Dear Baroness, 
 
Is it just me or are the Swiss really lousy at queueing? How can a country which is so on time, so regimented and so seemingly organized be so crap at forming a simple line?
 
Signed, 
 
Stupefied in Seefeld
 
 
 
Darling Stupefied,
 
First of all . . .  I KNOW! Don’t get me started . . . While I really try to avoid making sweeping statements about people and cultures, I do find that this (along with the ever-grumpy old women who stare rudely on the 33 bus) to be totally spot on and true. 
 
I wish I had an answer for you. I think maybe they need barricades? Everywhere? A knowing American or Brit assigned to stand with flags and assist and teach them how it’s done? Perhaps we get the 10,000 signatures needed and propose this formally and legally and institute it throughout the land. Just think of it. Switzerland. Only better.  
 
And though I do empathize with you, Stupefied, for me, it’s not so much the lack of being able to know how to queue, though it does also incense me, it’s the personal space issue.
 
I’m in line at the Migros, and it’s my turn. MY turn, damnit. There is an unspoken rule (at least in my head and where I come from) that I get to place myself in front of the cashier while she/he scans and then I pay. Then I will go and bag up my shite. But no . . . there is always some person - many times the same old biddy from the 33 bus who was giving me the evil eye that morning - who is all up in my business. Mere inches from my body. From my personal space! Perhaps this is a particular issue of mine. Perhaps I am more sensitive to the invasion of my personal space than others. But still. Personal space. It’s a basic human right. Everywhere but Switzerland, apparently.
 
So what do I do to combat this plague? I spread my elbows out. I hang back and give the person in front of me lots of room and piss those behind me right off. They want me to crowd the dude in front of me but I won’t. I am giving this dude his space whether he wants it or not. I am clearly not Swiss and this is upsetting for some; a thrilling fact for others.
 
When it gets really bad, I turn around and channel my inner grumpy woman from the 33 bus, look them in the eye and say indignantly, “Entschuldigung!”  This seems to work as it both alarms and scares them and then they back off, likely scared of what I’ll do if they don’t step down. Mission accomplished.
 
My friend - let’s call her Emily from New Hampshire - lives here and is married to a Swiss man. The personal space thing and lack of lining up skills thing was also bothering her and so she asked him how to say, in Swiss German, “Get behind me.” He told her, “hinde ashtoh”. Easy enough, right? BUT what she heard was “hinde arschloch”. For those of you who do not understand the hilarity of this tiny little mix up, allow me to translate and enlighten you:
 
When Emily encountered someone breathing down her neck in line at the Coop, she would turn around and command, “hinte arschloch!” Which she thought meant, “Get behind me!” (Which, you might be saying to yourself, is a little harsh, but when you don’t speak much German, you are just happy to be able to get your point across with or without niceties.) When in reality, she was saying, “Get behind my asshole”. Get. Behind. My. Asshole. Yes. To old bus ladies and hipsters from Kries 4 alike. Yes. Brilliant. I’ll give you a moment to take it in and laugh some more. 
 
It kills me. I make her say it every time I see her. And the only reason she realized that what she was saying was somehow not correct is because her lovely Swiss husband was with her in line one day and she said it. He asked, stunned, “What did you just say?!” Emily calmly repeated, “hinte arschloch!” Her husband, likely more mortified in his country than he’d ever been before, threatened divorce and dragged her out of the store, half laughing, half crying. She’s lucky she’s so cute.
 
So, darling Stupefied, I don’t really have an answer for you. You can either chill out or speak up. Which is kind of like anything in life, really. So there you have it.
 
But if you need a signature for your proper queueing referendum/proposal, I’ll be happy to sign it. I’ll even pass it around. 
 
As Ever,
 
 
xxx
The Baroness

I have just completed the 10th day of celebrating my 29th birthday and couldn’t be happier with the results. Every year it seems, I’m able to stretch it longer and longer and I want to share with you how you too can make the world celebrate you for days on end:
 
