“Don’t fuss!”

That was the only request that I made of The Big Finns before flying to spend the weekend with them in Basel. My request was completely ignored.

There’s no point in providing a blow-by-blow description of everything we did that weekend. Why? Because TBF and Canadian-Swiss did such thorough recaps on their own blogs that there is nothing more that I can add. Factually, at least.

I can, however, state a few thoughts and observations about the weekend.

AND THE NOBEL HOSPITALITY PRIZE GOES TO…

This brings me back to the “Don’t fuss” comment. The Finns bent over backwards to keep me well-fed—both in terms of quantity and quality—and happy from the moment I arrived in their spacious, candle-lit, tastefully decorated apartment.

Gastronomically-speaking, the Finns each have their own core-competency.

Mrs. TBF is a drop-dead great cook. She swung from Swiss cooking (an addictive cheese fondue spiked with white wine and cherry schnapps) to peasant Italian (focaccia with browned onions, garbanzo soup, ricotta-stuffed shells and meatballs) to a breakfast of champions (omelets as big as my head, stuffed with several cheeses and spicy Hungarian sausage; wheat toast with butter and sprinkled with coarse salt).

Mr. TBF’s talents, on the other hand, lean toward the liquid side of the spectrum. His Martinis are a thing of beauty. But more impressive than that…he can smell a rogue enzyme in a bottle of wine—even in quantities of less than .000001 ppm. And God help that unlucky bottle. It goes straight to the kitchen sink.

I can hear the outcry from bartenders throughout Spain: “NOOOOOOOO!!! That wine will make a perfectly good Sangria!”

SPEAKING OF “NOOOOOOOO!!!”

Hi, Jo Mama.

THE SWISS DO GOOD SAUSAGES.

Some things require no further comment.

SWISS PRECISION PRECISELY CONFUSES ME.

It was 11:55am on Saturday and TBF was rushing through the apartment with a bag of empty bottles. He was speaking in tongues.

“Gotta recycle! Gotta recycle! Only five more minutes to recycle! Woo, woo, woo, woo…nyuk, nyuk, nyuk.”

When he returned—looking exhausted yet relieved—he explained.

“In Switzerland , you’re not allowed to recycle between noon and 2pm.”

“Eh?”

“Yeah, really. You’re also not allowed to vacuum. Many buildings forbid you from using the washer, dryer or dishwasher. You sure as hell can’t mow the lawn.”

“B-b-b-b-b-but, why?!”

“It’s quiet time in Switzerland . There must be silence so nobody’s lunch is disturbed. The Swiss like silence.”

“You’re f’ing kidding, right?!”

“No. And there’s more. You can’t do any of these things after midnight, or at all on Sunday.”

“WHAT?!!! You can’t mow the lawn, vacuum or do laundry at all on Sunday?”

At this point, TBF handed me a Valium, laid me on the sofa and put a cold compress on my forehead.

Surely, this must have been a hangover-induced hallucination. I mean…no country outside of, perhaps, North Korea could have such draconian (and, dare I say, knuckleheaded) laws.

My head was spinning. I simply couldn’t process what I was hearing. Cold sweat burst from my brow. My breathing became labored. And then, precisely at noon, the TBFs disappeared and all of Switzerland fell into an eerie silence.

I was scared. I sat-up from the sofa, enveloped in a crushing isolation. Even the birds seemed frozen like statues on the tree branches.

Searching for my hosts or any other sign of life, I staggered across the living room and peered around the corner. And there, from the corner of my eye, I spied a door at the end of TBF’s hallway. It was just barely cracked open, and seemed to be emitting an odd green light from within. An odd green light shrouded in swirling fog.

I tiptoed down the hallway. As I inched my way closer to the door, I could hear a droning hum from within. One reminiscent of a those fluorescent lamps in 1970’s era Junior High Schools—but this hum was different. It had an other-worldly tone.

I was at the door.

I know I shouldn’t have done it, but it couldn’t be helped. I gently laid my hand on the door and nudged it open.

