Guten Tag, Bonjour, Buongiorno & Bun di!
That’s “hello” in the four official Swiss languages. (That last one is Romansch.) In Swiss German—which is actually a collection of several unofficial Schweizerdeutsch dialects, none of which have an official written form—folks say some version of Grüezi.
As you’re now wondering, the answer is yes: it is ridiculously difficult to learn German, here called “High German,” as it is used in written form for absolutely everything and for communicating orally by absolutely no one. Understandably, not one Swiss in the German-speaking region (which is most of Switzerland North of the Alps) would choose to speak High German instead of their dialect—unless they are at school, where it is required starting in first grade. For erstwhile ex-pats still tripping over der, das, and die declensions, this situation often feels like everyone else is in on a big joke—and the punchline is you.
Before our family of four moved to Switzerland in June 2022, I didn’t know anything about Swiss German. I didn’t know anything about this country at all.
Ironically, Switzerland had never even been on my list of places to visit. I loathe cheese, suck at skiing, and maintain a decided inability to achieve punctuality. . .even while I adore cheesy chalets surrounded by cheesier garden gnomes, glühwein, and when other people are on time. Let’s just say, I felt neutral.
Now, I feel opinions. Many opinions.
Why am I getting this?
Either because you know me and love me (I think), or I know and love you and I think you might like it, or because you were subscribed to Bergers on the Road, or all three. I will still talk to you, and even still love you, if you decide to unsubscribe.
If I stay, what will I get out of it?
1) The life and family news you loved in our newsletter.
Although some people despised the family newsletter (I’m looking at you, Dad), many more people told me they got a damn good laugh out of it. And I get one out of writing about Swiss ex-pat mid-life parenting blues (and yellows, pinks, and experiential equivalents of polka-dotted cows), and thus. Swiss Missus.
Also: Danny and I have ten pages of notes for our year-late family newsletter, but now that I have three hours of commuting time three days a week, I am the only one with time to write. As many of you know, his free time is spent in dark, sleepless, freezingly-snowy-cold nights on literal Alpine mountaintops. In the below picture you can see him, last week, on the final stretch of his 149th place finish of the Tor de Géants, a 330km race with the equivalent climbing of three Mt. Everests (that’s up and down). Out of 1085 starters, only 530 finished. Dan did so in 123 hours, 41 minutes, and 40 seconds. He says just 9-10 of those hours were sleep.
No, I don’t understand it either. But I promised to support him in sickness and in health, and this ultramarathon thing appears to be both of those. ;)
2) Many of you are in or around your forties, too, and there appears to be nothing to get but older. The only possible salve to this madness is to read about how other people are managing—just.
You are not alone! And for all the things kids are NOT good for, they do make for hilarious-tragic tales. Especially when you’re surrounded by 4-year-olds who speak to you in a language you do not understand (see: Swiss German). (Also, I promise this won’t just be about my kids: UGH.)
And with that, I present Opinion #1…
On Sw-unemployment
(From December, 2023)
Because adding "Sw" in front of words makes them that much more delightful.
“This is unacceptable,” said my Swiss unemployment caseworker. “We must get you the money to which you are entitled.” Jonas is in his early thirties. He has the biceps of a man who spends his off-hours at the gym, close-cropped blond hair with wee bangs gelled to the side that would melt the heart of any lovesick adolescent circa 1987, and an inviting smile. It’s the smile that gets me on every Web-Ex call, because he seems to think that an under-employed 43-year-old mom beginning to sport a wattle deserves anything.
And yet, the government says I do! As I was working on a Swiss contract, I can claim unemployment even though I’m not Swiss. My “entitlement” is 80% of my previous salary for 260 working days, or until I find full-time employment equal to that rate of pay—minus some number of days the government will dock me for having left my job of my own free will. This penalty can be up to 60 days (seriously—60 is the max even if you were fired!). Jonas says that in cases like mine, where the job was a significant drain on my mental health—convincingly explained in a short little Google-translated essay on my intake form—it’s usually a dock of 31 days. Which means, once my previous employer fills out their side of the paperwork, the famous coffers in Bern will open themselves to me.
I still pinch myself that this ridiculously kind unemployment benefit—even if you QUIT!—exists in anywhere on this planet.
I used to travel around the world for work, and everywhere people would ask me, “What is the typical dish of your country?” I would struggle to answer: I got to eat everything. I told my then three-year-old son, Oliver, about this, and we decided the answer could be, “In my country, we eat ketchup!” This was very funny when he said it.
Yesterday, after the sweet and burly Jonas became concerned that my previous employer has been ignoring requests for my salary history, he insisted upon taking up the issue himself because “it’s more likely they will respond to an official Swiss government inquiry.” I was speechless with gratitude. “In my country,” I consider telling him, “Unemployed people are treated like lazy pieces of shit. It is utterly incomprehensible that anyone would help a girl with paperwork. Actually, some of my fellow citizens think unemployed mothers should pull their peanut-butter-stained asses up by the bootstraps while being simultaneously barefoot and making pot roast.” I wonder, briefly, just how far Jonas’s inviting smile would extend, because now I’m deep in civil servant fantasies. This makes me LOVE the Swiss, despite their reputation of being somewhat standoffish, with all the warmth of a watch battery. What would happen if I said “Make me tick, Jonas?”
But I never would. I don’t really have the energy to tick much, my poor husband would agree. I’m too tired doing very little, which is how I define parenting two children in a foreign country, juggling job searching and job-doing, and being mad—SO MAD!—at myself for not having already completed three bestselling books in the three months since I quit. People tell me I expect too much of myself. But you know who is always complementary of my efforts, cheering on my future, and a constant, supportive presence in my in-box? Dan, of course. But also: Jonas.
Take that, America.
Still, I love your ketchup.
I would be so grateful for your comments, because I desperately miss you (the shit part of living abroad), and would love to hear from you, and I still never go on social media. Please let me know if there is anything you particularly want to hear about Switzerland or the last two years of Highlights, Lowlights, and Not-In-the-Bay-Area-Anymore moments!
And please share this with anyone else who might enjoy it—in Switzerland or anywhere in the world with its many corners, crannies, and simultaneous realities.
I send strength and grace to all.
Thanks for giving us some read aloud / laugh aloud goodness to read in the car. We too had a Jonas is France... His name was Jacques, his sphere was more medically oriented, and he too represented everything that was right about European living. And he took the physical form of a well toned beauty with a man bun. Swoon.
YES I've been waiting for this!!! Having a hectic day but as soon as I saw this I stopped everything I was doing, sat my ass down, and delighted in the Berger updates <3
And that Photoshop job in the lede photo is horrendous.