 1.  Live in a foreign country. People will send you things. Many people feel guilty for being so far away and not being there for you for both the good and bad times and so let them make it up to you by sending you some birthday love across the pond. Worried about not getting cards and packages? Don’t! You WILL receive if you train people correctly. Especially if you remind everyone just how hard it is to be so far away from friends and family on your big day and what makes the blow a little softer are surprises. Some friends are early and some are late, just like in real life. The glory of this fact is that this helps stretch your birthday out even farther! Got a card a week early from your first boyfriend’s mum? Don’t wait! Open that sucker up and display the hell out of it. Guilty friend sent you flowers a week late because she always forgets which day your birthday is? Viola! Your  birthday just got extended until those babies are dead. 
 2.  Facebook. I have a complicated relationship with the Book of Faces. But I will concede that on your birthday, it’s nice to feel the love from so many people whom you have not seen in years and may never again see in person. But love is love and we must take it where we can get it.
 3.  Pity and repetition. Make sure people know how much you love your own birthday.  Tell people how much your birthday means to you. Prep people weeks, even months in advance. Ask people when their birthday is and then use this as an excuse to bring up the fact that yours is coming up.* Feel free to embellish a childhood story about a rotten, tear-filled birthday or that time you ran away the the camper in the backyard on your birthday to see if anyone cared that you were missing (they did not). People want to help. They need to be needed. They want to fix you. So let them do so by buying you things and throwing you parties. *(Once you have asked someone their birthday, please try to remember it. At least the month or even their sign. There is no excuse for not storing this information if you expect everyone else to remember yours. Sorry Nick.)
 4.  Have a party by yourself for yourself. Sometimes, despite one’s best  intentions, one’s birthday does not fall on a Friday or Saturday and one must spend a good part of the day working/serving others/having conversations with working girls on Langstrasse/napping, etc . . . and so one must take care of one’s own birthday entertainment until the reinforcements can arrive and meet you at El Lokal or Mata Hari for far too many drinks, or Acapulco to serenade you with Bon Jovi, Johnny Cash and Liz Phair if you are lucky enough to have your birthday on a Sunday. While waiting until your boring friends who have jobs are finished for the day, there are boat loads of things you can to do celebrate YOU: Go to the perfume counter at Jelmoli and try on every scent. Try on too-small clothes at Globus and come out and look at yourself in the mirror and act like you think you look a-mazing. Take selfies and send to friends stuck at work. Take yourself to lunch and promise not to look at your phone the entire time you’re eating. Focus on your food. Go to the Hyatt and get a burger. I promise you, it will be the best 32 CHF you have ever spent. I go every year for my birthday and would be happy to join you there to celebrate your birthday as well. Hop on the 33 bus and ride it around all day. When the old ladies stare at you, stare back. Or maybe wink at them. They love that. Public transportation in Zurich rocks and it’s a great way to get to know your city! You’re welcome!
 
So darlings, I challenge you to make the most of this year’s big day and make it into a week or even a month. It can be done! Please write and tell me of your successes and do be sure to invite me to your birthday party. I’m told I’m a gracious guest and terrific gift-giver. 
 
As ever, 
 
 
xxx
The Baroness
 
 

