was walking through the supermarket and stumbled into the chocolate aisle. Before me was an array of any type of specialty chocolate for which I could ever dream. In awe, I carefully selected one chocolate bar: milk chocolate with hazelnut filling. It seemed right. I am in Switzerland, the land of chocolate, after all. At home, I broke off a piece. Delicious. It took me a few days to finish the chocolate bar, right in time for my next grocery shopping trip. This time, I decided to pick up a few different bars: one with white wine and raisins, one with truffle filling, a orange one, and another hazelnut one. Upon returning home, it occurred to me that I had never seen my housemates enjoying a piece of heavenly Swiss chocolate. In fact, my housemates are incredibly healthy in general, consuming only about half of the amount of food I eat. Immediately, I felt embarrassed by my American appetite, and I decided that clearly I couldn't leave the chocolate in the kitchen for them to stumble upon. So I hid my stash out of view in my room. Two days later all the chocolate was gone.

Most diet gurus recommend that people should hide food from themselves. The theory is that if the food isn't in view, people are less likely to take little nibbles here and there. They've got it all wrong; I am going to give you a better piece of advice: get European housemates, and leave the guilt-inducing food in plain view for all. The theory here is that knowing you will be judged for eating that second piece of chocolate is deterrent enough.

Ornithophobia

Sitting on my mattress, I took a deep breath and finally unfurled myself from the fetal position. After pacing for a little while, I considered myself to be mentally prepared, or at least as prepared as I could hope to be. I laced up my tennis shoes, donned my rain jacket, and grabbed my automatic umbrella. Slowly, I opened my door and peered out into the darkened common room of my shared flat. Sensing no movement, I knew that my adversary was still in the kitchen. As I inched the kitchen door open, I poked my umbrella through the gap, prepared to hit the open button at any moment. A few seconds later, after surveying the situation, I breathed a sigh of relief. I then dashed to the balcony door and slammed it shut.

About a half an hour before this little episode, I had just finished cleaning up after having cooked my lunch. The kitchen heats up rather quickly when one uses the stove; so as usual, I opened the balcony door to let in some air. A few moments later, having gone to my room to retrieve a book, I heard a strange fluttering noise. To my chagrin, a little black and white bird hoped into view on the other side of the kitchen door. Bypassing my first instinct to scream and run, I pulled the kitchen door shut, shut all the doors to my housemates' rooms, and then ran into my own.

Let's take a little time out from the story here. I like to think that I try my hardest to overcome my fears and insecurities and face up to situations that make me uncomfortable. However, faced with one of my worst fears, I quickly regressed into a childlike state. For years, birds (any type except for ducks and penguins) have been a beacon of terror in my life. They are everywhere. They swoop down from the sky into your face. They carry numerous diseases. They poop on your head while you in a meeting with a bunch of people you have never met. All things considered, this fear of mine is completely rational. Really, watch Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds. Completely rational.

So what was my reaction as I sat in the corner of my room listening to the little vermin hop around the kitchen? I checked the clock to see if it was too early to call my mother back in America. To my delight, she was driving to work. After about ten minutes, Mama managed to calm me down and helped me to face the fact that I couldn't sit in my room until one of my housemates came home.

Clearly I am not as brave as I like to think myself. So I have a new goal for my time in Switzerland: it is time to overcome my little problem of ornithophobia.

As I was walking through the park next to my apartment a little later, there was a man sitting on one of the benches. Surrounded by birds, he had two pigeons on his left leg and numerous birds flocking to the breadcrumbs he was pulling out of a bag. For a moment, I paused and considered sitting down next to him. "Hallo, ich heiße Hilary und ich habe Angst für Vögel. Könnten Sie mir bitte helfen um mein Angst überzuwinden?"

But I decided baby steps are probably better. Perhaps I should start with simply not flinching when one flies by me.