Life is Reckless...

This is one of those nights that has the potential to change the direction of your life. That is a general statement, of course. Life is always heading in one trajectory…always. But once in awhile you meet someone – or in this case – three extraordinary new friends – who knock some sense into you while providing a cushion onto which you can fall with grace and dignity. And thereby permanently changing the course of your personal history.

Three new friends? How is it possible to make three new friends all at once? Especially three new friends worthy of writing about…since I write on this blog so rarely. And I ask myself the same thing. I have asked it of myself frequently over the past two years, and now that I’m back on US soil post-‘Swissification’, I question my American ways more than I ever thought I would. How can one make friends so quickly?  Why?  What is it that allows the same kinds of bonds to form within days here, which form over years in the lives of most Europeans?

And since, within a scant two months time, my New York bonds continue to form with the same absence of long-term investment – an impressive feat after 2.5 years of weaning myself off of my addiction to the American ‘friendship fix’ – I guess the question I have to ask myself is “when offered this gift of connection, why is it so hard for me to trust?” What has become of me that I hear professions of honest friendship with half an ear already out the door, searching for reasons why these heartfelt words are induced by anything other than a genuine desire to get to know someone? Without reason, without expectation, just based on a feeling and a gut instinct that me + them = long-term friendship?

Perhaps the answer lies in one of the things that stuck hard to my psyche after the past two and a half years of living abroad: the cliché of a belief that we as Americans are flip with our friendships. It is said that we form them fast, they are based on surface impressions, and they come and go ‘à la mode’ according to the fashion: in one day and out the next. I believe it is this adopted assumption which has made me doubtful that a hot and heavy friendship is anything but an asexual “hit and run,” leaving a gaping hole where the promise of a relationship was, and a drawer full of empty promises rather than unused condoms.

 As I sit here after a night spent with new friends, fresh from a show I’m currently performing in, I ask myself whether this belief is true, and whether or not it ultimately matters… because when it comes down to it, friends are friends, right? However you make them; whoever they are, whatever place they fill - they are friends. And their appearance at a strategic time can make or break you. This is what has always made sense to me…it’s my constant. If you need specific people, they appear in your life. Whatever place you’re in, the universe fulfills that need. You have a yearning for destructive psychopaths? Bingo – you got it. You’ve got a void that needs to be filled with insecure ado-children searching for a parent-figure? Check. But when you are open to sincere advice – the folks that are sent your way are hard to hear, hard to embrace; because what they have to say ain’t easy to absorb. But that’s why you opened yourself up to them in the first place, right? That’s why this crazy cosmos heard your wish and put these annoyingly spot-on people in your path. Which brings me back to this evening. This wonderful wine-soaked evening that inspired me to write after months of withered inspiration. I need these people. And for whatever reason, they need me. And that is enough – for this moment, for this evening, for this void, for this lifetime. Life can be ‘Reckless’ with us human beings. And sometimes that’s a very good thing…

Nights Like This

Nights like this are the worst.

It’s been snowing in Geneva since 3PM – it’s 8:30PM now. And it’s sticking this time. I’ve been wanting it to stick for days, since that means the possibility of a snowball fight, or romantic eyelash kisses by dozens of snowflakes. But instead I’m looking at it through a window, trapped inside my own head.

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It’s been three years since I’ve performed in a show that someone hired me to do. I’m embarrassed to write that, but it’s true. There are thousands of stories of actors going through dry spells and then bouncing back again. And perhaps I’ll be able to add my story to that lot in a few years. But there are an equal number of stories about the actor who can’t take the rejection, feels unwanted and untalented, and loses all confidence in himself as an artist. It seems I am leaning toward the second category. And I’m beginning to fear that it will be easier for me to stay there than to rally against my own inner critic. Perhaps I’ve always known these were my true colors: The coward who would rather whine about circumstances contriving to keep him from reaching his true potential. The woman drawn towards men that allowed me to focus all my energy on them and distract me from my own needs. Or the New Yorker who stayed busy all the time with minutiae so I wouldn’t have to actually devote myself heart and soul to my passion. After all, the loftier the goal, the closer it is to the soul, the more it means when you fail – so why not just purposely avoid success altogether?

