Why do most Europeans seem to hate the Swiss? Whenever we’d mention that we were traveling to Switzerland, people in every European country would have something nasty to say about them. I like Switzerland. The people seemed nice and we always enjoyed our trips there. The only problem that we had with Switzerland was that it was incredibly expensive. While our per diem could buy us decent meals in most of Europe, the money just didn’t go as far in Switzerland. Days in Switzerland meant eating in bad fast food joints and sightseeing on foot. Walking the streets and looking around is free and it’s fun.
On our last day in Geneva, my husband came running into our room. “Give me all of your money!” “Why?” I asked. “I saw a cuckoo clock that I want to buy.” Jacques had always loved cuckoo clocks and on our many promenades around the city, we had stopped at practically every store window so he could admire the many clock displays. Giving Jacques all the money I had meant that we weren’t going to eat for two days when our per diem was issued again. He was so excited that it seemed worth the sacrifice. I gave him all my money and he rushed out. The bus call was in half an hour and Jacques assured me that he would be back in time. All I had to do was get his suitcase to the bus. Jacques made it back to the bus with seconds to spare. He bounced down the aisle and threw himself into the seat next to me. With a big grin, he carefully opened the package he was carrying. It was the ugliest cuckoo clock that I have ever seen in my life. Small, cheap wood, badly painted with a plastic deer sitting near the face and a plastic woman on a swing below. This little monstrosity cost us two days of eating and Jacques was in seventh heaven. When we got home, one of Jacques’ first priorities was to hang his clock. He walked around the apartment, holding the clock up to the walls. “Where do you think I should put it?” he asked. I thought about it for a minute and finally said, “Anywhere as long as it is this high,” laying my flattened hand on top of my head. Jacques looked at me in confusion. “Listen Hon, that is without a doubt the ugliest clock I have ever seen in my life. As long as you hang it above my eye level, I’m fine.” The clock went up – above my eye level and everything was fine. When Jacques died, the only possession of his that I had to keep was that cuckoo clock. It hangs in my house – still above my eye level but in a place where I can always see it if I need to.