I can hear fasnacht drums from somewhere across town. It's that time of year again. They went marching past this morning with their drums and piccolos in the wee hours. It always makes me feel like Paul Revere is going to go galloping past any minute yelling, "The British are coming! The British are coming!" It's like I woke up in the middle of the revolution, but all the minute men are wearing wooden shoes and over-sized masks. Last year two of them attacked me with pink confetti in Basel, and still, even this week, I've been shaking tiny pieces of pink paper from my coat.
Thanks for all your votes and opinions about the shirts (even you, Lukas, who said they're all equally blöd--that's 'stupid,' for those of you who aren't up on your SG words often used in swiss 3-year-old tantrums). Turns out a few people read this blog after all. In the spirit of democracy, I have ordered the crocodile shirt. And in the spirit of doing whatever I want, I have also ordered the touchdown shirt. I was still undecided between that and the dinosaur (also a great one!) until one of my Swiss readers missed the joke on the touchdown shirt. The subtlety of a joke on American sports (and the pleasing fact that although I don't know squat about sports, I at least know enough to know touchdowns don't happen in golf) elevated this option slightly higher than the literate dinosaur.
And now...back to my thesis.