Oz: There is Some Place Like Home

So I just spent two weeks in Australia. This should be a big deal and a big blog because, let’s face it, Oz, as they call it, is one big continent and one even bigger hassle to get to. Unless you’re in one of the “‘Nesia’s” or that other galactic outpost, New Zealand, Australia is far away from just about anywhere.

What’s more, when I arrived in Melbourne, I reunited with Sandy Fenton after 23 years. If you’ve read my new book, ahem, Undress Me in the Temple of Heaven, (insert shameless subliminal plug here) you know that Sandy is a Canadian who saved my life in southwestern China 23 years ago. Today, she’s living in Melbourne. Reconnecting with her was a very big deal, too.

Obviously, however, these opening paragraphs are a drum roll to an anticlimax. Sandy met me at the airport, there was a huge shriek and hug – and then we started to talk. And it was like: So anyway, as I was saying 23 years ago…

We practically picked up in mid-sentence. Two decades have gone by but we slid back into our friendship like a pair of beloved slippers. Which was wonderful for us, but boring for readers. Who wants to hear about how two women, seeing each other for the first time in 20 years, start talking about where they can get a really good deal on handbags?

And then, there was Australia itself. The Aussies are going to hate me for writing this. They will no doubt bar me from entering their country again – though I don’t mean this as an affront to them at all. But that said: Australia, to me, was very much like the USA. There. Gulp. I’ve blasphemed.

Yet I’m doing this not to gloss over cultural differences or dispense with nuance or to commit the ultimate, typical American faux pas of measuring another country against the “standard” of us. Rather, I say this, because as much as I’ve traveled and lived abroad, no other place has challenged my idea of American exceptionalism quite so much as Oz.

Through traveling and living abroad – as documented in this blog -- I’ve come to better understand American culture, foibles, shortcomings, and character. To this end, I’ve also come to better appreciate my country’s uniqueness as well: our idealism, our founding principles, our outsized humor and friendliness.

That is, until I arrived in Australia – where, harrumph, American uniqueness suddenly didn’t seem quite so unique anymore.

For starters, there’s the superficial, physical stuff. Never mind that the Aussies have better accents and drive on the wrong side of the road (wink). The few places I went to Down Under looked unnervingly like parts of California and Florida -- shiny, tinker-toyed housing mixed together with historical architecture and palm trees -- or like Chicago and San Francisco – pretty 19th century buildings next to brawny glass skyscrapers …cable cars weaving among them… There are brazen billboards in English, American tv shows, drive-thru McDonalds, Subway franchises, malls, Krispy Kreme donuts. (Mmm. Donuts. Can’t get those in Switzerland…) It felt more than a little familiar.

More importantly, the streets in Melbourne and Sydney look like the United Nations in motion. And at the Immigration Museum in Melbourne, there’s an introductory video showing immigrants on ships loaded down with bundles and suitcases. A better life, the screen reads. Freedom from persecution. Escape from natural disasters. Reuniting with family. These are some of the reasons why people come to Australia.

Immigrants of all different backgrounds are then filmed talking about their journey to Australia while old newsreels play of Chinese laborers disembarking from steamers and Greek street peddlers hawking goods in Brisbane decades ago and Jews fleeing pogroms back in Europe then settling in Sydney. If maps didn’t show arrows radiating from all over the globe to Melbourne and Perth, the video could’ve been plucked directly from the Ellis Island Museum back in my hometown.

Harrumph again.

Apparently, there’s another country on this planet that prides itself on being a haven for the tired, the poor, the huddled masses, yearning to be free.

Granted, while we Yankees never shut up about our Constitution and our Bill of Rights, the Aussies still have the Queen on their money. And while we have our Statue of Liberty lifting her lamp beside the “Golden Door,” Australia had a “White Australia” immigration policy well into the 20th century -- and “white” really meant British – not so fast all you Slavs and garlic-eaters.

But the legends that we two nations promote about ourselves are strikingly similar. We both pride ourselves on being the New Frontier, the Multicultural Melting Pot of the West, the land of opportunity. We are the fresh start, the Can-Doers, the beaches full of blond surfers dashing boldly into the sunshine to catch the next wave.