  I’ve missed you these last weeks and do hope the feeling is mutual. I didn’t tell you I’d be gone ahead of time, as I am a firm believer in the old ‘ask forgiveness not permission’ trope. So. Please forgive me.
But I’m here now. And from America!
Ahhh, America. The land of gluttony, consumerism and giant vehicles. And, being the loyal patriot that I am, I admit to participating and indulging in at least two of the three.
Whenever the Baroness goes to America, she looks forward to certain things she cannot find to eat in Zurich. She also fears the 2 kilos she will undoubtedly gain, because of said things there that she cannot find in Zurich. Or at least not easily. (bagels, Peanut Buster Parfaits from Dairy Queen, Dunkin’ Donuts Iced Coffee, greasy spoon/diner french toast, Reece’s Peanut Butter Cups, New England clam chowder, Land O’ Lakes American cheese . . . I need to stop now, though the list could be longer. Much longer.)
Two words - AMERICAN BREAKFAST. I may miss this most. And while there are places in Zurich who try, I have yet to find a place that has English Muffins and American bacon, (or even Canadian bacon) which are what I like to incorporate into the BEST BREAKFAST SANDWICH EVER. Zurich does have eggs. Damn fine ones. But Zurich also doesn’t have the processed cheese slices that top the eggs and go under the bacon. There is only real cheese in Zurich. And in principal, I’m all aboard that train, but sometimes a Baroness just wants to slum it a little, ya dig?
And why wouldn’t you go out to eat four times a day when it costs about FORTY DOLLARS to feed FOUR PEOPLE for many meals. I often have to restrain myself from buying rounds for the entire bar, as I feel so wealthy (and superior) as a Zurichite - is that the word? No, I’m sure that’s not right. Zurichian? Wait! I remember . . Zuricher! Yes. 
I went out with three of my closest girlfriends a few nights ago in Providence and our bar bill, after drinking from 9pm - 3am (interspersed with some light karaoke and skillful dancing, of course) was . . . 100 bucks. 100 UNITED STATES DOLLARS! 
The other thing that always must happen is the shopping. I am already anticipating my purchase of a new suitcase in which to transport all the AMAZING DEALS I procured while here. Can you say, Marshall’s? Bergdorf’s? Nordstrom? Lululemon? The Gap? Banana Republic? Not to mention all the boutiques where I can get gorgeous things for a fraction of the cost of ZH?  OF COURSE I NEED ANOTHER SUITCASE!
It has just now occurred to me that America brings out the more aggressive, more primal self in me. I mean look at all these CAPS! Where did that come from?!
Perhaps it’s good I’m leaving today. 
After all, there are things I miss about Zurich, even only having been gone for 2 weeks.
1. The bread. Switzerland has THE best bread I’ve ever had. If it were not for all the walking to and from 
2. Public transportation, I would be a fluffier Baroness without a doubt. As much as I adore driving and miss having a car, it’s pretty amazing to be able to get anywhere pretty much anytime by bus, tram or train. (But don’t get me started about the fact that this world-class city stops its public transportation services at 12:30 am EVEN ON A SATURDAY NIGHT! This is not right. Especially in light of how damned expensive taxis are here.)
3. The melodic sound of Swiss German. I’m kidding. I am not missing this one bit. Did you know that most people in America speak perfect English? So refreshing. 
4. The sound of my neighbors sweeping their walkway, outside my bedroom window EVERY MORNING AT 7AM. 
5. Bratwurst at the Sternen Grill, cocktails at the Kronenhalle Bar, burgers at the Hyatt, risotto at Cinque and Guinness at Safari Bar.
Again, I could go on, but I have to hit Marshall’s one more time. I need shoes. I always need shoes. 
While I cannot promise I will not leave you again from time to time, I do promise not to tell you ahead of time. That way you can miss me and be so happy and surprised when I’m back. It’s an old American trick and I find it works wonders on any kind of relationship.
I look forward to your letters and responses and seeing you about town. I also look forward to spending my entire ronorp paycheck on a coffee as soon as I get back.
Oh Zurich, how I’ve missed you.
As ever,
xxx
The Baroness

It’s been nearly a year since I jumped feet first into the shark, dolphin, and sometimes cute little baby seal-infested waters of Tinder.
 
“Baroness! Why is a nice girl like you resorting to an online hook-up, booty-call, cheating-on-your-spouse app?!!” I know, I know! (Hangs head.) But really . . . it’s so much more than that! Stay with me. 
 
For the two of you in Zurich who don’t know how Tinder works, look it up. I’m too exhausted from all my dates to explain it to you. But know this. It’s easy, it’s fun and it’s addictive. 
 
I see it as a bit of a game, which is not really how one should see an interaction or relationship with other real people, but it’s the truth. I ‘play’ it on the bus, at the cinema waiting for the film to start, in line at Migros - I’ve even done it while sitting next to my mom! Gasp!
 
As someone who has never tried internet dating and hasn’t even ever gone on a blind date, signing up for Tinder was not an easy decision for me. I’ve always had an aversion to online dating, and as a child of the 80s’ (now you know), I still have a dream that I can meet people the ‘old fashioned way’. But times have changed and the stigma that once accompanied personal ads and matchmaking services has been replaced by thousands of people who have met, fallen in love, and have even gotten married as a result of meeting online. Not that I’m looking for any of those things. Love and marriage. I shudder at the thought. Give me a whip-smart, wickedly-funny, non-classically handsome, confident, wise-assed afternoon-drinking buddy and I’m all set. Seriously. 
 
And though Tinder is technically an online dating app, it’s really not. Out of a 1000 users, 96% percent said they had never used another online dating service. So I’m not alone!
 
I’ve had days and weeks of intelligent, intriguing and thought-provoking (and sometimes, yes, more sexy than intelligent, which is delicious fun too) conversations. Dates I would label great.  Even wonderful. 
 
I’d love to tell you all the sordid details of my experiences on Tinder, and I will. Soon. Promise. In a future installment. Date by date. Match by match. Awkward conversation by awkward conversation. 
 
Baroness: Is English okay? I’m afraid my German is less than stellar. 
Tinder hottie: (Silence. Unmatch.)
Baroness: (inner monologue) Next! Onward and upward!
 
You’ll just have to be patient, darlings. (Mama always said to leave ‘em wanting more)
 
 
Before you get all excited and expect to hear the stories of my one-night stands, quickies in parking garages and threesomes, let’s look at the numbers:
 
first dates: 8
second dates: 4
long term (over 6 weeks) dating: 1
old boyfriends discovered: 4
husbands of acquaintances discovered: 3* 
married men who said so from the get go: 1
married men who ‘forgot’ share this pertinent information: 2
stalkers: 1
one night stands: none of your damn business
* (but not exposed - what kind of person do you think I am?)
 
