The world certainly looks rosier after a a few glasses of wine. Or should I say Rosé-er? A fermented take on the world makes things almost manageable, which is saying something when you’re an ex-pat-in-limbo, between two worlds and not really belonging to either. Neither a borrower nor a lender be? I’m operating more on the level of ‘neither a soft cheese nor a hard cheese eater be’, ‘neither restless nor settled be.’ Neither European nor American be. That one’s the kicker.
If I’m forced to compare Geneva, Switzerland, ranked 3rd in the Quality of Living global survey, and New York City, ranked a distant 49th, I can provide you with a quick and cheerful answer: “Geneva is gorgeous.” And it is. That’s no lie. But if you were to ask me the deceptively simple question “Where are you happiest,” my arsenal of avoidance techniques could make your head spin. Because the answer is not simple. New York has my friends, my career, my language. It’s the city I came to on my own as a 22 year old hopeful actress, and the place I’ve been told that after you live there for 10 years you cannot live anywhere else. But Geneva’s no slouch: It claims my husband, who is my future and the man I am convinced was drunk when he asked me to marry him - I can’t explain my blind luck any other way. It is also maximum 3 hours away from every country in Western Europe, claims French as it’s local language, which despite all my grumblings is a stunning language, and offers me the opportunity to be the foodie, the wine snob, the “better”, “more relaxed person” I always wanted to be. In other words, more European.
The only problem is, I may not actually be that person. This is a new revelation to me, if not to my close friends and family. Every person who has known me since I first arranged my M&M’s by color and ate them in spectrum order knows I am not, per se, relaxed, but Geneva has put it in neon lights, given it a soundtrack and flanked it with skinny, stripes-wearing femmes all singing a chorus of “Ah, Paris!” I suddenly feel like I’m back in 7th grade, pimply and still wearing puffy paint sweatshirts in a sea of adolescents with prescient fashion sense and faces as smooth as a baby’s butt. Europeans are chic, have a certain “joie de vivre” and somehow consume massive amounts of bread, chocolate and cheese without gaining an ounce. Give that diet to an American and - ‘poof’ - Santa and Mrs. Claus. Would the Jolly Old Elf look good in horizontal stripes? Non, merci!
July 2nd, 2010 will be my one-year-mark as an official resident of Geneva. Ten months ago I arrived with 28 boxes, a brand-spanking new husband and a rather naïve view of my capacity to handle change. Determination, however, was abundant. Geneva would like me. Who wouldn’t like me? I have always been praised for my industriousness, respected for my drive and embraced for my frank, emotional nature. And I had made a living as an actress in New York City for the past 10 years – an impressive feat on its own. The potential roadblocks didn’t matter. I could already hear it: “The role of Overnight European goes to – Carey Van Driest!” (deafening applause)
There is a very fine line between determination and denial. If this was an audition, it was rigged, and New York and I had already slept together.
Which is why after a mere three months in the city of watches and chocolate, my husband would come home from work and find me in one of two states: either sprawled on the couch, eyes glazed over in a catatonic stare; or the June Cleaver version of me, frenetically cleaning, smiling so hard it hurt and decidedly on the verge of a mental breakdown. Geneva and I were locked in brutal combat, and I was losing.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. I had done everything right – attended regular French classes, drafted detailed plans for how I would make the transition, and then made plans for those plans. I had been positive, hopeful, industrious and strong. But my weapons of choice had failed me. I had no key to unlock this strange city and my dream of returning to the US cultured and fashionable, with a new and improved metabolism was fast dissolving.
After Denial comes phase 2: Depression. My options for feeling useful growing increasingly slim, I developed a case of what my shrink calls, “The Shoulds.” I became the proverbial monkey on my own back. “What’s wrong with you?,” I would say, “You should enjoy life more. You should slow down. You should smile more, worry less, have more joie in your vivre. Look around. Learn.” So I looked. I wore high heels for no reason at all. I pouted and wished I smoked. I developed an unhealthy relationship with espresso and wine and all teeth-staining liquids. And yet, for every trait I coveted in the new faces I met, the exact opposite one surfaced in my own personality. Geneva was like the therapist you end up hating because they point out how messed up you really are.
“Hi. I’m Carey, and I’m a workaholic.”
Workaholics Anonymous wouldn’t fly in Geneva. Couldn’t even get off the ground. People come here for various jobs, and stay because the priority of “Office life” is somewhere down on the bottom of list right before learning Swiss German. People take 2 month long vacations in the summer, and I can count the number of places open for lunch on my ten fingers – the owners want to eat lunch too. It is not a place for people like me – busybodies who truly enjoy being swamped with projects. Relaxation should be a reward, not a requirement. How’s that for rationalization?
And yet, in my case, it happens to be true. I admit I am stunned even reading a sentence that has my name and ‘workaholic’ as interchangeable. I’m not even quite sure I believe it completely. But yet, there it is, and there it will stay until I go on a frenzied deleting binge.
The accepted definition of workaholic trends towards a person who works ceaselessly based on a feeling of compulsion, not necessarily of enjoyment. That is where I don’t fit the standard cookie cutter outline. I love what I do – I’m an artist – an actor – no one chooses this career because there was just nothing else to do, or because there is easy money to be made. You do it because you love it so much you can’t do anything else. And when you can’t do it, you mourn its absence.
So I’m moving to step 3: Defining. Re-defining, actually. And it’s me who needs the update. After trying on a new persona, I find myself back at square one, not quite Mrs. Claus but certainly steering clear of any nautical patterns, and wondering how to salvage my bruised ego. So it’s not in the cards for me to be the next Brigitte Bardot; I guess I’ll have to settle for my NY agent cooing “You look more European every time I see you!”
As it stands now, the adult in the house – my husband – has suggested I may not be doing anyone a favor by staying in Geneva, no matter how clean the house is. I am still fighting the idea, but am slowly warming to it. Even made plans. And plans for plans. I’ve learned a few things, too. I know now that the honorable trade of housewifery, while I am perfectly capable, is better left to a professional lest I develop an Austrian accent and tiny moustache. I’ve also learned that perhaps the secret to the unattainable “European attitude” has more to do with self-acceptance than anything else. Most importantly, I’ve learned than in the pursuit of a healthy balance between what “should be” and what “is,” a few of the aforementioned “rose-colored glasses” do the trick. Preferably Beaujolais with a side of brie.
