King Alcohol (eBook)

CHOCOLATE, CHEESE AND CHRONOMETERS

When I was a high-school sophomore my stepfather Ken came home from work one evening and said, “How would you like to spend next year in Switzerland?”

I had no idea what he was talking about, but should have figured it out since the year prior my mother decided I needed exposure to different cultures and took me to interview at a few American schools that had student exchange programs with French schools. Exchange programs became popular after World War II, and gave students an opportunity to study in a different country and experience the history and culture of that country, as well as make new friends to enrich their personal development. Exchange students usually lived with a host family or in a designated place such as a boarding school or in an apartment.

I had forgotten about those interviews, which were less than memorable. I had no desire to leave my local high school friends and spend a year in a country where I did not speak the language. I had had a few years of mandatory elementary French classes, but was not fluent nor interested in becoming so.

During one interview the staff member started speaking to me in French and I understood hardly a word. My blank stare made her decision not to accept me into her school’s exchange program easy. Happily, I was rejected at all the schools I was forced to apply to.

However, I was so fed up with living at home with a stepfather subservient to his wife and having a domineering mother smothering me every minute of every day that my response was, “Sure, I’d love to go to Switzerland.”

Ecole Nouvelle de Chailly was a Swiss day and boarding school in Lausanne, Switzerland. Most students lived in the city, but there were forty or so long term boarders from around the world. I was the only American, and only one other student spoke English as their native language.

Prior to leaving for Switzerland I packed several suitcases for the plane trip and a steamer trunk which would be shipped by boat and arrive several weeks after school started in August of 1970. I was scheduled to fly from Louisville to New York, and then to Geneva where someone from the school would meet me and drive me forty miles north along Lake Geneva to Lausanne.

Since I knew little French, I was terrified of the trip. Part of me was excited about getting away from home and my parents for a year, but fear of the unknown kept me awake at night. Before my arrival the school indicated that all classes were taught in French, textbooks were in French, homework was written in French, and those with difficulty would be tutored if necessary.

When I arrived at LaGuardia Airport in New York I had an eight hour layover before the ten hour, overnight flight to Geneva. LaGuardia was a crowded, smelly, dirty, depressing airport with few distractions or amenities. The chairs in the public waiting areas were uncomfortable, and it was impossible to stretch out for a nap.

Being a novice international traveler, I didn’t understand how important it was to pay attention to my belongings. My bags had been checked except a small carry-on, and I kept my wallet in my back pocket with my passport. As I was roaming around the airport, I sat down for a few minutes and then got up. As I walked off I heard someone yelling behind me. Turning, a stranger was waving my wallet and passport at me. They had fallen out of my pocket without my knowledge, and I’ll never forget his kindness in returning them to me. He appeared to be Asian, and suggested I buy a money belt to keep my items safe and secure. From that point on I always secured my valuables in a thick money belt, and still do today when traveling.

The overseas trip was uneventful. I had a few drinks on the plane, but no more since I wanted my wits about me when I arrived in Geneva in the morning. As we descended into Geneva it was a magnificent, brilliant morning and the Swiss landscape was stunning. Off in the distance was Mount Blanc and the Swiss Alps. Beside Lake Geneva hundreds of farms dotted the countryside with rectangular fields of various multi-colored grains and vegetables. The lake was crystal clear, and the small towns with their red-roofed buildings appeared pristine from the air.

All I had been told was, “Someone will meet you” after I landed in Geneva. In those days getting through Swiss customs was easy, and the agent spoke English. I had nothing to declare, and ended up in the main airport lobby. Having no idea where to go or what to do, I sat on my bags looking helpless as a lost puppy.

A few minutes later a short, fat man with a tie and vest pushing a small empty cart walked up to me and said, “Monsieur M.?” I said “Oui,” meaning “Yes,” which was about the extent of my French. Little did I know at the time that my driver was Mr. B., who was the principle of the school. As he continued speaking in French he quickly realized I understood nothing, and started speaking in English.

I put my bags on the cart and followed him to the parking lot. We got in the largest Mercedes Benz I’d ever seen, and once we left the airport he appeared to disregard any speed limit during the half-hour drive to Lausanne. Upon arrival he showed me my third floor room overlooking Lake Geneva and then introduced me to some of the staff and other students who had arrived before me. I was given a class schedule and shown where the classrooms were located on the grounds.

Being German, Mr. B. ran a tight ship, and I didn’t like him at first. He was all business, but over time I grew to appreciate an underlying kindness and his passion for the school and its students. When I visited the school again several years later while on holiday with my parents he actually remembered me, and invited all of us in for tea and a tour.

Although I didn’t speak French I learned the basics fairly quickly since I had no choice. There were no other Americans at the school, and the only other student who spoke English was from Jamaica. We became fast friends.

The evening I arrived I met my roommate. He was from Sweden and spoke seven languages fluently. We got along well but we didn’t socialize much because he spent most of his free time visiting the various women’s boarding schools in Montreux and along the lake. Being a handsome Swede, he had no difficulty attracting women and usually spent the weekends away from the school chasing and bedding them.

The forty boarding students came from around the world, including China, Africa, India, South America, Vietnam and other parts of Asia. Our only language in common was broken French, but over time and after intense study we began to converse with each other.

From my exposure to those international students I learned that we are all basically the same as individuals. We want to live a decent life, contribute something to society, marry and have children, and fear we might not be good enough to find true love and happiness—the ultimate goal.

One of the teachers at Ecole Nouvelle was a tall, thin white haired professor named Alfred S. who was originally from Brooklyn, New York, but had lived in Switzerland for decades. He was the only man I’ve ever known who was a true literary scholar. He could read, write and speak in eleven languages, including Latin and Greek, and was learning Mandarin.

His knowledge of English literature was unsurpassed, and he was currently reading all the classic Spanish literature—in the original language.

Mr. S. taught English literature and creative writing. I had a study hall after his class and instead of studying I would spend the time talking with him about literature and how to write. He would tell me the best way to become a good writer was to become a good reader. He said the more I read, the better my writing would become, and he was correct.

There was little choice in which courses students could take. They were divided into basic and advanced courses, and depending on one’s skills and experience, an academic agenda was set at the beginning of the school year.

Since I was good in math, I was placed into a differential calculus class which was taught by an American expatriate named Mr. M. who had lived in Switzerland his entire life. Born in Chicago, he was raised by his parents in France as an infant and settled in Switzerland as an adult. Thin, short and sporting a thick black mustache, he would restlessly pace back and forth at the head of the class with a lit Gauloise cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, speaking in grumbling spurts I could barely understand. The blackboard was filled with strange symbols which made no sense but I dutifully copied them down in my notebook.

After a week I spoke to him in stuttering French, explaining I had no idea how to do the assigned lessons. I expected him to be short and gruff with me and assume I was stupid, but the opposite occurred. He sensed I loved math, which I did, and patiently met with me after class to review my areas of confusion. After a few weeks I finally understood how to use the formulas, and ended up getting an A in the class. I’ll never forget how kind he was to me, and the extra time he took to help me in my studies.

Classes were from 8 AM until 6 PM, with an hour for lunch and a one hour mid-afternoon break for tea. Courses included English and French literature, Science (biology & physics), Math, Arts and two hours of sport (soccer) in the evening after classes. Dinner was at 8 PM and study time after that lasted until midnight.

It took me several months to acquire basic French, but by the end of the school year I was fluent enough to fool some of the locals, who assumed I was French Canadian and not...