But let’s leave that thought for awhile…

The things I miss right now number greater than good sense lets me count, but what leaves one of the biggest holes is the ability to plug into New York when your battery is low or your motivation flags. It’s a contagious city for that reason. If you are open to it, it will feed you when you’re empty, and reflect back the smallest output of energy ten-fold. I’ve lived by that creed for years – what you give out comes back to you in spades.

But it doesn’t work in the same way here. My brand of energy isn’t what they’re buying. Or sending back either. And as much as I try to convince myself I can adjust to a different source of power, it’s a bit like telling a plant it should be able to live on fossil fuels, rather than solar. The plant’s just gonna wither and get sad-looking.

So I’m sad-looking, which is great for Droopy the Dog but not for me. It’s a strange thing we actors thrive on – positive reinforcement – two words that for the rest of the world are usually reserved for the therapist’s couch. And yet for a working actor, positive reinforcement is abundant. A nightly audience is exactly that – immediate feedback for the hungry actor. The lucky few who go from job to job can survive for years, decades with no second guessing, no dips into the dark part of the soul usually reserved for character study, not for daily living. But take that away, and you start to see the same symptoms a drug addict exhibits when going through withdrawal. Because it’s basically the same thing. The sweating, shaking, swearing addict, the wilting plant, the depressed actor.

The way out is a catch-22 as well, which makes things even more interesting. Confidence is an aphrodisiac. Even when it’s faked. But faking it also requires the conviction that deep down you’re the cat’s meow when in reality you feel more like a horse’s ass. And all animal metaphors aside, sometimes even that secret stash of belief in yourself is tapped out, with no place in sight to recharge.

Which is when I come to my computer, and start to write. During these times when things seem so bleak, it is the one way I can work these thoughts into some semblance of logic and transfer them out of my brain and onto a keyboard.

And then go outside for a walk and catch snowflakes on my tongue.

Two roads diverged...

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.

Placement test

Tests. Who really likes them? Seriously, besides the teachers who get a momentary respite from a classroom of rowdy teenagers, who? Tests represent the possibility that the boy sitting next to you who smokes copious amounts of pot and has never opened a textbook will get a better score than you after a week of intensive study and record levels of diet coke intake. And with that possibility comes the flicker of doubt that you are indeed in possession of superior brainpower than the early hominid.

Despite my obvious dislike of the practice, I’ve always done well at tests, probably as a result of my high level of anxiety surrounding them. I remember getting up at four in the morning on a test day in high school because I had fallen asleep on the floor surrounded by books desperate for a few more precious minutes to make sure the economic reasons for the U.S. Civil War were firmly etched on my brain. I’m quite capable of making myself sick over an exam. SAT’s, GRE’s, anything with three letters and I’m guaranteed at least one week of nightmares where all my teeth fall out, or I get to school and realize – oops – I forgot to put clothes on that morning.

Which is why I expected to be nervous when I walked into the room to take a French placement test at a language center in Geneva. Even with 7 months of 3-day a week classes in New York City leading up to our move abroad the old familiar feeling was still there. These kind of nerves create two opposite reactions in me: I’m either inclined to make desperate jokes followed by a laugh that could be classified as “deranged turkey gobbling”, or I get extremely silent, and my speech becomes reminiscent of the way dogs must think. “Yes, uhhhh, no. yes. no. huh? Bone? Yes! wag. wag wag wag wag. Huh? uhhhh, yes yes yes yes, no… huh?”