Here’s what I saw:

ARE THERE OTHER SWISS RESTRICTIONS THAT I’M NOT AWARE OF?

When I returned home, I did a little investigating.

It seems that the Swiss birthrate is 9.66 per 1,000 persons.

If this seems a bit low, could be that Swiss law forbids…?

Oh, never mind. I don’t even want to know.

THE ABE VIGODA OF CATS.

King the cat is nineteen years old. That’s 187 in people years. It seems preposterous that any creature should live so long, yet—much like his human equivalent, Abe Vigoda—King refuses to die.

Now, I’ve never believed that cats are anti-social critters. I have, after all, lived with The Love Machine for over ten years. But I also understood that the personality of any given cat is like the spin of a roulette wheel. And being as old as dirt, I was fairly certain that King would be pleased to avoid this intruder to his domain until such time as I returned to my EasyJet seat on Sunday afternoon.

So when TBF and I entered the apartment on Friday night, I was in for a surprise. One of the first things that Mrs. TBF said to me was, “And here is King.”

He was sitting on the sofa. And he gave me a look that said one thing: “Fat Sal…make love to me.”

I placed my hand on this head and ran it over his boney shoulders. Oh my God! Cats CAN have osteoporosis!

Then I slipped my palm under his chin and caressed. Within seconds, my hand was soaking wet.

It seems that King only has four teeth. To you they’re “teeth”; to King they’re “drool blockers.”

We were inseparable for the rest of the weekend.

You may be wondering what is the secret to King’s amazing longevity? The answer may surprise you.

It’s jasemine tea.

THE WEEKEND’S ONLY DISAPPOINTMENT.

Nobody could tell me who was Thomas Platter and why he is famous.

I’m sorry, but that’s just plain wrong.

You’re driving your Mercedes SUV down a desolate country road in rural Spain. When suddenly…you see the man pictured above–who is a neighbor of yours–zooming down the street like a panther in pursuit of a jack rabbit. Do you:

(a) Honk your horn, pump your fist in the air and bellow a hearty, “Go for it, Fat Sal! Keep it up!!!”

(b) Drive across the median, roll down your car window and grab a heaping handful of cast-iron right buttock?

(c) Stop the car, ask if he needs a ride home, and then act surprised when he tells you, “Thanks, but that would pretty much defeat the whole purpose of my being here in these funny clothes and expensive shoes.”

The answer couldn’t possibly be (c), could it?

I mean…surely (c) could never happen in the real world.

Could it?

Wow! What more can I say about last weekend in Basel, Switzerland?

The Big Finn posted a brilliant summary HERE.

Canadian-Swiss posted an equally brilliant summary HERE.

I’ll do a write-up, as well–but probably not until next week.

See you then. I promise.

But before tugging the chain on the VTB’s neon sign, I want to address all those would-be expats who have sent me the same email time after time after time during these past eight years.

That email being, “Hi! I live in the US and I want to be an expat. I so, soooo want to be an expat. How can I do it?”

Well, my young and idealistic friends, here is the best advice I can give you. And trust me, this the voice of experience talking here.

ADVICE #1: FORGET ABOUT BEING AN EXPAT. JUST BE A TOURIST.
Countries like Spain allow you visit the country for up to three months without a visa. So…if you so desperately want to leave your native land and live somewhere else, then come to Spain for three months and then go back. Trust me…three months will satisfy 90% of your expat fantasies.

But if that’s not good enough, then stay the three months…go back home…do your laundry and water your plants…then come back for another three months. Trust me…a combined six months abroad will satisfy 99.9% of your expat fantasies.

But if you *still* insist that it’s not enough, then you take the next step at your own risk. And don’t say I didn’t warn you.

ADVICE #2: THAT NEXT STEP.
If you insist on living abroard for more than (for example) a summer or a college semester, then here’s the important thing to remember.

ALWAYS HAVE AN EXIT STRATEGY!

Know exactly when you will return home for good. And stick to it.

Do *not* move abroad with an open-ended return date–or, worse yet, with the idealistic notion that your move will be permanent.

Have an exit strategy! Know exactly when you will return. And stick to it.

