Christmas Season In Zürich

This is exactly how I remember my childhood before Christmas. Including the organ music, played in church interspersed by the priest preaching in high-german the retelling of the story of Maria and Josef. I could swear I heard the exact same mass as we hear here in the beginning. I remember those then bedazzling lighted stars and symbolic Christmas tree light displays. I remember the magical, festive, red Märli-Tram that took us kids for a ride among pretty angels in white frocks we can only get a glimpse off here.

I remember crowded Jelmoli, the huge department store with the running stairs that brought us up to the second and third floor, to a humongous selection of toys, eventually Barbies too. I remember those nets that conveniently carried our purchases before the pretty plastic kind replaced them. I remember the crowds, more so even inside the Trams than the department stores. Scarry at times for a small kid squeezed among adults.

I remember the Salvation Army singers collecting coins on Bahnhof Strasse. Never liked them, not then or now. What is missing is the guy selling roasted Maroni (chestnuts) right nearby. A small bag full in one's hand spread delicious warmth on a cold winter day.

There are people, lots of them in heavy coats, with women wearing woolen shawls and hats. People offering their opinions only when asked and put on the spot. One pretty woman confesses that she is not in the mood at all for Christmas as she is going through a very difficult time, while the other pretty woman complains the decorations not being to her taste and the third about the weather failing to bring on the mood for her. Meanwhile, one guy does not mind the artificiality of the Christmas decor but welcomes being taken out of the daily humdrum, but the other guy reminds us that Christmas should have not be about shopping but should have a focus on the birth of the Savior. All of their answers given in great sincerity upon a bit of reflection. All of the people are so Swiss in their appearance, their attitude and I could not even say exactly why.

I remember the smoke-filled restaurants with the waitresses dressed in black wearing a money belt from which they gave us back change when we payed our bill of course always in cash and added a then common 15% tip for their service. Those often elderly waitresses were then called Fräulein (Misses, a rather disrespectful to grown women term that since has long been abandoned.)

I remember the popular music of those times too. And I remember those streets with their businesses, many still going strong more than half a century later. Modissa was a women's clothing store my Mom cleaned for a while in the early morning hours. It's also a store we got some of our dresses and sweaters from. Bally was the store for our shoes and boots, always.

Unggi, my uncle not by blood, worked at the main post office near the main train station and took me to where those packages were processed right before or after his retirement. Packages were always so carefully packaged and tightened with ropes many times over for safety.

Yep, I started my life in those times and times they are changing, some, but some things do stay the same.

Comfort

During my 3 months stay,

as much on the side of my ailing Dad's bed as I could bear,

I found great comfort in living only minutes on foot,

from this gorgeous, crystal clear lake

with an awesome 180 degree view

to glaciers in the far distance.

This picturesque home was situated along the lake and path,

easily reached by bike and near my favorite spot 

to bath among the swans and ducks.

Up hill, an organic farm offered delicious honey ice cream

and real strawberries picked only hours prior,

red, ripe and ready to relish.

 Pfaeffiker See, Zuerich, Switzerland, 2005

Thanksgivings

1978, about 5 weeks in to my US stay, when I had no idea yet that I would make my permanent home here in the United States, I was dragged along to my very first Thanksgiving event. I was 24 years old, a vegetarian for about 6 years with a disdain for family events, meat and fast food. Here I was in the cabin of a prominent New York psychiatrist in the Poconos, stuck, waiting for that damn bird to be ready to be served already. I was hungry, everybody was hungry after the long drive out of Manhattan. I doubt anyone did actually venture out of that cabin and in to the woods We all laid around on a bed, hanging. We, meaning my mentor Alec, who had graciously offered me a place to stay, had welcomed me with open arms in to his fold of acolytes, and had insisted on my coming along. Of course I had never heard of Thanksgiving. Finally when the bird came out of the oven and was ready to be devoured, of course I abstained. There were barely any side dishes, barely a thing for me to eat. Horror of horrors, for dessert I remember those cream donuts; white flour, white sugar and lots of oil, yiks.

1984, new to Santa Fe, Marge invited us to her humble abode, a school bus converted into a mobile home that she shared with her two boys and occasional lovers. I remember Marge fiddling with a soup, adding more and more miso, but somehow just not getting it right. I felt for her, I have been there, done that - lousy cooking. Marge believed in free and open sex and I believe she messed up the mind and heart especially of her older teen aged boy pretty good. It was the eighties, times were wild and crazy for some.