And for all our high-minded ideals, we share similar hypocrisies, too: genocide against indigenous people; discrimination against immigrants; quota systems; ongoing hate crimes; crazed national security measures, etc. Australians, I was surprised to learn, even interned their Japanese citizens in camps during World War Two just like Americans did.

Yet to be fair, just like in America, on a personal level, Australians are one gregarious, fun-loving bunch. Histories aside, they are sunny and just fucking great to be around. God bless ‘em: Aussies don’t give a shit. Like us Yanks, they’ll start talking to you in elevators, cafeteria lines, public restrooms. Who cares if they’re a bell-hop and you’re a customer? They’ll tease you about your flat American accent while they toss your luggage into the back of a taxi. No worries. It’s all in good fun. They’ve got a fabulous sense of humor and irreverence. They claim they’re a bit rougher than Americans – but to me, this simply makes them closer to New Yorkers.

So what can I say? Apologies, mates. But I flew halfway around the globe and felt closer to home than ever – if a bit more humbled.

The Book Whore on the Book Tour: Part II

I’ve just returned from a six week book tour in the United States for my new tome, Undress Me in the Temple of Heaven. I was in ten different cities – three of them twice – which meant I got to get a really good, satisfying dose of my homeland. I also got to drink tequila and eat a lot of turkey burgers –neither of which really exist in Switzerland.

And since I was on the road a lot, I got to see a lot of billboards, road signs, and bumper-stickers, too. This doesn’t sound remarkable, but trust me, it is. Europe doesn’t have this stuff, either. People here don’t feel compelled to use their back fender to tell you that their “boss is a Jewish carpenter” or to “Visualize Whirled Peas.”

Only in America are roads, stores, and cars so declarative. My favorites? Outside of Philadelphia: A giant billboard for a Jewish paperback thriller, “Murder at the Mikvah” with an erotic photo of a nude woman emerging from a ritual bath. Can you make this stuff up? In Michigan, a billboard reading: “East Lansing: One of the most diverse and dynamic cities in America” – hung over a used car lot going out of business. A drive-up ice cream parlor near King of Prussia announces: “Ice Custard – and Happiness.” Happiness! They’re selling ice cream and happiness. God, I love America.

And then, of course, in Virginia, a giant gun store right next to “Fat Boys’ Barbecue.” Aah, yes. Home. Bullets and BBQ!

The phrase “book tour” sounds incredibly glamorous. And part of it is. This is the part where you get your photo in bookstore windows, hotel room upgrades, and drivers holding pieces of cardboard with your name misspelled on them at the baggage claims in the airports.

But book tours are also exercises in manic-depression.

Mind you, I’m not blogging to be a prima donna and moan about my pampered little authorial life: OMG. You have no idea how hard it is being on the road. I have to go to bookstore after bookstore. And every night I’m in a different hotel. Please. Cry me a river. I know only too well that the world should have my problems.

However, a lot of people think that writing is not only glamorous, but easy – that if you can talk, you can write. Any idiot, in their opinion, can publish a book. And given some of the dreck that gets published, they’re unfortunately right.

But the great irony of writing, like that of any art or sport, is that if you do it well enough, you make it look effortless. Then everyone around you thinks that it is effortless, and so they say stuff like:

“Yeah? You’re a writer? No kidding. You know, I was thinking of taking a few months off and writing a book myself.”

(To which I always want to respond. Yeah? Funny, I was thinking of just taking a few months off and practicing brain surgery…Oh, we writers are such a prickly, humorless bunch).

The reality of being a “glamorous” author is this: for years on end, we are not on book tours. We are not being published. We are sitting alone in a room somewhere, staring at a blank notebook or a blinking cursor. We write and delete, write and rewrite, and the bulk of our efforts never see print. We have no colleagues except for the relentless, needling little voices in our head that tell us one day we’re an unsung literary genius, the next day that we are total shit.

Let me be clear: There are far worse jobs to have. Writing is neither high-stakes nor mind-numbing nor physically dangerous, though we do seem to have a predisposition for alcoholism and suicide (though hey: who doesn’t?).

And I’m happy just to be employed, period.

