Notes from a move

This is my second morning in the new apartment. I'm sitting at our kitchen table writing and I can hear  birds chirping madly in the trees out back. Unfortunately I can't roll up the shades and enjoy the sights because we don't have curtains yet, and I'm sitting around in my bathrobe. But it's still lovely to listen to!

Most pictures are from the keys handover, which happened on Friday afternoon. I'm glad that I took some pre-move, before I exploded bags and boxes all over the floors.

The kitchen. It's small, but I love that it's open on both ends. All pictures were taken with my phone, unfortunately - I have yet to find my camera in the boxes.

Brand new stove! (Ok, well, 2 years old or so). I'm not saying this is the ONLY reason we chose this apartment, but...

Here are my notes from the move and the new place:

- Family is invaluable. B's brother and parents came down from Basel to help us, and there is no way we could've done it without them. In one day, we managed to load/unload 2 van fulls of stuff, including an absurdly large, heavy clothes closet (also cheap - I admit, I was half hoping it would fall apart in the move and we'd be forced to purchase a new one). We also cleaned the entire old apartment top to bottom (saving us hundreds on hiring a move-out cleaning). Also, family makes things more fun. Not that I totally approve of tossing bags of clothes from a 2nd story balcony to try to catch in the street (ahem, B's brother), but having them help made the entire experience more enjoyable. (Note to self: Learn German faster. Become fluent, then learn Spanish. Work on that).

Living room (+ some of B's leg). This is only about half of it - it's really quite large and over looks our patio and the hill behind the apartment building.

- The walls/ceilings must be way thicker here than in the old place because even though we saw several people on Saturday while moving our stuff, I haven't heard a soul yesterday or this morning, even though our patio overlooks a playground (I thought surely someone would be there on a Sunday). It's kinda creepy, just me and the birds. If I think too hard, I can imagine that I've somehow missed the zombie apocalypse.

Master bedroom. So many windows (need so many curtains)!

- I was thrilled to discover that our patio has two (very small) flower beds! I already had plans to do some fruit/vegetable container gardening, but now I also get to dig in the dirt for decoration.

- B's first priority was to get the internet working, and he did so at around 6 am on Sunday morning. I ragged him about it pretty hard, but I'm just as addicted to it as he is, and I was happy to have it so quickly.

- I was proud of myself b/c I packed an overnight bag for us, so we had clothes and toiletries on Sunday morning when we woke up surrounded by boxes. I think got the idea off of Pinterest, and it was a good idea.

Spare room. I'm pushing for B's desk + gaming computers (yes, plural) to be in the living room so that I can make this into a craft room. Negotiations are ongoing.

- I also saw a tip on Pinterest about putting hanging clothes in trash bags, so they are easy to transport/rehang. This was a crap idea, frankly. I gave up on it after doing B's shirts. My dresses/skirts/tops are all different lengths and it was a mess. I ended up keeping them on hangers and just placing them in boxes.

One of the two half-bathrooms. Not that interesting, but I wanted to show it because we put the cabinet in and I bought some hand soap for it. PROGRESS. (also, in case you're wondering, the other bathroom has the bathtub/shower. And TWO SINKS - what luxury!).

- I thought "Well, we don't have that much stuff, so I don't really need to label the nine boxes I've packed." No no no - ALWAYS LABEL THE BOXES. I still haven't found my German class books, which I will need in approximately 3 hours.

- Moving across an ocean is tiring because everything had to fit in a box or suitcase (or get thrown out/donated). Moving across a city is tiring because packing/moving/partial unpacking all must occur in the same day. Given the choice, I'm not sure which I'd do again. Oh wait, yes I do - neither. I hate moving.

- My parents are in for a not-so-fun surprise when they visit. My sisters and I have had tendencies to live on rather high-floor apartments without elevators in the US, and my parents were always willing to help us move, even if it meant driving cross-country to do it. I was excited to tell them that this time, we have an elevator in the building (yay!). What I failed to tell them is that the apartment building itself is on a rather steep hill, and there are at least a flight or two worth of stairs before the main door. At least they won't be carrying furniture...