The second one got the better of me that morning. The administrator giving the exam came around to each student, correcting their written exam and doing the oral evaluation at the same time. With each red mark my self-esteem shrank, until it disappeared into my left sock where it permanently installed itself after I posted my shameful status on Facebook. I couldn’t form a complete sentence, much less answer a question like ‘why are you taking class right now?” Uh…because I’m in a French-speaking country? That would take sarcasm, which was buried in my right sock along with irony and humor. The examiner’s questions continued to burn a blazing “A” in my forehead – for the orifice on my body that was constricting the fastest. “How long have you been here? Have you taken French before? Are you working here? Why do you not speak better French?” To which I answered: One week. Yes, for 8 weeks (the 7 months never had a chance…). No, not yet. And whoa….! What did you just ask me? Why didn’t I speak better French?

I must have had a first-class idiot’s look on my face after her last question, because she shook her head, mumbled something about my lack of knowledge, and wrote the level of class I would be in on my top of my test – somewhere between 1^st and second grade French. As I sat there in shock, I looked around and tuned into the rest of the classroom. There, to my right, was a Russian man in mid-correction who seemed to be receiving an even larger dose of judgment that I had. And in front of me a mother and her 10 year old son were being grilled on why the boy didn’t know the subjunctive tense yet. This was astounding. Here was a room of ex-pats voluntarily subjecting themselves to certain humiliation, and were getting thanked for it with a healthy ego-flagellation and a dressing-down equal to that of an army recruit private first class.

I left the room in a daze, determined to tell everyone I knew about the disgraceful behavior I had just witnessed. My self-righteousness having taken over when rational thought, intelligent speech and humility had joined the rest of my positive traits in my socks, I huffed and puffed my way home, shooting daggers from my eyes at every French speaker I saw. The world was out to get me…carrying baguettes and drinking espresso.

A week later I checked my Facebook page, and saw that a friend had read my snarky comment and had made one of her own:

“Learn how to say ‘Bite me’ in French, German and Italian.”

Vous me cassez les pieds! Halt die Fresse! Smettila!

Best. Advice. Ever.

Vous êtes disponible?

Two months in a foreign country – check. Grasp of general location a map – check. Realization that this is not just a bad dream – check.

Geneva had been my new home for a sum total of 54 days, and things were starting to click. My French was improving, my confidence slowly emerging from its hiding place in my socks, and I was armed with enough vocabulary to feed myself, get un-lost, and apologize for being American. Which all seemed rather timely, given that this week I actually had a reason to venture out alone into this brave new world to test my fledgling chutzpah. I needed some technical support – stat. Apparently I was the only foreign email-owning expat in Switzerland who wants to use their iPhone for more than a calculator. After several unsuccessful attempts at receiving email, I had tried calling Swisscom and Mac’s own customer service line, or at least my husband had, the “French for the Telephone” course not having been created yet. And still…rien, nada, zilch. I was having serious New Yorker Smartphone addiction withdrawal. And today I was going to solve the problem, or check myself into rehab. I needed to go to the holiest of holies, the Genius Bar at the Mac store on Les Rues-Basses.

I walked into the Mac store and headed to the Genius Bar, which looked comfortingly familiar at first glance. The same color-coded employees, the rows of user-friendly Mac products, the lack of service lines that drives New Yorkers crazy, but works in a place like Switzerland, where no one minds because they don’t notice anyone else there to begin with, and therefore are completely content in the knowledge they will be helped next.

I was instantly greeted by a cheerful looking young woman in dark blue. Excellent - everything was falling into place – and so I spoke. “This is my first female iPhone. My email is strange. I need familiar you to help because it no work.” Brilliant. I was brilliant! The helpful genius lady must have been astounded by my grasp of her language, because she nodded at me for a few seconds with her mouth hanging open and then apparently decided I was on her genius level and could handle adding another word to my vocabulary. “Configurer?” She said, eyebrows raised, hopeful. Configurer…hmmm…difficult one…oh! Configure! Yes, I need help to configure! I felt a genius bond forming between us, and grinned like an idiot to express my gratitude.