 
I was curious about what the other women looked like on Tinder so asked an old boyfriend if he would show me. This is what I saw: Women in yoga clothes. Women in yoga clothes doing yoga poses. Lots of cats. Bikinis. Tattoos. Pouty faces. Dressed up sexy with a group of other women.
 
All of the women in Zurich on Tinder (other than the Baroness) have cats and do yoga, so what are the men like, you ask? 
 
Well, I’ll tell you. Many men in Switzerland do (extreme) sports and want to show you that they do. They also pose with pets. And children. And cars. Lots of selfies in bathroom mirrors.  And other women. (Perhaps this is to show they are married or were or that they are friends with the ex, but without any explanation I find it weird and always swipe left.)
 
There is a place for a bio or comments under your photos. Many men are excited to ‘carpe diem’. Or tell you that ‘you only live once’. Or that you can ‘sleep when you’re dead’. Those are a turn off and even if I fancy how you look, I will not swipe you right if you write stupid, pedestrian shit. So stop. 
 
I prefer when you write nothing. Maybe your height. Apparently that’s a thing . Too many women being disappointed when a short guy shows up I guess. But that’s silly. And shallow. But expectation management is a real thing, I suppose.
 
Just like in real life, some conversations flow easily, some are like pulling teeth. Some people are forward or inappropriate or have no manners and some are just plain boring. And a good deal of people you match with don’t even write. It’s an ego thing. How many people can I get to like me? The human connection is secondary.
 
One guy’s opening line was, “Have you ever fucked an Australian?” I was horrified but admittedly, a little intrigued. Who does this? So I chatted with him. After he wrote some really raunchy things, I ignored him. He wrote a few days later apologizing and saying he’d been drunk and then proceeded to ask if he could come live with me and be my sex slave. Finally! I found someone who was interested in some sexy time! I wrote back and told him if he wore a tux while doing my laundry and vacuuming my filthy floors, he had a deal.
 
As ever,
xxx
The Baroness
 

Greetings, Darlings!
 
It’s a new month, so it’s time for a new rant. I know you’ve been dying to hear what I have to say. Waiting with bated breath, as it were . . . Well, the wait is over and away we go. This month’s topic: high-maintenance / jealous /conditional friends.
 
I don’t have to explain. You know you have them and you know who they are. I will tell you right now, this nonsense has got to stop. A real friend will be thrilled for you when things go well and proud of all your accomplishments. They will embarrass you by telling other people about how proud they are of you. When times are tougher, they will remind you how hard it is to be a working parent / a single parent / have chosen not to have kids / be trying to have kids and not succeeding / to be living in a foreign country and not speaking the language / to be speaking it but not well / to be fluent but still not a native / to be freelance / to work full time / to work 40% / to keep the refrigerator full / to keep the laundry done / to keep the bills paid / to go to the gym / to be in a relationship / to be alone /to meet people on Tinder / to get out of bed / to take a shower. You get the point.
 
They will empathize. They will not judge.
 
They will cry with you when things crash and burn. They will bring you a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Chubby Hubby (with two spoons), tell you stupid jokes (what did the zero say to the eight? Nice belt!), and make fun of people to make you snort (not so nice, but often funny and distracting). They will talk if you want to talk and stay silent beside you if that’s what you need. They will not secretly gloat at your misfortune. They will not be passive-aggressive. They will not be envious. They will love you as is. And only want the best for you. Simple as that.
 
This is not to say that you will not fight. That you will not have your moments of disagreement and on some days, their pronunciation of Vielen Dank will get under your skin or their forgetfulness will make you reassess how smart they really are, or the fact that they can’t keep a secret has made you cringe. You will get over this. Because that’s what friends do. 
 
But there is a line and when it is crossed, you must start to think about your own well-being and just what this friendship means. Is it a give and take?  Is it all one-sided?  Do they call and just gloat / complain / rant and rarely ask about you? Do they give unsolicited opinions? Do you feel your energy drain when you see or talk to them? When you see their name on your phone, do you dread picking up? Do you hesitate asking them for favors because you know they will say yes but there will be drama and you’ll pay for it in other ways? Do they scream at their children?  Will they hold your hair back when you’ve had too much Champagne and need to be sick? Do they remember your birthday (without the help of Facebook)?  
 