- It's going to be a long, slow process to fully settle in. B didn't have much furniture (understatement - monks have more items in their cells), so we have a lot of future purchases. Which of course means deciding what type of couch, bed, desk, etc, to buy. Which of course means deciding how we want to arrange everything. Which of course means we need to decide what furniture we actually want (sofa and a separate bed? love seat? sofa with a long part so you can lie down? sofa bed? trundle bed? People who are planning to visit, feel free to weigh in - your vote counts!).

- None of the big ticket items are actually our top priority, as I initially expected they would be. Instead, I'm desperate to get my hands on simpler things, like a shower curtain rod, curtains, and (for me) kitchen storage units. Unfortunately yesterday was Sunday, and the Zurich Hauptbahnhof (the only place that allows stores to be open on Sunday) does not have any stores that feel the need to carry shower curtain rods. Possibly because they assume that people who move into a new apartment aren't so stupid that they fail to notice such a critical item is missing. Well, I showed them!

Entryway looking through to the bathroom (if you look VERY carefully, you can see the absence of a shower curtain rod - I probably should've done that on Friday).

- Despite the lack of furniture and boxes in piles, I am so, so excited to be here! It truly feels like a place where B and I can make a home together. Even though it's currently so empty it echoes (and the bed is still the only comfortable place to sit), the apartment makes me feel more permanent in Zurich, and less like I'm crashing at my boyfriend's dorm room. And I like that :)

Instead of showing the mess, I've decided to show you the success. This is my pile of successfully-emptied-bags, and it grows daily. You gotta find what works for you, and I find that the growing pile gives me a sense of accomplishment that all the half-filled boxes and containers strewn around does not. Positive outlook ftw.

Thoughts after graduate school

B and I are safely moved into our new apartment! Yay, I'm so excited and...totally overwhelmed with unpacking and all the items that need to be purchased. But mainly yay!

This post is something I wrote last week. I promise I have more awkward neighbor and moving encounters in the future, but it's something I have been processing ever since arriving in Zurich, and I wanted to share it.

According to my parents, I first declared my intention to earn a science PhD when I was around 8 years old. I clung to this goal throughout college and 2 years after, when working as a research technician. When I finally started my biomedical PhD at an elite university, I was full of high hopes and secret ambitions (secret, but perhaps not unusual – at the beginning, we all daydream about the Nobel prize). Six and a half years later, I emerged with my degree. Along the way, I lost my hopes, ambitions, and – worst of all – my enthusiasm.

In science research, enthusiasm is a necessary trait for survival. When setting up new systems or experiments, you basically learn how to fail in every possible way. It’s hard to imagine another job in which a 90% failure rate is accepted – but in science research, it’s expected. If you can’t retain your enthusiasm, science research quickly becomes an exercise in frustration, in which you beat your head against the same wall over and over again because there are endless variables and tweaking any one of them may make the experiment work. Of course, frustration can set in from a number of other factors as well: never having a weekend off, working 60-80 hours a week, working through holidays, or advisors who utterly control students’ fates but have never been trained in how to guide, advise, or manage.

Through it all, however, students were always told we should persevere – why? Because we should have that much dedication – and it should never falter. I have friends who did not pursue PhDs, and I can’t recall any of them ever talking about bosses who called them into their office and talked to them about their apparent lack of desire or interest in their job. In most jobs, people are judged on their performances – being on time, being responsive, getting tasks accomplished, etc. You can dislike your job and still be good at it. For an experimental science PhD student, however, this is not the case. Perhaps because a 90% failure rate is expected, students are much more likely to be judged on how much we are thought to care. This is measured by such parameters as how much time we spend in the lab, how upset we are that experiments didn’t work, how dedicated we are to prioritizing a repeat of an experiment that has failed multiple times. Supposedly this all adds up to our interest in science.