But the book tour itself is a bipolar experience. One night, 150 people will show up to a reading at a Barnes & Noble; they’ll applaud. They’ll buy my books. They’ll tell me they love my work. And I’ll feel exultant, like champagne is raining down on my head.

The next night, in the next city, there will be a whopping crowd of eleven. And two of these will be homeless people sitting in the back eating a Styrofoam cup.

And of course, I’ll look out at the sea of empty chairs and stacks of unsold books and feel like a failure, publicly humiliated.

And this is par for the course on any book tour, even in far better economic times. Each reading is like a wedding where you don’t know if the guests – let alone the groom – are going to show up. One night, you’re a star, the next night, you’re jilted. Over and over.

And amazingly, it’s an experience you only get if you are very, very lucky.

So overall, I feel blessed to have had the chance to prostitute myself for weeks on end in my beloved homeland. Who knows if I’ll ever get to again. Keep your eyes open. Next time you see a book title of mine, it might just be gracing a billboard off the Interstate. Or the back of a fender. And I just might call it Ice Cream and Happiness.

Note: My next dispatches should be from Australia, where I'm heading not only to promote 'Undress Me,' but to reunite with Sandy Fenton, a Canadian nurse who figures prominently in the story. We'll be reunited after 22 years. We haven't seen each other since Asia.

The Book Whore on the Book Tour

In case you haven't noticed, I haven't been blogging recently. This is because I've been on the road in America tirelessly and shamelessly promoting my new book, Undress Me in the Temple of Heaven. I suppose, before I write anything else, I should say that it is an absolutely fabulous, stupendous, riveting book about my misadventures in China -- and that it got a rave review in Oprah's "O" magazine; that USA Today named it as one of its "Top Nonfiction Picks"; and that it just hit the local bestseller list in the San Francisco/Bay Area.

Plus, my totally unbiased dad says it's the best thing I've ever written.

Then, I suppose, I should just start begging: Please buy it. Please, please, please. And none of this "Hey, I just got it for $2.99 on Ebay" stuff, either. Please spend the extra dough and support a local bookstore (not to mention yours truly; more than a few books on Ebay are recycled reviewers' copies and don't mean diddly in publishers' assessments of me).

But beyond this necessary and embarrassing prostitution, I wanted to let readers know that I haven't been blogging here because last week, I was blogging for Powell's independent bookstore in Portland, OR. If you have nothing better to do or are in dire need of new procrastination techniques, you can check out my back blogs at http://www.powells.com

Otherwise, as soon as I get a break in my tour (sometime next week, I'm hoping, between appearances in DC and Richmond), I'll be back at it, writing about America, and all the groovy, poignant beauty and irony I've seen in returning to my homeland.

Until then, stay tuned, thanks for indulging me, and, oh yes -- did I say "Please buy my book?"

As always, thanks for playing.

Talk Like An Egyptian

Last week, my friend Maureen and I did something typically European: we went to an Egyptian resort on the Red Sea whose sole design and purpose, it seems, is to make Westerners forget that they are actually in Egypt.

There’s a heated pool, a coiffed blonde singing Dido covers in the marble lobby, a beach-side bar. Snow White and the Seven Dwarves stand guard outside the “Kiddie Club,” and the main restaurant serves up a buffet night dubbed “Manhattan Grill.” I am not kidding. Take a quick look around, and you’d think you were in Cancun or Club Med or even Disneyworld.

That is, until you see the vacationing Arab women in hajibs, their arms and legs fully covered, lying on beach chairs just meters away from sausage-y German men in their unfortunate Speedos and small-breasted Danish women sunbathing topless – despite the hotel’s signs asking them kindly not to.

Half the clientele was speaking Arabic and eying man-less Maureen and me with suspicion, while the other half was wearing less fabric than it takes to make a dinner napkin and sipping rum punch and thumping along to the tiny Kayne West videos playing on their Ipods.

The architecture was vaguely Islamic, the staff entirely male, the menu devoid of pork. But there were also hamburgers. Snickers in the mini-bars. CNN. Menus in German, English, French, and Russian.

