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Caught Between Cultures and Generations and Always Out of Sync
We land in Switzerland. Our bodies step off the plane, but our brains are still somewhere over the Atlantic, wondering what day it is. But the first test comes immediately: greetings. In the U.S., it’s hugs. In Switzerland? Two cheek kisses. Or sometimes three. But definitely not a hug. Unless you’re me, and you forget where you are. That’s how international incidents begin: with a well-meaning hug.
Now, let’s be honest: this whole “kissing” thing is geometrically impossible. The human head is a sphere. If two people lean in to kiss each other’s cheek at the same time, they basically just go cheek to cheek and make a little “mwah” noise into thin air. It’s all very sweet and synchronized… unless your American instincts kick in first. One time, early on in a visit, I gave a friend a full long-lost-buddy hug. She laughed, let it happen, then gently said, “Okay… you can let go now.” Oops. Apparently, we don’t do that in Switzerland.
300 Miles per Hour Meets 2 Kilometers per Hour
In the US, our life is a high-speed circus. School, activities, practices, games, appointments… go, go, go. Then suddenly, we’re in the Swiss countryside at my parents’ house, where time slows to an elegant crawl. My kids operate at 300 miles per hour (482.8 kilometers, to be precise), while their grandparents move at a leisurely 2 kilometers per hour. I’m caught between these two paces, like I’m doing the splits across generations, continents, and energy levels. I’m constantly translating, not just linguistic expressions, but expectations, noise levels, meal times, and snack habits. It’s a logistical ballet, and I’m the exhausted, slightly jet-lagged choreographer.
Spoil-Fest: Making Up for a Year in One Week
The kids are getting ambushed by love. The grandparents haven’t seen them in a year, so everything comes with extra: extra hugs, extra cash, extra cake, extra candy. “Here’s ten francs, go buy yourself a treat.” “Here’s another piece of chocolate.” “Want ice cream after lunch? And then cake after dinner?” Let’s make up for 365 missed days of spoiling in seven.
My kids are in heaven. I am… letting it happen.
It starts off sweet, literally, and quickly spirals into a glucose-fueled chaos. All that sugar, combined with the thrill of being the center of grandparental attention, turns my children into tiny ricocheting meteors. They bounce off the walls while the grandparents sip tea and comment on how much energy they have, while also giving me the look. You know the one: Can you please control your kids?
So once again, I’m stuck in the middle, regulating crashes, rationing sugar, and begging for vegetables.
Cooking with Grandma: Chaos in the Kitchen
My younger one always wants to bake with his Grandmas. It’s sweet. He pulls out a cake recipe in cups and teaspoons and sticks of butter, and immediately the confusion begins.
“How many grams in a cup?” my son asks. “A cup?” Grandma says, opening a cabinet. “Which one? Tea cup, coffee cup, espresso cup?” They both look at each other, confused.
Then it escalates.
“What about ounces?” he asks.
Grandma frowns. “Fluid or weight?”
“It can be either.” he shrugs. They stare at each other, even more confused. Meanwhile, I quietly back out of the room, I know the next questions are headed my way, and I definitely don’t have the answers. So out comes the scale and the calculator, and nobody’s entirely sure if they’re baking or doing math homework.
Eventually, they ditch the conversions and make up their own system, part logic, part instinct, and part “close enough.”
- Half of Grandma’s favorite coffee mug = about a cup
- One big soup spoon = a generous tablespoon
- A stick of butter = a chunk sliced off the 200g block, eyeballed by Grandma and approved by my son after squinting at the original recipe
At least the chickens have agreed worldwide to lay eggs that are roughly the same size.
The whole process is semi-scientific and confusing, but somehow, the cake turns out perfect. Nobody asks what’s in it. Replication is impossible.
Three-Day Grace Period and the Chic-Ouf Effect
One year, I told my meditation teacher, “I can handle the intensity for about three days, then it starts to get to me.” He nodded knowingly. “That’s because, at first, you’re observing, laughing at the differences, adapting with curiosity. But by day four, you’re no longer just observing. You’re absorbing.”