So what impact does this have? Well, often it means that students who may have families – whether it is a male who occasionally wants to go home to spend time with his young children before they go to sleep or a single mother who must leave every day by 5:45 to pick up her child at day care – are perceived as less dedicated. Students who get married (or, god forbid, pregnant) are warned not to let such activities slow down their academic progress. Or maybe students simply want to have other, dedicated outside activities or hobbies (such as, say, volunteering at a place where they could learn valuable skills for careers outside academia). But such outside distractions are discouraged because they make the student a less attractive bet for an academic advisor. And that’s what PhD students are for academic advisors – we are gambles. Professors at large universities don’t actually perform their own experiments. Instead, they rely on PhD students and postdoctoral fellows to churn out results, which the professors can then use for writing grants (aka, getting money for future experiments) and publishing scientific papers, which are the lifeblood of academia and how scientific clout is measured. Professors and advisors have no reason to encourage their students to have any interests outside of their work in lab.

And, unlike many jobs (even the professors themselves), students can’t take our work anywhere with us. I worked with an infectious agent that had to be dealt with under biohazard safety conditions, and even our recordkeeping books couldn’t leave the lab. Some types of science produce large data sets that take hours or even days of analysis to sift through, allowing productivity away from lab or even part-time work. My work didn’t – nor did the work of most fellow students I knew. The only way to do ‘important’ (i.e., experimental) work was to be in lab. Thus, students who desired to do other activities with their time (whether extracurricular or family-oriented) were directly poaching from time that they could have spent on being worthwhile PhD students.

After obtaining my degree, I was in an extremely fortunate position in that I didn’t need to immediately find another position. I took time off, confident that what my advisor, many other professors, and even peers had told me was true – that I was just burned out and needed a break. I perused post-doctoral positions online and waited for my enthusiasm to return. I thought maybe three weeks of idleness almost four over three months, and I feel with growing certainty that my lost enthusiasm is a permanent state. The thought of walking into another lab and picking up a pipette fills me with dread, regardless of how fascinating the unanswered scientific question may be.

At my university, professors traded horror stories of students they mentored that walked away from the research bench after they defended – some found positions in consulting or law firms, others joined startups as entrepreneurs or scientific advisors, one even went to seminary. Others become administrative assistants or – the worst crime – don’t work at all. These former students are always talked about in quiet, sad tones and with a regretful shake of the head. The implication is clear – these students are disappointments. They were a waste of time and resources. I used to gasp and shake my head on cue at these stories. There was a strong belief even among students that once you obtained your PhD, you were then obligated to use it in an ‘acceptable’ way (academia, biotech, or pharma were all considered options). I now struggle with guilt as I realize that I am on my way to becoming one of those stories of disappointment. But in leaving scientific research, I also leave behind the view that myself and others like me are failures.

Luckily, being in Zurich (and the unwavering support of B) has allowed me to begin to successfully change my perspective, although it is a process. The number of spouses/significant others (mainly women) that I have met here who left careers or jobs to come to Switzerland is significant - and the number of them who have reinvented themselves or carved out new jobs and niches is completely inspiring. I'm still not sure where I'm heading job-wise, but I am beginning to understand that there are options out there that do not depend on my enthusiasm (or lack thereof) for experimental science.

Showing off our apartment (and my language skills)

Due to the events this week and my subsequent addiction to streaming the local Boston NPR station online, I've fallen behind in my Camp Nanowrimo word count goal. So now that I'm finally sitting down to write, I'm of course doing a blog post. I may have to add up word counts from this month's blog posts and add them to my story....that's not cheating, right?

As you may be aware, B and I are moving into a new apartment soon. We finally found a place after a very slow, long, painful search, and I am soooo excited to move out of the one-room place we've been squatting in for the past 3 months (yes, that is one-room, not one-bedroom). However, since our search was taking so long, we didn't want to give notice to move out of this cell (I mean palace) until we had another place and date confirmed.