Needless to say, it was a strange convergence of sensibilities – a paean to Westerners’ perverse desire to “get away from it all” in a foreign locale without ever actually having to step outside our own culture.

Maureen, like me, is a Damn Yankee currently living in Europe. She and I went to this resort in Hurghada for the very same reasons the Europeans do – because winter in Yurp is hideous, frigid, and depressing, and Egypt is not only nearby and sunny, but cheap. After two and a half consecutive months of gray in Paris and Geneva, we knew that if we didn’t make like the Europeans and head for the sun, we’d end up making like the Europeans and become alcoholics.

Still, we both felt ashamed of trekking to a land laden with so much ancient booty only to lie on a beach for five days. And so, in addition to booking a trip to Giza, we did our best to mitigate our insulation as uber-tourists by learning a little Arabic. Our contact with the Egyptians was going to be severely limited, we knew, but that didn’t mean we shouldn’t at least make an effort.

So okay. Easier said than done. Arabic writing looks to me like lace. But with help from a few bored security guards at Cairo Airport, Maureen and I learned “thank you” (show-croon), “please” (mum fat lock), “beautiful” (gamilla), and “handbag" (shan-tah). After much perseverance, we even managed to count as high as four. And we learned the polite form of “hello” (as-salem alekham), which I walked around chirping annoyingly to everyone I came into contact with.

To our surprise, we were the only Westerners who attempted this, who treated the Egyptians as anything more than servants. When we croaked As-salem alekham, the Egyptians looked at us with delighted astonishment. “Oh, you speak Arabic?” they laughed. “Welcome to Egypt! Where are you from?”

Clearly, we had impressed them. And yet consequently, we found ourselves faced with a very un-European dilemma. Given all that has been happening with the U.S. and in the Middle East, did we dare fess up to being Americans?

For the past eight years, being an American abroad has meant living in a sort of purdah. Feeling both vulnerable in the wake of Sept. 11th and appalled by the Bush Administration, many ex-pats have either kept our nationality veiled or flat-out lied.

Maureen and I could resort to that great fall-back of saying we were Canadian, or tell the truth and hope that in doing so, we wouldn’t inspire hatred but perhaps a more favorable view of Americans. Self-preservation versus p.r.

Drama queens that we are, we opted for bold, self-promotional, possibly stupid honesty. “We’re from New York City,” we said.

As soon as we said this, the Egyptians smiled. “Oh, you’re American!” they cried. “America and Egypt are very good friends! Obama, yes? Obama is a good man!”

“Obama,” it seems, is quickly becoming a universal slogan of approval and a shorthand for forgiveness. Since the November election, I’ve been in Turkey, France, and Egypt. Without exception, the people there have cried “Obama” as they would “Hallaluyah.” In Cairo, in fact, Maureen and I found the entire staff at our hotel wearing “Yes We Can” buttons. (Granted, they claimed that it meant “Yes, we can serve you better,” but c’mon. No one was wearing “Country First” buttons and claiming they meant “See our Country First, then go to the beach.”)

Some of the Egyptians in Hurghada told us that we were only the second Americans they’d ever met. Others had had a lot of contact with Americans. But all of them were cognizant of our policies and our power. “When America vibrates,” one man told us, “the world vibrates.”

Maureen and I are not only New Yorkers but former waitresses, so we’ve got fairly well-honed shit-detectors. We never felt we were being snowed. The Egyptians spoke thoughtfully to us, with good humor and frankness, asking us about how effective Obama could really be in the face of so many crises, telling us about how important he is symbolically, and offering their opinions.

“Don’t worry about George Bush,” a physical therapist named Wahid told me. “We know that the Americans are not the same as your former president. We know that half of you did not vote for him, and that most Americans now dislike him and think that he has created many problems for the world. We know that you have protested. We have knowledge here. We watch the news, we read, we see on the internet. We Egyptians are well informed about the world.”

Later, en route to Cairo, I recalled Wahid’s words with a renewed sense of shame. The day before, a bomb had gone off in Cairo’s big, heavily-touristed medina. A 17-year-old French girl was killed, and scores more tourists and locals were injured. A second bomb had been found un-detonated. The Egyptians were beside themselves, and Maureen and I were sure that our loved ones back home would be frantic. But when we called the U.S. to assure everyone that we were fine, people had no idea what we were talking about.

