In July, my son Tucker, his wife Lisa, 8- year-old Paul, and 5-year-old Lexi moved to Switzerland. Dave and I had known this wrenching change was coming – Tucker had warned us years ago – still, it has created a sad void only partly eased by Facetime calls and wistful viewings of Google “This Time Last Year” slideshows. For all our efforts to treasure the moments because “it goes so fast,” I’ve realized, it’s not just that it goes fast; the little kid years are short. Babies change from week to week, and then, well, kids are only willing to be “little” until what, age 9? My kids are in their forties and frankly, it seems a fiction that they were once the children pictured in our photo albums.
We yearned to see Tucker and family, but waited six months and flew to Zurich in the end of December.
It was the morning after a sleepless overnight flight, and Dave and I were still in bed. Dimly, I registered a whispered exchange, but dozing still seemed a good idea. I knew my grandchildren were just outside the door, and I smiled knowing they were close.
It was impossible to miss Lexi’s stage whisper, “I just want to hug LeaLea!”
“No, you just want to wake her!” Paul insisted, conscious of parental instructions to let us sleep.
What kind of grandmother am I that I did not leap up and hug those kids? But I was enjoying the repartee, and curious to see what came next.
“Lexi! No! Lexi!” Would she heed her brother’s commanding sotto voce?
Apparently not, for, while I did not hear her tiptoe across the room, I felt her cheek laid gently on my hand. So soft, so precious.
And then, I scooped her up. “Good morning, Sweetie! I’m so glad you’re here! Paul! Come snuggle with us!”
Dave – “Tato” to his grandkids – is a tough act to follow. He has charmed nephews, nieces, students, and grandkids with his inexhaustible repertoire of inventive games, goofy jokes, energy, and imagination. I don’t try to compete; I’m not nearly as fun nor funny. Yet, inexplicably, Lexi has chosen me as her favorite. Dave chuckles in recalling Lexi’s honest, “I love you Tato. But I love LeaLea more.”
The four of us lay in bed for minutes only – Lexi is not one for lying around. She was up and demonstrating the paper backpack she’d made for us, a wonder embellished with swirling rainbows of Crayola colors. She then took stock of our already comfortable accommodations, and announced, “You need tissues on your bedside table.” That accomplished, she again surveyed the room with the critical eye of an experienced hostess and said, “You need wastebaskets. I’ll get them.”
Over the course of our visit, Tucker and Lisa had planned a range of activities to give us a taste – often literally – of their new life. We went up to Uetliberg for the view and a liberal helping of melted raclette cheese. We went to Sprungli cafe for rich hot chocolate and the hedonistic array of tarts, pastries, and cakes. We went to a pop-up chalet for creamy fondue and crusty bread. And we went to the mountains for snow, but that came later. On this day, we were bound for downtown Zurich.
I am not a city person and would have preferred to hold the kids’ hands, my body between them and the road. I would have liked to maintain a marked distance between the tram tracks and the children, but that is not their way. They know exactly how close they can get – closer than I’d like - and they scampered to the spot where the tram doors would open so they were first in line and could nab the coveted back seat.
While we waited, Tucker said, “Mom, give me your phone and I’ll set up the app for your train tickets.”
How could he know that the word “app” stills my soul?
My boy came of age in a computer world and has lived in a city since college. Programming and coding are his interest and his work. Public transportation, routes, stops, and connections are second nature… as they are for Lexi and Paul.
Not so for me. When I handed him my phone, he tapped briskly then said, “What’s your Google password?” How could he know that question near brings me to tears, and invariably whatever I type elicits a curt “Invalid” and inaction in whatever task is attempted on whatever device I use? How could he know my string of failures with apps and passwords, my Pavlovian avoidance as a result? I am not exaggerating when I say my nose prickled at his question, as pathetic as that is.
“I don’t have it with me. It’s written down at home.”
“Never mind, Mom. I’ve got it.”
Sigh. Next time we come to Europe, I’ll know to bring passwords, although that’s no guarantee of success.
After a quick, comfortable ride on the tram, we dismounted into a drizzly, then pouring, rain and hurriedly opened our umbrellas. This was not the snowy, alpine Switzerland of calendars. “We told you to come in October!” Tucker said.
If only it had been dry, much less sunny! For that day, Zurich hosted a food festival, and the scents of curry, cinnamon, fresh donuts, and pizza offered by dispirited vendors wafted from colorful, albeit bedraggled, booths. One could imagine the pleasure of a leisurely stroll along the river past soaring steeples and skeletal trees while sampling such offerings had we not been balancing dripping umbrellas. Still, donuts dipped in sugar and warm chocolate were too tempting to pass up, so we made our purchases and ran to a sheltering portico.
* * *
Come evening, the rain had stopped, and the lights of the city reflected off the river and still-wet streets. Lisa and I ventured forth, brushing off the fatigue that kept Tucker, Dave, and the kids at home. The Swiss celebrate the New Year over a period of days, and that night, Zurich was hosting an art show where different artists projected their work on the facades of iconic buildings.
Dave and I live in the country, surrounded by the stillness of woods and stone walls. To be out in the vibrancy of the rain-washed night, chattering and striding along with my daughter-in-law, was exhilarating.
Our pace was brisk as we hoped to visit every site, re-tracing the route of our earlier walk, now festive with color bright against the darkness. The city itself was the artists’ canvas, the blues, yellows, and pinks on the buildings melting into the water and rippling across its surface. Brilliant webs of light stretched across streets illuminated by the glow from shop windows. On a corner, a vendor wrapped roasted chestnuts in paper cones, their smoky scent enveloping passersby. And if this were not joy enough, as we stood beneath a church awash with colors, its bells rang out, a resounding accompaniment to the sensory symphony.