2000, Paradise in the East Bay, Northern California, the pool was steaming at perfect temperature, a variety of fish were grilled, my Fufu, made from Plantein flour was ready and a dessert of tofu pudding served with soy whipped cream found delighted approval while not exactly easy on our digestion. We had a blast in the most enchanting home I ever had the good fortune to occupy. The Carriage House was converted to a European style witches den.

Overgrown with bright burgundy Bougainvillea,  with cute white lace curtains on all the little windows, a balcony that overlooked the pool surrounded by banana trees and exotic blooms.

 The sounds of the water overflowing from the hot tub in to the warm pool mixed with the distant sounds of laughter and dancing to Soucous music.

With me, my Nigerian lover and my dearest friends, many of them colleagues, with more then a few that shared my Cancer birth sign. We were in our element, an amicable lot and we really liked each other professionally and privately. Heaven, I was in heaven!

2010, Thanksgiving at home alone in the City Different in the Land of Enchantment, once again. Well, I am not alone, I got my 3 furry ones, but I am nobody's mom. I celebrated Thanksgiving with a "feast in my mouth" as Dr. Phil would say. There is nothing like oral gratification. Celebrating Thanksgiving without family stressors is nothing to sneeze at either. How I hate dysfunctional family dynamics. I had enough in my youth to last me life times. Now I have no family and no friends either.

I am grateful to still have my home, to still have some cash, to still be able to buy food, and dessert. I am grateful to have been granted an easy life in so many respects. I am grateful for all the horrors that so far have not befallen me. I am grateful for the kindnesses bestowed upon me. As when my mentor Alec offered me his home to stay and so I could find my bearings on this new and oh so different continent. As when Dietmar, a young father in Switzerland, offered me his place to stay when I, 17 years old, lost my room, because the landlady objected to the weekend stay of an American tourist during my absence. I am grateful to Dwuno who bestowed her light, her attention, her beauty and her wisdom on me and I was never to be the same again. I am especially grateful to my now deceased Mom who gave me the cash for the down payment on what has been my home now for the last 24 years. I am grateful that whatever stood between me and my Mom and my Dad dissolved before their passing, that we resolved whatever it was, and that we found peace together.

On a different note I am grateful for Tina Fey who still can give perspective to a Sarah Palin and so deservedly won the recent Mark Twain award. I am grateful to Michael Moore who endured a personal vendetta by big pharmaca and the former president, but keeps on trucking and keeps on inspiring us to take action and make a difference and believe in the power of the people, against all evidence so it seems.

Gratitude does not come easy to me, I really have to go fish to find morsels of it. I will do just that, go fish, be quiet and see what might bite and if, I then will report back.

9/15 Part IV - My Seventies

I wanted to give a bit more of a flavor of my seventies, so I dug up some old photos to share with you.

This is Alec Rubin in performance at The Theater Within in a very characteristic pose of his, focused simultaneously inward and outward, likely in process of making his artistic choices at that very moment; what feelings to follow and reveal, which to ignore.

 

Stoni, my Swiss buddy, friend and New York room mate. Later he would have his own dance company in Berlin. Together we were able to afford an apartment on the 'very lower east side' of Manhattan.

717 East 5th Street (Avenue C - D)

New York, NY 10023

A seriously rough and tough neighborhood.

This particular building resisted gentrification for long. 

Odd that later I would move in to 717 Manhattan Ave..

Out of the drab neighborhood, inside my first home of my own (Stoni, a dancer soon moved on to study Skinner Releasing Technique in Seattle) cheerful colors pleased me. 

I was happy in my abode despite the roaches that were aplenty, and one freaking rat next door.

 

What I left behind was my dear friend Joe, 

artisan, actor, and painter 

with a truly artistic, sensitive soul.

 

Here he posed for me in front of his store

with one of his own, gorgeous carpet shoulder bags 

(so like the bag that held my belongings

when I first entered the US.)

Joe was able to create anything he put his mind to, so it seemed. Joe's Creations were masterly crafted pieces of practical art, be they furnishings, as he was so generous in gifting our The Stuebli with, or clothing as with his intricate vests and house shoes or accessories like hand and shoulder bags with secret compartments created with the use of recycled silken ties.

9/15 Part III

This was to be my account about my arrival to the US. Instead, I digressed and lingered with what had come before. Why did I ever leave Zuerich and later Amsterdam?

Zurich has been named consistently as one of the world's most contented cities and certainly boasts one of the highest living standards. Why would anyone leave? I consider myself a cultural refugee and friends that immigrated like me to the US agree. We felt hampered in our development, stultified by Swiss social norms and expectation and the forever powerful push to achieve and play it safe. 

