Brutally Honest Thank You Notes from an American Expat in Switzerland
Dear Uncle Rex,
Thank you for the $50 gift certificate to Cracker Barrel. While I miss a good breakfast skillet filled to the brim with fried eggs, hash browns and bacon and smothered in cheese the texture of a melted plastic Baby Yoda, Cracker Barrel hasn’t made it to Switzerland yet. I know the reference to “Old Country Store” in their name is confusing but it doesn’t refer to The Old Country. It just means “old country” — as in towns with residents who are skeptical of the Electoral College because it has never played in the Sugar Bowl.
Dear Aunt Mimi,
Thank you for the lovely French Bulldog Coffee Table book. We are touched you remembered our own French Bulldog, Admiral Culpepper. While we appreciate the book, pictures of other French Bulldogs surfing, skateboarding, and eating burritos and pizza has already given him an inferiority complex. We should have known as it took him six months to recover from a bout of depression after seeing the French Bulldog calendar you sent us last year. We giggled at the display of French Bulldogs in Red Baron, Napoleon, and fishermen outfits but when we tried to suit him up as General George Patton for Halloween he nipped me on the hand causing a minor but painful abrasion.
Dear Mom,
Thank you for the Eurofit turtleneck. It’s a little snug but I wore it out anyway. The salesman at the Metzgerei (butcher shop) compared me (I think favorably) to the famous World Champion luger, Georg Hackl, also known as the Flying Sausage. It was adorable when a small Swiss boy put a price tag on me. Apparently I would sell for 100 Swiss francs, the price of a generous cut of Schweinesteak. For future reference, a European medium equates to a Boys Large back home. I learned that after buying underwear at the local Globus department store only to be ridiculed by a group of elderly Swiss bankers in the locker room of our health club. I was originally hopeful that “thong” translated to “muscular,” but I learned it just means thong.
Dear Joan (Mother-in-Law),
Thank you for the XXL sweater, which is ample room for even the burliest of Bavarian woodsman. I had never heard of the brand, “Chubette” and likewise unaware of it being an Italian label as you noted in the accompanying card. As I am not a Trappist monk, the brown color of the sweater is also a first for my wardrobe. Fortunately, I was able to use the garment as a robe when landing the role of Schmutzli, Samichlaus’ trusty sidekick who beats unruly children with a stick and stuffs them in a burlap sack, at the local Swiss-American Club of Zurich.
Dear Cousin Emily,
Thank you for the tickets to An Evening with the Holderness Family, The Sound of Knock-off Music. You introduced me to “Christian Jammies” a few years ago and I liked “Baby Got Mask” on social media in order to be polite. To be clear, I don’t find song parodies funny and the dad’s haircut is obnoxious. I also generally don’t like people who are named after Ivy League universities. At Thanksgiving last year I only laughed at the “All About That Baste” video because, as you may recall, I was on my third glass of red wine even though I am allergic to Sulphites. I’d rather listen to Christmas Shoes on Ice with a migraine than endure a minute of “So Long, Farewell to 2020” or “These are Some of Mitch McConnell’s Favorite Things.”
Dear Sister-in-Law Amy,
Thank you for the All Things Sweden Care Package. The Abba CD (I’ll be sure to play it in my 1998 Volvo!), Swedish meatballs recipe and IKEA gift card are much appreciated. I love Sweden. But we live in Switzerland. While Sweden and Switzerland both start with the same “Sw” sound, as in “May I switch families,” and they are both technically in Europe, they are quite different. Sweden is a Nordic state and maintains a social welfare system. Switzerland on the other hand is proudly — almost condescendingly — capitalist and its residents look like the offspring of a one night stand between Gordon Gekko and Heidi Klum.
Dear John (Brother-in-law),
You (don’t) know it. The Audible edition of Matthew McConaughey’s Greenlights will be making me sing Alright! Alright! I’ve had enough. Prescription Time! The secret to a successful Secret Santa is to know what gifts to give. I would have preferred a year’s subscription to Street News. It’s really fascinating to explore the inner workings of a privileged actor whose poetry rivals that of a student at Degrassi Junior High. Note to self: Bother-in-law John understands me less than the barista at the Swiss coffee shop who snickers every time I say Gruezi.