And of course in order to give notice in Switzerland, you have to send a letter to the rental agency and then sign something that the rental agency gives you and then they have to send you the forms for other people to fill out and you have to send something back to the agency again saying yes, please put an advertisement up. (When I say "you," I really mean B. I'm not on the lease so that was my official excuse to not participate in any of this process). Anyway - the whole thing takes a while. But the advertisement finally went up and B started fielding phone calls from interested parties.

We tried to set up only one viewing last Thursday, but of course people couldn't make that day, so maybe Wednesday, and then some people can't come THAT day, so maybe Friday? Basically, we ended up having three nights in a row in which people invaded and I couldn't make dinner until late (I have such a wonderful attitude about this whole thing). Then it turned out that out of at least 10 applicants, the mysterious black box at the rental agency only found one acceptable, so we had to have another viewing this Thursday (which means we really had one Wednesday AND Thursday - that's five viewings for the price of one).

For the most part, I did a great job of buzzing people into the building, shoving B at the door to answer it, and then lingering silently near our (four) computers to make sure nobody tried to steal them. I totally wasn't creepy.

Apartment viewing is fun - it's a pretty random slice of humanity that walks through the door. We got some strange ones, including a woman who cheerfully spoke Gerglish (Engman?) the entire time, even though it was obvious that neither were her native language. There was a group of three Puerto Rican girls who were REALLY excited that B spoke Spanish (3 of them, but they only took one form - B claims this is because Hispanics must always travel in groups). There were several English speakers, or at least ones that were more than happy to switch into English. Those who didn't, I let B handle.

Except twice. The first time B abandoned me to show the cellar storage to some woman who had an irrational number of questions, and my worst fear was realized - the bell rang, and I had to let someone else in. The following conversation, as best I can recall, ensued:

(Language key: G - German, F - French, E - English, italics - my thoughts)

Me: [G] Hello!

Very nice girl: [G] Hello!

Me: Please don't ask me about taking your shoes off. I never understand if people are saying OFF or ON, and I inevitably give them the wrong answer.

Me: [G] This is the kitchen. <appropriate grand gesture>

VNG: [G] Nice - something something something.

Me: noncommittal noise. <awkward pause> Crap, I should've said something. [G] Sorry, I'm learning German.

VNG: [G] something something since something?

Me: Ah, she's probably asking how long I've been learning German! [G] Since two months.

VNG: <looks very surprised>

Me: Damage control! Say something! What else could she be asking about for a length of time? [G] For [E] me. [G] My husband live since two years in the [F] apartment. [E] Crap, that's [G] French.

VNG: [F] We can speak French, if you'd like.

Me: <blank stare> No one in my entire time here has spoken French. OMG IS SHE FRENCH? She IS fashionably dressed. (Narrator's note: I get really, really self-conscious about my French in front of French people who are fluent in other languages. So...most French people). [F] Yes, ok! [G] This is the bathroom. WTF was that? Didn't we just agree to switch to French? How the hell do you say bathroom in French? I'm pretty sure I knew it five minutes ago.

VNG: <cautious look>

Me: Uhhh...PANIC PANIC PICK A LANGUAGE. Where the hell is Bruno? [G] My husband is coming. He is in the [E] basement. [G] There is a washing machine and cellar.

VNG: [G] something washing something?

Me: Ok, definitely asking about the washing. [G] At the end of month is there 10 days free. On 11th and 12th have we washing. Two days for every [F] apartment.

VNG: [G] ..apartment. <sympathetic smile>

Me: Oh hell. How many questions can that other woman POSSIBLY have? I need a panic button. [G] My husband is coming. He explain better. Here is the room. That is the balcony. <sneak to door and check it to see if B is coming back up the stairs>

VNG: [G] something with without furniture something?

Me: [G] without <checks door again> If B comes back and I've given away our first born child, it's totally his fault.

VNG: [G] something something something?