The bombing went largely unreported in the United States. When we vibrate, it seems, the world feels it. But when the ground shakes in Cairo, it doesn’t even register.

Mama Mia. Shalom. Inshallah. Obama...

Stunningly, amidst all the Obamania of this past week, there’s actually been some other news coming out of Europe; my favorite headline concerned those lovable, madcap Italian bankers. According to the Swiss media, the Italian banking industry is bragging that it managed to avoid much of the credit crisis because Italian bankers don’t speak English well enough to understand mortgage-backed securities.

Mama mia. Could you make this stuff up? The Italians are essentially saying – proudly – that their economy hasn’t completely tanked because they're simply too incompetent to grasp what’s been going on.

Although there are a zillion reasons I love Italy, this one really takes the Panettone. The only other country I know that’s ever been as cheerfully forthright about its own ignorance is, well, the U.S. of A. itself. ( We confused Sunnis and Shiites? Whoops! Our bad…)

The banking industry’s claim is the most amazing news I’ve heard out of Italy since Silvio Berlusconi announced that he had been missing in action for almost a month because he’d been getting a face lift in preparation for the 2004 elections. No, I am not making that up, either. What’s more, he was completely unabashed about it; he behaved as if cosmetic surgery was not only his right, but practically his political obligation: how else would he remain a virile, powerful leader? (read: sexually active). Wilder still, perhaps, was the fact that nobody in Italy laughed him out of office for this. They actually seemed to think it made sense. La bella figura trumps all.

My other favorite news story from the past week is more poignant: on the eve of the U.S. presidential Inauguration, Jews and Arabs here in Geneva got together at a public square to hold a sort of bonfire/candlelight vigil/dialogue. Among those present was Ruth Dreifuss, a former president of Switzerland (not only the first woman, but une juife, as the newspapers are often quick to point out.)

As news cameras panned across a huddle of women shivering in hajibs and men in yarmulkes shivering in down parkas, Dreifuss explained in the fire light that Jewish and Arab residents from all over Geneva – whether they hailed from Lebanon, Syria, Egypt, Israel, or Switzerland itself – had come together to show the world that they could meet, speak together peacefully, and reaffirm their common humanity during the crisis in Gaza.

It was a small group, and Dreifuss spoke with humility. The media coverage here seemed glancing; elsewhere, it was simply nonexistent. But it was a story that I believe deserved more attention. After all, it embodied the same ideals that were being celebrated that very moment half a world away on Capitol Hill.

Which was precisely the problem, of course. While the vigil’s intentions were admirable, its timing was terrible. On January 20th, there was really only one story worldwide. For the first time in history, even French television broadcast the L' Americain Investiture as it's called. (And the earth, as you might imagine, nearly fell off its axis...)

Now, a week later, while the Italian bankers and Genevoise Arabs and Jews are no longer news, Obama still is – he’s a brilliant, blinding star, the center of the media universe here. He and Michelle grace the cover of almost every magazine. Every half hour, Euronews leads with his cabinet picks and executive orders. Large portraits reading “Barack Obama 44th President of the United States” fill the windows of the biggest international bookstore downtown, displaying no less than 23 different books about Barack and Michelle in a variety of languages.

If the world’s attentions are not on the Italian banks, or the well-meaning Arabs and Jews here, it’s because everyone is besotted with “the kid with the funny name.”

I can’t say I blame them. I've got to admit: I'm swooning along beside them -- one proud (albeit smartass) Yankee.

Never Let Them See Your Sweatpants

Every New Year's, I make the same two resolutions -- to overeat more and drink to excess. The way I see it, this is win-win. If I keep these resolutions: terrific. More pasta and inebriation for me. If I don't, I'm leaner, healthier, soberer. Either way, there's no guilt. Unlike with other New Year's resolutions, I'm not setting myself up to fail.

This year, I set about breaking my resolutions rather early. Just this week, I headed back to the gym. And no sooner did I tromp into the Women's Locker Room (La Vestiaire, if you care), than all the women stared at me with haughty, European disdain. Because I had committed a grave faux pas. I had actually worn my workout clothes to work out.