Cut those ties, people. Walk away from the drama. Learn to say no.
 
The ones who force a fake smile when you tell them you got a writing assignment to go to a health spa and say, “You’re so lucky! Everything good happens to you”,  drop them like it’s hot. I’m serious. 
 
I’m just back from said writing assignment, which was amazing, and dare I say, life changing. I thought I was going to a spa of sorts (it was a detox/health clinic) and hopeful I’d get lots of writing done. What happened was so much more. I learned an immense amount, rested, started healing my body and now feel better than I have in years. Amazing. 
 
All this is to say that when I returned, my true friends saw that I was glowing and how much better I was feeling. They were happy for me. Regardless of the fact that they are going through a divorce / haven’t had a day off in years / could never afford to go to this place / need it more than me maybe, they were genuinely happy because I was. That’s a friend. 
 
Okay. Diatribe concluded. But I know you. You need to be reminded. You’re welcome.
 
(Do men deal with this?  I can imagine they must on some level, but I’ve never heard any of them complaining about it. Please write and tell me your thoughts on this. Really. The Baroness wants to know. I like to learn.)
 
And next week . .  back to your letters! And we have some good ones coming up! Stay tuned.
 
As ever, 
 
xxx
The Baroness
 
 
 

Dear Baroness,
 
Help. The love of my life is flirting with one of those full-bearded hipster guys every day at her job. I can’t compete with that amount of coolness. I can’t even grow facial hair. I look like Frodo and this guy looks like Wolverine. What can I do to get her attention back?
 
Signed, 
 
Desperate Hobbit
 
 
Dearest Hobbit, 
 
So many things to address here, but I’ll focus on the heart of the matter: Flirting with the co-worker. How do you know she’s doing this?  Has she told you?  Because if she’s told you, darling, then that’s a great sign! She trusts in you and your relationship and wants to be open and honest. A little flirting never hurt anyone. It’s when it goes beyond flirting and/or if she doesn’t tell you, that you could be concerned, but I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that. Have you never heard of “The grass is always greener”? I have a dear friend who tells the world’s most tasteless jokes, dates the most tasteless women and uses the most coarse language (but I adore in spite of it all), who likes to say, “Show me the hottest blonde the world and I’ll show you a guy whose tired of *bedding her”. (*Yes, he uses another term for bedding, a word I am actually quite fond of in general, but it’s a bit early in the day for vulgarity, agreed?) And I’m not insinuating that she’s tired of bedding you, perhaps that was a terrible example, forgive me, but what I mean to say is that you might need to spice things up a bit at home. One gets comfortable after a while and while comfort is a lovely thought, without some excitement now and again, it can become staid and dare I say, boring. The point is, it will always be something. And a beard (or blonde hair or oodles of money or a ‘perfect body’ - hint: there is no such thing) does not a person make. Do we fall in love with people who are not our ‘ideal’? Yes. All the time. Most of the time. Put that in your hat and smoke it, as they say. 
 
 
Her flirting may not have anything to do with the gentleman in question being bearded or not. Truly. And besides, haven’t you heard? They’re on the way out. So there’s that in your corner.
 
Perhaps she just likes to flirt. Or perhaps, as I said, things are a bit dull at home. Perhaps she is telling you about the flirting because she wants you to wake up and feel a little jealous and pay more attention to her. See it as positive or at a least an opportunity. No need to bring home diamonds, though feel free if you must, but, perhaps a note on the counter before she goes to work reminding her of a hot date you’ve set up that evening. Or joining her in the shower. Or a frisky slap on the bum. These are all simple things one can do to bring one’s partner back into the nest. 
 
There could be larger problems, it’s true. And obviously, I know nothing more of your relationship than you’ve shared. But if it’s merely about flirting and beards, I think you have nothing to worry about. 
 
Oh, and as far as your lack of hair . . . though that is not my ‘type’, many women I know prefer a boyish chap and love the lack of stubble. They’re thinking of their skin and all they’ve done to make it dewy and supple and luxe, and when a bearded, or, even worse, 5 O'clock shadow guy comes to call and wants to make out in the car after dinner, her skin will end up red and maybe even raw. And no woman wants that. We’ll deal with it, of course. Because the kissing is always worth it, but it’s one less thing to worry about.
 
Perhaps you need to remind your woman how delicious it is to feel your baby soft skin on her . . . that should redirect her attention. 
 
Good luck, darling, and please stop referring to yourself as a Hobbit. I shudder at the thought. They are lovely people, surely. But I’ve never wanted to shag one.
 
As ever, and until next week . . . xxx
The Baroness