Me: Uhhhhh.... [E] Uhhhhhhh....

<door creaks open>

Me: <runs to door and grips B's arm in inappropriate desperation> [E] Talk to this woman!

B: [G] chit chat chit chat

VNG: [G] chit chat chit chat.

B: [E] She wants to know if we'd be willing to sell any of our stuff.

Me: [E] If it's up to me, she can have all of it.

VNG: <laughs> [E] I just moved here, so I have nothing.

Me: ......Did she just understand me AND REPLY IN ENGLISH?

....Yep. So that's what happened. Turned out the girl was actually from Italy and perfectly nice....and, of course, spoke English (that brings her language total to four, in case any one is keeping track. I have jealousy issues).

Apartment viewing is fun. More stories later!

Thoughts for Boston

I learned of the explosions near the finish line at the Boston Marathon around the time I would usually head to bed here. I stayed up for another 2 hours, desperately trying to track all my friends in the city (everyone I know seems to be ok), live streaming both radio and television. I fell asleep before the full extent of the explosions was known. I fell asleep to 2 dead, 23 injured, and woke up to 3 dead and well over 130 people injured.

I didn't grow up in Boston, but I've never felt more like a Bostonian than I did yesterday. I lived there for almost ten years and it is my adopted hometown. People here ask where I am from in the US, and I say Boston. It felt like an affectation, as if I had to explain that really I only moved there after college.
It doesn't feel that way any more. I've looked at the pictures and watched the videos. I know that street, walked it many times, been to the finish line on Marathon monday and felt the waves of energy from the crowd. Bostonians don't get excited about much (except for maybe the Red Sox), but they do a wonderful job of welcoming people, regardless of where they are from, into the city after those people have finished the extraordinary feat of running 26.2 miles. I used to watch the marathon live or on television and be inspired, harbor crazy ideas that I could train for one.

Now, in the quiet of the Zürich morning, I read articles about the chaos and blog posts from people who were there and I cry. I cry out of a sense of helplessness, at not being there, though what purpose would I serve if I were? I cry to see the palpable excitement that I recall altered into horror-stricken silence. I cry to see my city changed.

Boston is at its best on Marathon Monday, and despite the senseless violence, I almost still believe that. There are pictures and videos of police and the emergency personnel, assigned to handle enthusiastic crowds and dehydrated runners, running towards the explosions and blood. There are stories of marathon runners running to the hospital to donate blood. There is this list of hundreds of people who opened their homes so that others would have a place to stay. There is this story of people giving away cell phones and coats to runners who were stopped just short of the finish line. On my facebook feed, a quote from Mr. Rogers has appeared a dozen times or more: "When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, 'Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.'" Boston had many of those yesterday.

I don't have any clever thoughts to close this post with, but I would love to help in any way I can from afar. If anyone knows of ways to do so, please post in the comments. For those local to the Boston area,  the Red Cross has stated that blood donations have been generous and they have a sufficient amount, but if you want to donate, here is a list of centers.

Tea and artisan bread (attempt #1)

This past Saturday, B and I went to an English afternoon tea at the Carlton hotel in central Zurich (available from 2:30 to 5 pm, Wednesday through Saturday, September through May, CHF 39 per person). I went to a proper British tea when I visited friends in Manchester, England, 9 years ago, and I've been trying to recapture the wonder ever since. In the US, my efforts were usually stymied by the lack of clotted/Devonshire cream with the scones (butter is not the same, fake American tea places!), so I wasn't sure what to expect.

We saw and heard no Brits, so I couldn't quiz anyone about the authenticity (not that I would have - how do you start that conversation?). But we quite enjoyed ourselves. They had a lovely and quite varied selection of sandwiches and sweets, with usually one piece per person, although there were extra mini cucumber sandwiches (I took care of those). The food was good, although I did expect slightly higher quality at the Carlton (assuming that Carlton is the same one as in 'Ritz-Carlton'). The tea menu was decent but not extensive, with around 25 types on the menu.

