Sluglife

Yesterday Dave and I started to feel the toll of the week. We’ve been working nine-hour days here, and then going out every evening with IT folks. Their hospitality has been great, but we started feeling a bit run down.
One thing that’s very different about working here is that they’ve got a fairly large IT department – about ten people – but they’re split into two groups: Administration and Development. At home we’ve got four people dealing with everything, so while developing an application you might get interrupted because a printer isn’t responding and you have to head up to the third floor to take care of it. On one hand it can be annoying to change tasks, but I never appreciated how nice it is to take a break from slaving over code all day. And that’s the case here – I’m hanging almost exclusively with the development cats, and it’s staring at a screen in a poorly climate controlled room all day. I’m don’t mean to sound like I’m complaining – this is a fantastic opportunity -- but it’s quite a change from what I’m used to and comfortable with, and the coping with that has added up.
On top of that, yesterday afternoon at work I started feeling queasy and clammy, so I cut out right at five. Back in apartment I took an hour nap and started to feel better. No one offered to take us out last night, and both David and I were largely grateful. There was only one problem, however. When I got up David was just getting in from work – remember I mentioned 9-hour days? – and he reiterated an observation I made on the way back to the apartment; Le Predator was nowhere to be found. We’re not exactly out in the sticks here, but at the same time, the only thing that seemed remotely nearby was the Chinese restaurant we went to the first day we got here, and neither of us was feeling that. Dave looked up restaurants on his GPS-enabled Crackberry, and it indicated that, yes, the aforementioned Le Gran Dragon was indeed the closest thing. However it also showed a café in St. Sulpice not much farther -- .6 of a mile (or roughly a kilometer, since we’re in metric-land). Getting out seemed like it would do me some good anyway.
We never found that café. It might have been there, we probably just walked past it. We ended up at a restaurant next to Le Skipper, the name of which I can’t remember and don’t have handy at the moment. When we came down here Monday this place was closed, but not tonight. Same story as Le Skipper – tiny little smoky bar in front, but a patio with a stunning view in back. I managed to leave the camera back at the apartment, which turned out to be a mixed blessing. On one hand, I’d copiously photographed the view from the patio of Le Skipper, and this being just next door didn’t offer terribly different vistas. On the other hand, though, it was a much clearer day than Monday. Also, having been up at the other end of Lausanne we could see the grape vines we stopped at and the harbor with the cool wind sculpture, so taking a picture from that vantage point would have been nice.
Then there was dinner. When we arrived the entire service staff consisted of a grumpy middle-aged Frenchman who spoke no English. When we sat down, he gave us menus and mumbled under his breath as he turned away. It was one of a number of experiences where I was looking for the subtitles where he is mumbling expletives and we nod politely completely unaware of what he’s actually saying. Conjecture, yes, but he seemed grumpy enough for it to be true. The menu, too, was completely in French. Most menus we’ve had generally provided English translations for some if not all items. Nothing here. That’s okay, though, we figured we’d go with the boeuf (beef) which, judging from the number of times it appeared on the menu clearly seemed to be a specialty. And, holy cow, it was. First we were presented with bibs. I’m not making this up. They were over-the-head bibs, roughly the size of a life preserver, and were printed with a tuxedo front and a lobster and the optimistic, “Bon appetite!” Of course we donned the bibs; the table next to us which had three very dapper-dressed 20-somethings also wearing the bibs. Turns out, they weren’t merely for humiliation purposes. The boeuf consisted of a decent size filet which was seared on the outside and – here comes the cool part – served sizzling on a red-hot brick. Picture your favorite sizzling fajita experience. Okay, now turn that up to 11 and add the delicious aroma of sizzling meat. About this point I was REALLY sad I forgot the camera. Only once our plates were removed did I recognize the functionality of the bibs, as the sizzling meat did thrown a fine aura of grease from its brick-perch. It was seared on the outside, but the inside was very rare bordering on raw, which is fine because, a) I don’t mind extremely rare meat, but mostly b) you could cut a piece and then lay the rare/raw side on the brick, searing it yourself. I tell you, the novelty of this did not wear off.
One more thing we’re trying to get used to – dinner is an epic event. Everywhere we’ve gone, don’t plan on eating and running, you’re there for the long haul. We finished dinner and waited. And waited. And waited. In other restaurants we have been offered dessert and coffee with complete expectation that we would partake because, well, dinner is an epic event not to be lightly undertaken. It might have been our over-worked grumpy French waiter, but we waited and waited. Granted, the view made it a lot easier – I mean staring across Lake Geneva isn’t exactly the roughest view in the world. But the chairs were uncomfortable, it was getting dark, and we still had a mile walk home ahead. We finally got the bill and headed back.
Again, sorry for no pictures! I have no idea what today has in store for us – either at work or after. We have to work at least half of Saturday – server stuff – and then I think Bernard F is taking us out. Finding a place to do our laundry is quickly becoming a priority. Sunday, which we have completely free, looms with possibility. Bernard V suggested we go to the frickin’ Matterhorn, but cautioned that it’s easily an all-day excursion, and neither Dave nor I felt comfortable making the trek in the 20-year-old Chrysler (sorry Le Predator!). Much more likely is a trip to Montreux which isn’t far away and apparently is quite touristy. We’ll see.
Whatever we do, I promise I won’t forget the camera again!