The Genevoise, I've found, much like the Parisians and the Italians, have a very funny idea about fashion. They seem to be under the impression that when it comes to clothes, form should take precedence over function. You don't dress not to be naked, but to establish yourself in the world as a person of elegance, refinement, and, implicitly, money.

And so, the women here will routinely put on full make-up, an Hermes scarf, and a floor-length chinchilla in order to run out to the store for dishwashing liquid.

We Americans, of course, tend to take the opposite view. Our day-to-day clothes aren't designed for other people's appraising, aristrocratic gazes. Frankly, we don't care what you think. Our clothes are designed for us -- for our personal comfort, for our facility of movement. We are all about casual sportswear. In fact, we take the concept of "sportswear" quite literally. In America, people will weigh 400 pounds but dress like Olympic athletes: track suits, hoodies, jogging pants with racing stripes down the side. We Yankees drive everywhere, but dress as if we're always en route to the health club or the ball park: leggings, tank-tops, sweatshirts, baseball caps. To us, putting on eyeliner and an Armani jacket to buy milk is absurd.

And when we actually exercise, we're even more casual. Barring the Yuppies, singles, and L.A. types, most Americans do not dress up to sweat. Our approach to workout gear goes something like this: Hey, see this old, bleach-stained Chuck Mangione t-shirt I just found on the floor of my closet? Before I rip it up and use it for dust rags, why not wear it to the gym?

Most Europeans here would sooner die than work out in a ratty, oversized tee. When folks here do exercise (and they exercise a lot -- everyone's always skiing, biking, hiking, and hang-gliding here. Switzerland is as kenetic as an ant farm), they wear specific outfits: hiking boots and khaki shorts; high tech ski gear; flourescent Lycra biking outfits that seem to have been designed by gay men in the 80's...every activity has its couture, its special look. Nobody here, but nobody, wears sweatshirts.

Except me, of course. I live right down the block from my gym, and I'll be damned if I'm going to put on heels and a skirt just to cross the street and change into my workout clothes in a basement. And so I show up at my health club already dressed to exercise in -- you guessed it -- stretchy pants, an old t-shirt, and, la piece de resistence, a hoodie with the words "New York" emblazonned on it.

And so the other women eye me contemptuously. They'd sooner be seen naked than dressed the way I am in public. And ironically, they are. Because while European women are loath to be seen in their workout clothes outside of the gym, conversely, they think nothing of being seen without their workout clothes inside it. They lounge around naked in the Women's Locker Room for hours.

Unlike American women, who dash in and out of locker rooms as quickly as possible, and cower behind curtains and locker doors to strip, and wrap ourselves in towels like tourniquets on our way to the showers -- our body language and averted gazes crying Don't look at me! -- the Europeans here feel no compunction at all about standing buck-naked in front of the mirror in the dressing room and chatting on their cell phones. They don't mind if you see them wriggling into a thong, then sitting around topless as they clip their toenails. They'll parade around in the nude as they dry their hair, put on deodorant, apply their lipstick. They have little of the Puritanism or body shame that we Americans do.

They are who they are. Voici: their bodies. To them, nudity is no big deal.

Just don't walk outside in sweatpants.

Foie Gras, Freemarkets & Les Femmes

Since I didn't blog last week, here's a foot-long hot dog of a blog to compensate...

A funny thing happens in Geneva at the start of the holiday season. The prices drop. That is, at least, for such traditional staples as foie gras (traditionally consumed with Sauternes and without any PETA-induced guilt on Christmas) and champagne (for New Year's, like the rest of us). Go into the local supermarkets, and suddenly, as December nears, these high-end luxe goods go on sale, precisely when they're in demand the most. And this happens every year -- it ain't just the recession.

Peculiarly, the Swiss have the nearly socialist idea that at least once a year, during the holidays, everybody should be able to afford a little luxury. Granted, this isn't exactly the height of radicalism -- oh, foie gras is now only 24 francs a slice! Moet is now down down to 28 francs a bottle! Vive la revolution! -- but it is exactly the opposite of what happens in the USA, where the holidays have traditionally been viewed by retailers as a time to bilk us bubbly-swilling partiers for all that we're worth.