Then–and this is the hard part, but the important part–don’t do anything that would complicate or jeopardize that return.

Don’t ship all your earthly possessions to your new country. Don’t buy a house. Don’t tie-up your savings in local investments that will be difficult to transfer back to your native country. Don’t do any of those “grown-up” things that you would, as a matter of course, do if you lived in your native land. Just think of yourself as a wandering nomad–travelling light. As light as possible.

Why? Because every expat is like a carton of milk. There will be an expiration date stamped on your forehead. And when that date passes, you WILL start to curdle.

I know a lot of expats. I’ve seen it happen a million times. There is this syndrome amongst expats called “The Seven Year Itch.” Few are immune.

You’ll spend the first couple years in your new country being fascinated, charmed, mesmerized by the new culture.

You’ll spend the next few years trying to make that culture your own.

By about year four, all those little cultural quirks that you once found so charming will begin to grate your nerves like an emery board.

By year five, you’ll find yourself watching Fox News on satellite television each night and fantasizing about strolling down the “Lawn & Garden” aisle of Walmart. Any Walmart.

By year seven, you’ll suddenly find yourself standing naked on the roof of your house–cloaked in a dusty coyote pelt–howling at the moon.

Trust me. I’ve seen it a million times.

Now, I’m sure that there are a couple of keyboard warriors out there who are reading this and positively frothing at the mouth. I can just see them–sharpening their talons and ready to pound-out a venomous message telling me how arrogant and wrong I am…and how THEY have been an expat for 897 years and it was the best decision of their lives, and yadda, yadda, yadda.

To those people I say, “Congratulations.” You’ve achieved something that few people I know have managed. I am deeply, sincerely happy for you. So save your email. This VTB is neither a forum for debate nor a democracy. It’s a dictatorship, and I’m Ming the Merciless. Your email will never see the light of day in the VTB Chat Lounge, so save your energy.

And that, my friends, is the best advice I can give on the expat issue.

And that, my friends, is also the end of my Spanish adventure.

This blog will continue (and it will continue to be funny), so keep checking in. But its focus is going to shift to other areas.

Spain was a great muse for a long time. But you know what what happens when a man gets the seven year itch.

He goes out and finds a new muse.

What can I say? Some men collect stamps.

Hey! Since we’re on the topic, I have an important announcement to make. My official BBQ name shall heretofore be…”Fat Sal.”

And if/when I should form a competition BBQ team, the team name shall be…”A Smoke & A Twelve-Pack.”

As you might suspect, there’s a story behind that team name. But as for today, at least…I ain’t talkin’.

So…you’re probably wondering if there’s a good reason why I haven’t blogged lately.

Yep, there is.

Now that we’ve resolved that…let’s dip a pewter flagon into my stream of consciousness and take a little drink, shall we?

FIRST THINGS FIRST:

Happy Halloween. It’s my favorite holiday.

CHICKEN KIEV:

I can’t say I was looking forward to my recent business trip to Kiev, Ukraine. I envisioned it as being a drab, dour place–much like East Berlin when I visited it in 1988. Or K-Mart when I visited it in 2005.

Beyond that, I really didn’t know what to expect–except that the trip would end with my lifeless body being stuffed into a industrial drum and tossed into the Black Sea by a neckless, hairy ogre purporting to be my taxi driver.

Well, I was a bit hasty in my pessimism. Kiev is actually a very nice town–even if my taxi driver (who, in fact, had a neck) did point down-river as we passed over a bridge and said, “Cherynobl.”

Kiev’s buildings were clean and brightly painted. Golden minarets shimmered. Highways were lined with old growth white birch trees. And the women?

O! M! G!

Guys, come closer and listen carefully. If your life’s “To Do” list has an entry that says, “Find a tall, thin, ridiculously beautiful eastern European-ish babe,” then go buy yourself a ticket on the first available flight to Kiev.

She’s there. In fact, she’s everywhere.

AND FINALLY…PUTTING THE “EX-” IN “EXPAT”:

Yeah, it’s true. More on that later…