I'm ready, serve me.

There was some confusion, since B first tried to order some iced tea and was told that it was not part of the Afternoon Tea options. However, about ten minutes after serving us, the table one over from us, occupied by around 6 German-speaking ladies, were served - and they all received iced teas. It wasn't a big deal, but such occurences do not instill confidence about the quality or knowledge of service.

I chose a chai - not terribly traditional - and in what is most likely sacrilege for both the Brits and the Japanese, B chose matcha, the green tea used in traditional Japanese tea ceremonies. It was too bitter for me, while B didn't mind it - although it did not pair well with the food options.

Matcha. I just finished a book last month that involved a lot of traditional Japanese ceremonies, so I was excited when the waiter used a bamboo whisk to make it. I hid my weirdly inappropriate reaction well, I think.

Scones, the centerpiece of the tea, were served separately than the food tower, and B and I ate them all (2 each) before I realized I had failed to take a picture. The accompanying jam and cream were definitely the highlight for me, and I drowned my scones in them. The scones themselves were soft and warm, but felt like they had been reheated. They were mini scones, so not much more than a few bites each. However, we did walk out quite full and felt no need for dinner that night.

The tower of food. I had already removed several sandwiches from the bottom in my hunger. I am SO BAD at remembering to take pictures. B and I both agreed that the best sweet was the one almost entirely hidden by the cupcakes, in the back of the second tier. It was pastry with a chocolate glaze on top and custard in the middle.

The cream and jam containers. We ran low on the raspberry preserves, even with only four mini scones. It was that good. Also tasty - the super mini berry tartlet in front.

We enjoyed ourselves, but I'm not sure we would return, and I probably wouldn't bring any visiting family/friends unless they had a specific urge to go. Maybe my search for a proper English tea just means that B and I need to schedule a weekend trip to London. Sounds like a good excuse.

Also on Saturday, I set up my first attempt at artisan bread. I used this recipe because it had tasty add-ins and involved no kneading. I didn't let my dough rise for 3 hours - by 2.25 hours it had overflown my largest mixing bowl (note to self: get big-ass container for future preps), so I had to deflate it some and then stick it in the fridge for the overnight step. I was a bit worried that the next morning would reveal a dough blob oozing its way across our refrigerator, but it actually didn't rise much in the fridge.

The next morning, post removal of cling wrap, which took a good portion of the dough with it.

 I was particularly excited to read about her approach to humidifying the oven for baking. I've read multiple places that having a humid oven is key to getting a contrasting, truly crispy crust, but no practical way to approach this. Professional ovens have built-in spritzers, and home approaches I've read usually involve a spray bottle and carefully timed superfast oven openings. I love bread, but I am also lazy.

So this woman's approach was perfect. She suggests putting a metal (not glass) pan filled with water in the bottom of the oven before turning it on for preheating. Our oven comes with one wire rack and one metal tray, so I just put the metal tray in the bottom and filled it with water.

The dough was still REALLY sticky after overnight refrigeration, so I used a lot of flour and did some minimal kneading (I just...can't seem to give it up) before separating into loaves. Unfortunately we had no cornmeal, so I just sprinkled flour on the tray instead - which kept the loaves from sticking, but also meant that we had no crust on the bottom. I was a bit concerned because, after her suggested resting time (30 minutes) pre-baking, the dough was still cold. It turned out just fine, but I think I might let it rise more next time.

Overall, the humidity approach totally worked! Also, through the magic of visible steam, it allowed me to see that our oven doesn't close entirely on the left side and this may be why I have struggled with temperatures/cooking times in this place (I've said it before, but WE CANNOT MOVE SOON ENOUGH).

It tasted even better than it looked!

Three days later, we have only half a loaf remaining. Even B, who isn't overly fond of things made with flour (he claims the flour gets between him and whatever taste the food has), has eaten a half loaf or so. Next up - the roasted garlic/rosemary version!