But what happens in Swiss liquor stores and supermarkets is emblematic of a deeper cultural schism. Though capitalism and fierce competition are alive and well here, Switzerland is not a nation where the freemarket reigns supreme above all else. It has a tighly-controlled marketplace. And sometimes, the common good takes precedent.

Hence, it's considered more important to ensure that everyone can afford a little champagne on New Years than it is to profit as much as possible from sales of Veuve Clicquot.

When the Amazing Bob and I first moved here, this completely bowled me over. Whoo-hoo, I cried, as I went down to Denner, the discount liquor store, and stocked up on Mumm's Cordon Rouge (marked down to 20 francs, or about $14 at the time). "That's it," I announced, uncorking it, "I'm never leaving Switzerland. Tomorrow, I'm going down to the embassy to apply for asylum."

And yet, over time, even Leftie/Gauchiste moi has come to see the nuances --as well as the flip side -- of a regulated culture that does not always put profits ahead of people.

In Switzerland, stores are generally open from 8 a.m. until 6 p.m. and often, they're closed for one to two hours during lunch, too. This, of course, is horribly inconvenient for anyone who's working: good luck getting groceries unless you sneak off. It's also not great for shopkeepers as far as maximizing profits are concerned. So why are these hours kept? Because, the Swiss reason, lunchtime and evenings are sacred family times. (Most school children are sent home for lunch.) At 7 p.m., people should be home with their loved ones, not manning a check-out counter or pricing a lawnmower.

Most stores are also closed on Sundays. Why? Again, it's the family thing, mixed with a bit of old time religion: Sundays are a day to spend quality time hiking, biking, skiing, or resting -- not running around some shopping mall in a frenzy of consumerism. Make like the Lord and take a day off. In some villages, the Swiss will even scold you for gardening on a Sunday. I shit thee not. They complain if you hang out your laundry.

On one hand, living in a culture that does not completely revolve around the marketplace is extremely calming. Once Bob and I got used to stocking up on groceries before the weekend, we found that Sundays here force us to chill-the-fuck-out magnificently. With everything closed, the streets of Geneva become a little like a sensory-deprivation tank (ok, except for the scenery), and so we're content just to stay home (or go out into the countryside) and drool. This can be a beautiful thing.

That is, until Monday, when I alone brave the supermarkets to restock our Lilliputian fridge, hit the post office, pay the bills. I do this because as a writer, I work at home, and therefore have the more flexible hours. But even if I didn't, the Swiss would expect me to do these things.

Because here's that flip-side of Swiss humanism, of the modified store hours and community-minded pricing: they are predicated not only on a desire for balance, protectionism, and family life, but upon deeply traditional values. The Swiss marketplace presumes that someone will always home -- home to do the shopping between 8 a.m.-noon during the week, home to prepare a hot lunch for the children, home to make sure that all is in order for Sunday. And guess what? This someone is presumed to possess a vagina. If it's not the femme de foyer (housewife), it's the femme de menage (housekeeper). But either way, it's the femme who's expected to be the angel of the house.

A few years ago, the Swiss, who vote on referendums every 2-3 months, considered a proposition to allow cantons (the Swiss equivalent of states or provinces) to extend their store hours. Huge posters opposing the measure sprung up all over Geneva. They showed a cherubic baby, tears streaming bathetically down his face, beside the quote, "Mama, I want you, but you are gone. You have to work."

Mind you, the proposition at issue allowed stores to stay open for exactly one extra hour. One day a week. Thursdays.

Geneva passed it. Other cantons in Switzerland did not.

Renowned for watches, efficiency, and punctuality, Switzerland is perversely behind the times when it comes to women's rights. Women didn't get the vote here until 1971. Age requirements, gender, (and implicitly, appearances) are still included in job listings. Abortion was only de-criminalized in 2002. And the marketplace, with its holiday spirit and family-friendly hours, is structured as an impediment to women working outside the home.

The reduced-price foie gras. The champagne on sale. The free Sundays. It's all good stuff. But there's another price you pay for it.