I was hooked, line and sinker, into the kind of unconventional art therapy we practiced. The idea of exploring the unconscious and bringing it up to the light in a creative, artistic, expressive form made total sense to me. What can I say, I am from the Pluto in Leo generation, the attraction was inevitable, a perfect fit. It was our anti-dot to the analytical, way too intellectual, divorced from the body, Jungian approach, prevalent then in Zuerich. It was this desire that propelled me on my search and got me, a Cancer home body to explore not the exotic East at a guru's feet in India (although I surely was tempted at various times) but brought me to Amsterdam and the US eventually. It was my conscious choice to stay rooted in a psychological, rather then a spiritual tradition and in that way to renounce the temptation of salvation through a distant exotic guru, like Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh. Hey, it was the seventies, temptations were many!

I longed to fully immerse myself in those transformative processes, and so I did for my first few years in the US with Alec Rubin's Primal Theater.

9/15 Part Two

We had listened to Krishna Murti in Brockwood, England, spent a few days in London and it was time for me to leave everything I knew behind and board the cheapest flight to America. I wore my  favorite Genie pants,  created by dear Joe just for me from old soft curtains that flowed wide down my legs and gathered around my ankles. The other pair was at the bottom of my carpet shoulder bag, another work of practical art from recycled fabric by gifted Joe, a former actor turned artisan. I had perfected the art of traveling light and had become a true carpetbagger! There were two convenient outside pockets. The front one held my money,  passport, pen, special color pencils and Chinese diary, the back one held my toiletries, no room for a  hair brush, but chopsticks and a package of Miso (Barley Paste.) Little did I understand that plenty of Miso was to be had in the Asian parts of New York City.

The stewardess would come around to offer drinks and food. I did not accept. I heard them wonder out loud if maybe I was afraid of cost and if maybe I did not understand it was included in the fare. True I barely understood English and was not sure if I was expected to pay, but I also felt snobbish, as I had been eating very clean, involved with the Macrobiotic Restaurant in Amsterdam for over 2 years and limited to vegetarian fare ever since I had moved out my parent's home. I despised conventional meat based meals. Of course I also was young and anxious, in no mood to eat. Now I am old and eat any time anywhere, although I am still a snob of sorts as to the quality of food. But then I often preferred to abstain from eating for extended periods of time, especially while traveling.

When finally I arrived in the US, at Kennedy Airport, it was after midnight and the buses had stopped running. Of course I would not dream of spending my money on a cab, much less would I have known where to take it to. So I settled on one of the benches in the back, prepared to spend a few hours until the first bus would take me in to Manhattan proper. This black worker noticed me and asked where I was going to and assured me he would wake me and take me right after his shift to the first running bus. This he did and as we were crammed in early morning traffic he inquired about where exactly I was going. No idea I told him, he insisted that I must know someone in New York. So I took out my address book and showed him my only New York address, the one of my mentor/teacher. I was not even sure how, if and when I would contact Alec, but this black guy decided this was where I was to go and he would bring me there safely. He got us in to the A train that of course would not stop on W 72nd street which did not deter him, we got out and right back the other way until he safely deposited me at the proper station. All the while he would comment on my incredible calm. And he was right, I was on alert, focused and present. Say what you will about New York and black guys, but that man gave me an impressive welcome. Talk about the kindness of strangers, specifically from a black guy to a white woman, with no strings attached! He did more then got out of his way and this after a long night's work.

I was Alec's guest for several months. Barely able to speak English, I took part in an extemporaneous performance series that kept us busy most nights in to the early morning hours. I practiced the slipping in and out of altered states. Form Follows Feelings was Alec's motto and we worked hard at perfecting our form at any given moment and were diligently in the pursuit of our feelings. I practiced my Mermaid  persona at the edge of the pond in Central Park. On my way I would pass the Dakota where John and Yoko had their home. (The night of John's murder we were attending a piano concert by the amazing Keith Jarret, only blocks away.) Alec had taught at the Actor's Studio, had been a Ballet Dancer and had developed his very own style of performance art. The man had charisma with a great sense of humor. Our rehearsals were adventures in to inner space. We never knew where it would lead us and if we would have the guts to follow - all the way. We practiced our emotional vocabulary and grounded ourselves in to our bodies.