She grinned back – proof of the bond – and pointed across the store while saying “chemises bleues claires.” Ah ha! Chemises = shirts, bleue = blue, claire = light…Light blue shirts! It was like a treasure hunt where all the clues were easy! I was to wait for a representative in a light blue shirt to help me “configurer,” and I couldn’t be happier. I thanked my fellow genius lady and stepped across the store, my confidence now riding high on top of my head, which had suddenly tripled in size.

I zeroed in on my target and set about waiting for a young man sporting a color no straight man would ever wear. The customer before me wanted to know how to purchase a gift card – yawn – and I was getting antsy in anticipation of using my new vocabulary word. A New Yorker’s definition of waiting is very specific, and involves standing just close enough to hear every word spoken, but never making direct contact. Staring just left of someone’s ear is allowed, as well as sighing and shifting your weight more often than necessary. I also find it helpful to make quick, annoyed eye contact every once in a while to make sure he knows you’re waiting. I have perfected this technique. Hey, you can take the girl out of New York…

But after 5 minutes of shifting, the young man said “Bonne journée” to the gift card guy and turned to me. I was ready: “Vous êtes disponible?” I had heard it before, and hadn’t bothered to check it with my husband so confident I was of my newly minted skills as a multi-lingual American. The intention was sound – are you available? – I was the picture of poise, an angel of polite conversation, so kind as to ask before assuming. Because we know what you and me do when we assume…

But the proverbial ass was not listening. El burro was not even in the room and had just set out for the border laughing his donkey behind off, because with my head the size of a watermelon I had neglected to check on the meaning of three words that had just made up my first French proposition. “Vous êtes disponible?” means “Are you free?” and not just for tea and crumpets. Apparently I was more fluent than I thought…and should look into buying stock for hotels that rent by the hour.

I guess I should mention that he didn’t accept. I do happen to have a ring on my left hand, although after reading this, my husband may decide he’s always wanted to live in Botswana. And I gather from my accent the young man in light blue quickly realized I wasn’t interested in some sort of extramarital affair. What he did do, however, after I stumbled awkwardly over sentences containing enough negatives to create a positive, and cursed out loud each time I put a subject-verb combination together wrong, was gently tell me how nice it was to hear an American speak French, even in the figurative sense. Our conversation quickly went from technical to more personal, and I realized here was someone actually appreciating my feeble attempt at communicating. He told me that since English is common in Geneva, most Anglophones walk in and ask their question in English, without attempting the translated version. As if on cue, a lovely woman walked up and announced she couldn’t get any help, and needed assistance picking out headphones. He pointed her in the right direction with a mention he’d be there shortly, turned back to me and with a raised eyebrow, said “Voilà.”

“Voilà.” Conjugated as far as I was concerned as, “You see?” And I did. I thanked the young man for his help and kind words and left, feeling much better about myself and wondering if I shouldn’t really buy stock in those hotel rooms. I am, after all, a genius.

It's the End of the World as we know it...

It’s the little things, really. The pillow brought from home, the meal you remember eating at the family table, the familiar smell of urine that steams up through the street grates on a New York summer’s day in August. These things make you feel at home, at peace with new surroundings, and offer a bit of courage when it seems like you’ll never quite make it in an unfamiliar city. And for an American arriving in Geneva, Switzerland in July, the Holy Grail of welcome mats was waiting for me – the 4th of July party and fireworks.

My memories of the 4th of July always took place at the family cabin on the border of Wisconsin and the upper peninsula of Michigan. Normally a child can conjure up memories of days filled with barbecuing and near-nakedness, frolicking in some kiddie pool or gently warmed body of water – the night sky star-filled and muggy, fireworks and damp foreheads from a day full of tag and Frisbee. Fourth of July’s for the Van Driest’s went somewhat differently. We often woke up to our breath freezing mid-air and the instant atrophy of muscles hitting the climate on the other side of our thermal sleeping bags. Showering was an event in itself – the cabin had 2 bathrooms, both of which could have been used for meat storage, and the brief respite of a warm shower was often interrupted by your cousin deciding now was a good time flush the toilet. Breakfast consisted of whatever berries we had been able to collect the day before, minus the large percentage I had mindlessly consumed while picking them.