And it’s true. I start soaking up everything, the energy, the tension, the rhythms of other people’s habits. The deep grooves of family patterns I thought I’d grown out of suddenly resurface. I’m parenting my kids, translating for my parents, and emotionally time-traveling back to being fifteen, all at once. It’s like emotional multitasking in a foreign operating system.
By day four, I hit full cultural and sensory overload. And so does my mom. That’s why she calls us les chic oufs, French slang …a mash-up of “chic!” (yay!) and “ouf…” (deep sigh of relief). As in: Yay, so glad you’re here… whew, so glad you’re leaving!
Swiss Highways and The Exit That Wasn’t
Once I’ve emotionally recalibrated from family intensity, I start noticing all the tiny ways my American habits don’t quite work here. Suddenly, everyday tasks feel like puzzles. Driving, shopping, even hiking, none of it functions quite like I expect. Welcome to the next level of cultural confusion: logistical disorientation.
I’m fluent in kilometers, no problem there. But highway exits in Switzerland while still in U.S. driving mode? That’s where it gets wild. In the U.S., the right lane is often “exit only” whether you want to or not. So when I’m driving in Switzerland, I think I’m exiting, but suddenly the highway keeps going, and I’ve missed the actual exit.
That’s when I channel Miss Crawly from Sing 2 , you know, the old lizard lady in the sports car? The GPS says, “Your destination is on the right,” and she cranks the wheel, launches off-road, and bounces through a field like a caffeinated lawn mower. That’s me, trying to get off the Swiss highway before ending up in Germany.
Because Miles and Kilometers Weren’t Confusing Enough
And then I thought, okay, fine, at least on Swiss hiking trails I’ll be fine. I can convert miles to kilometers and meters in my sleep. Easy! But no. Swiss trail signs don’t give you distance, they give you time. “1 hour 25 minutes to the next hut.” That time includes distance and elevation, calculated by a system I’ve had explained to me multiple times and I still don’t get it. But at least, thankfully, hours and minutes are the same in both countries. How lucky are we that Americans didn’t decide to make 100-minute hours or something!? Then again, time is already divided into 60s and 24s, so it’s pretty illogical like the rest of the confusing American way. So, no need to make it worse.
Shopping like a Foreigner
Swiss grocery stores look familiar, but they’re full of booby traps. For example: produce. In the U.S., you just toss fruit in a bag and they weigh it at checkout. In Switzerland? Nope. You have to weigh it yourself right there and slap a printed label on your bag. I always forget. I reach the cashier and, oops, unweighed bananas. Cue the silent judgment line while I sprint back to fix it.
Then I stand there and wait for someone to bag my groceries. Yeah, that doesn’t happen. That’s my job. I get the look, then I remember and behave like a Swiss again.
Reentry Confusion
The day after we returned to the U.S., I walked into the circus school. Music was pumping, kids were everywhere, and the coach smiled and said, “No kids tonight?” I used to go with my boys, but that night they were jetlagged and already asleep at home.
But my ears, still in Swiss mode, heard something completely different: “No kiss tonight?”
My brain screeched to a halt. Wait, what? Am I supposed to kiss this guy? Did I kiss him last time? Do we hug? Do we shake hands? Do I say something witty and casual? Is he expecting something?
I just stood there, frozen, smiling like a malfunctioning robot while my mind spiraled through every possible greeting protocol from both continents. I’d already hugged someone in Switzerland I wasn’t supposed to, was this going to be another awkward international incident?
In the end, I mumbled something incomprehensible and walked away, my brain still yelling, ugh, stupid cultural differences!
After class, I stopped at the grocery store, grabbed some bananas, looked for a scale that wasn’t there… went to pay and instinctively packed my own bags. I got, “Oh thanks for helping!” and the look, as if I was steeling someone’s job! Oops, again!
Between Worlds, Between Visits
Living between worlds takes more than just hopping on a plane. It means navigating new rules, old patterns, and all the messy middle spaces in between. If you’ve ever had to switch languages mid-sentence, measure butter by vibes, or wonder if this time you’re supposed to hug, kiss, or just wave, then you know the feeling. The stretch between cultures is real. The luggage gets unpacked. The body recovers. But the cultural stretch? We carry that with us.