I took up Contact Improvisation a form of movement that relies on gravity and a smooth, uninterrupted flow. I gave up on Tai Chi, Chinese martial arts, too boring in comparison, so it seemed to me then. Although with my Dutch master Joe Onvlee, Tai Chi had never ever been boring, but Joe with his beer belly, greasy hair and sparkle in his eyes was extra-ordinary and employed methods by Gurdjieff that kept us on our toes, or rather in our core or Tantiem. He would yell at us: "Relax, relax, relax" and then burst out laughing. He would tell us funny stories while we had to hold our space for what seemed an eternity, with no adjustments to alleviate any discomfort. He would have us practice in front of a mirror, confusing us. He would pick a senior student to invent a form we had to follow, on the spot, as if we always had done so. Joe Onvlee was phenomenal and had an international following and was likely the first to spread Tai Chi in and through out Europe and beyond.

Yeah, it was the seventies and I had the good fortune to have come upon some charismatic folks: Dear sensitive Joe the actor turned artist and expert crafts man, the one that made it possible to leave my parent's home while I was still a student, Dwuno, the powerful and mysterious Dutch/Indonesian puppet maker, bohemian and Taoist, Joe Onvlee, the Dutch sailor with his wicked smile, that introduced Chinese martial arts to us Hippies, Paulo Knill the Swiss director of the Lesley College Theater department, who gave us absolute permission to be ourselves, even sleep through his classes in order to please ourselves rather then him the teacher. Last but not least Alec Rubin, former ballet dancer turned therapist and acting coach along the lines of the Actors Studio. I had been deeply involved with each of those gigantic souls. They each transformed my life. And all of this happened outside any formal school or institution, with no need to pledge future income for decades. With no aspirations, at least on my part, to garner certificates or titles and letters behind my name. We were driven by our own excitement only.

to be continued ...

9/15 - Part One

Today, September 15th, 32 years ago, I left Europe for good, not knowing then that I would become a US citizen and would make my home in the United States. I was a reluctant adventurer, nervous about not knowing where, what and how. I had no family or friends in the US only friends that had been to California and had experiences I too longed to have.

In the seventies, in Switzerland, most of us in our teens and twenties, we considered ourselves the alternative, the cutting edge, of what, we did not really know. We had our own tiny tea room (The Stuebli) where despite rumors, no drugs were to be had. We all sat on the floor, on carpeted pillows crafted to perfection by my dear friend Joe. We sipped herbal teas, welcomed strangers and fed them brown rice with sauteed onion rings, for free. We were anti-establishment and anti-commercialism in general and on principle. And this in the heart of Europe, Zuerich, the center of banking and commerce, and high standard of style and living.

Likely because of it, we sought community and altered states, some with and some without the help of drugs. We took delight in spontaneous humming and chanting or silences. Some of us took part in Dwuno's "Under-intellectual Gatherings." Fritze had his own essential oil line even then. I remember how this big man, with his big heart, and his big nose, which afforded him an exquisite sense of smell, introduced me to the scent of Vetivier. This happened decades before essential oils would go main stream.

Dear Fritze, then 24 years old, was also the guy that introduced us to solar power as he showed us a simple water container painted black. From him I learned, in the very early seventies, of glaciers about to melt and communities, such as San Francisco, about to drown (timing may not have been his forte.) Global Warming is not a new concept. It has been on the horizon for many decades already. Al Gore has shown us how coastal communities will likely be threatened by the warming atmosphere that melts our glaciers and gives rise to higher sea levels. (One of the saddest and most shocking things I heard was recently from a light (not exactly white) pigmented South African photographer who considers Global Warming a myth perpetuated to keep the up and coming nations down so as not to permit them the same opportunities the western world already exploited!)

Fritze played an important role in Speak Out, an organization by youth for youth in trouble, with the law or drugs. Speak Out had it's outreach center in old town among the whores that then still were able to work the streets day and night. Some of those at risk youths got a chance at intervention in a therapeutic community setting in the country. It was the early seventies, a time for experimentation, for shedding social roles and 'jumping the system' (as we would say in Hakomi Therapy terminology.) 

Every New Year, for some unknown reason, we watched Easy Rider (of course I never ever dreamed that I would make my home near Taos where good parts of this movie were shot.) We read Carlos Castaneda's first book in it's boot legged print in German. Books on Massage and Bioenergetics followed. Carlos from South America showed up and with him we had our own  Bioenergetics Thearpist (young and sexy) that helped us breath right through our own personal blockades. We even took a workshop with an Esalen Massage Therapist given at our 5 bedroom apartment. Paulo Knill, Director then of the Theater Department at the liberal arts Lesley College in Boston would inspire us with his weekly Thursday morning classes, where I first learned the basics of Contact Improvisation, of trusting the ground we stood and rolled on. We learned to engage our core muscles and go with the flow while we were free to feel our feelings. Paulo had embraced the principles of Primal Therapy. Primal scream boxes popped up in attics and cellars all over. We were intent on liberating the inner hurt child by feeling our feelings and working through our primal pains. By embodiment of our  injuries we hoped to transform ourselves from victims in to empowered, creative, artistic, fully alive human beings.  Those were powerful and transformative and today I would say also strangely addictive processes.