After a chaotic morning, everyone under the age of 15 optimistically put on their swimsuits underneath four layers of fleece and ventured outside into the warm, 40 degree July summer air. The rest of the day was spent moving as much as possible, since not doing so meant certain death. We’d jump in the lake – crystal clear and just the perfect temperature to render all of our male cousins sterile – spend 10 minutes pretending we were having fun, and the next 30 screaming as our various body parts tried to thaw. It was heaven.

These wonderful memories were at the forefront of my brain as I arrived in Geneva – two days later would be the 4th, and my husband had told me heart-warming tales of the festivities in store for the day. I had bragged to everyone back home about the title the Swiss-French city held for having the largest 4th of July celebration outside of the U.S. It was ideal. What better welcome could I hope for than an idyllic American event intended to flip the bird at the idea of assimilation? And then blow things up to boot?

I was determined to show my spirit – my “American-ness,” my unwillingness to let melancholy get the better of me in a new city far away from family and friends. I would wear the Red, White and Blue, eat hotdogs and drink beer with the best of them. I had arrived.

Or at least we thought we had. The bus had taken us in the direction of “Bout du Monde,” which ironically means “The End of the World” - an indication we should have abandoned ship right then and there, but instead of a park teeming with displaced Rednecks, Yanks and Texans, it was empty save a few cars gathered for something on the level of a PTA meeting. No music, no sparklers, no loud drunk Americans proudly representing their country. Where was the patriotic pride? The kiddies running around with dangerous exploding objects, the people who operate carnival rides with no teeth, the barnyard animals? None of it was to be found, and in fact, besides a motley crew of Japanese tourists and a Portuguese family consisting of one woman, her child, and 14 men under the age of 40, we were the party.

Confused, we started looking for signs, information, some clue as to why this legendary party wasn’t where it was supposed to be. And here began my true welcome to Geneva. First lesson: public announcements and advertising simply do not exist. I’ve developed a theory that they are seen as temptations drawing us away from the comforts of privacy and anonymity Genevans are so fond of. This is also the reason so many stars and legendary unnamed individuals flee to Switzerland. What better place to disappear to than a land where chocolate is king, money is plentiful and the sense of privacy is so strong you can make some people very uncomfortable simply by asking them whether cheese gives them gas. What? You know it does…

With no signs, no information, and no ideas, we hung around long enough to realize there must be someone taking aerial photos to post online later in an article about “making the foreigners look stupid,” and caught the next bus away from the End of the World.  And thus my second lesson in Geneva lifestyle: After 7PM on Saturday and all day Sunday, foraging for food is an exercise in defeat. Unless you can subsist on Diet Coke and ice cream, Geneva firmly stands it’s ground that Sunday is a day reserved for God. Or the TV, depending on your religious commitment. It follows, therefore, that Saturday morning grocery shopping is a little like stocking up for a winter storm – toilet paper, batteries, milk, eggs, cheese, paté and maybe a bottle of 1947 Cheval Blanc – the bare necessities.

The End of the World had come at precisely 7PM on a Saturday night. And we had not a bottle of Cheval Blanc in sight, much less some ice cream. But this was the 4th of July, and there would be celebrating, gosh-darnit... and so, in true American style, we went frontier-man like, in search of some bright beacon of hospitality to fill our empty bellies and hopefully partake of a frosty beverage.  Which is how we found ourselves next door to the golden arches eating Switzerland’s answer to Burger King – SwissMeal. Sure, there was a Mickey Dee’s right next door, but still wearing my blue t-shirt, white skirt and red dangly earrings, I was keenly aware of being a walking cliché. Next door, however, munching on 30CHF worth of day-glo yellow fries, a #2 and a frosty shake, I was still an American celebrating my country’s birthday the best way I knew how.