We listened to Leonhard Cohen, Cat Stevens, The Moody Blues, Pink Floyd and later John and Yoko, to name only a few, but most often engaged with spontaneous acoustic music wherever it erupted, often played on a guitar, with a sitar thrown in for good measure, sometimes accompanied by a flute that would soar up high and not to forget Bongos of all sizes to be pounded upon. Yeah, even I would wander those ancient streets of old town after midnight. I would softly play my little wooden recorder and felt an alienation that strangely suited me, that seemed to set me apart from main stream. 

We shopped, when we could afford it, at Mister Natural, our first alternative health food store. Dwuno would severely reprimand us when we brought conventional commercial brown rice to our tea room. In the early mornings I would walk down the hill with an aluminum (I am afraid those were the kinds used then) kettle of fresh whole milk in hand for our Chai of the day or rather night. I have fond memories of those very early and very late peaceful times on ancient, cobble stoned, narrow, rivulet-like streets.  I had been liberated only recently from an ordinary, somewhat stultifying Swiss childhood. Times seemed sweet and and full of promise. 

In search of further altered, exalted states I departed from Zuerich and later Amsterdam to eventually arrive in New York, the United States exactly 32 years ago to this day.

Continued with Part Two 

Swiss Independence Day August 1.

The Swiss celebrated today August 1. the birth of their nation which dates back to August 1. 1291!

The common CH symbol, oddly seen on back of American cars in the States, stands for the latin Confederatio Helvetica (CH) translated in to German to Schweizerische Eidgenossenschaft and  in to American, Swiss Confederation. 

Switzerland is no young Spring Chicken, the Swiss have been around the block a few times or more. These days their wisdom not to join the EU (European Union) seems a lot more sensible and prudent.

I have to resort to Wikipedia to learn that the area that makes up Switzerland covers only a ridiculous 15,940 square miles. The population counts less then 8 million.

In 2005 the median household income in Switzerland was an estimated $90,000! For much of the 20th century, Switzerland was the wealthiest country in Europe by a considerable margin. The Swiss franc remains one of the world's strongest currencies with the lowest inflation rate.

The Swiss Confederation has a long history of neutrality—it has not been in a state of war internationally since 1815. Gosh, do I appreciate such a record!

1971 was the year women were granted the right to vote. My mom never chose to exercise her right, while I had left Switzerland before the age that would have qualified me to place my votes.

Switzerland has one of the best environmental records among nations in the developed world; It was one of the countries to sign the Kyoto Protocol in 1998 and ratified it in 2003. The country is heavily active in recycling and anti-littering regulations and is one of the top recyclers in the world, with 66% to 96% of recyclable materials being recycled.

Zürich, home to 1.5 million inhabitants and 150,000 companies, has taken top position in recent quality of life surveys. Life expectancy is among the highest in the world. Universal health insurance is compulsory.

The Swiss are the world's largest consumers of chocolate and looking at myself, I believe it. Finally though chocolate was discovered to hold those beneficial health qualities that encourage us to indulge guilt free.

Albert Einstein, physicist, might be the most famous Swiss personality but contemporary Tennis player Roger Federer, born August 8. 1981 may haven even more name recognition. C. G. Jung, Psychiatrist, has gained a surprising popularity here in my community in Santa Fe. Jean Piaget's name I encountered only the other day when I researched a pre-school in my neighborhood. Giacometti's work was recently auctioned for top price, I have no idea why, I do not understand his art, but sought after it is. On the other hand Andreas Vollenweider is well known in New Age circles for his trance inducing, soothing sounds.

Mentor

I was introduced to Dwuno on a cobble stone street in old town Zuerich. Her silvery hair hung over her back, her cheeks pronounced, her eyes dark, deep, large and full of mischief, her clothes seemingly home made, a tunic of sorts hung of her voluptious body, her feet stuck in sandals she had painted with sacred designs of her own pleasure. I was 19, Dwuno could have been my Mom, but then she could not. Dwuno gathered us in to "under-intellectual" Sunday gatherings. It was the seventies, meaning the sixties for us in Switzerland. Dwuno introduced me to an aspect of my self I did not know existed. A state of being, a state of bliss, a state of wholeness and movement with no intent. Dwuno, exotic, dramatic, stunningly beautiful was my very first mentor. I owe her, the world, a gift in kind.