Girl Scouting is Badass: The Rant

I have spent the past three and a half months living and working at the Girl Scout/Guide world centre in Switzerland, Our Chalet. It has been an incredible experience, as have the prior 16 years I've been in Scouting, and therefore I am uniquely qualified to tell you how much better Girl Scouting is than anything else, ever.

Do you know how hardcore the Girl Scouts are? Probably not. Do you know, for instance, that Girl Guides were spies for the Allies in WWII ? Did you know that before women in the US could even vote, Girl Scouting gave them a space to brave the wilderness? While Boy Scouts of America (still) holds tight to it's homophobic policies, did you know the Girl Scouts welcomed girls of different abilities, sexual orientations, races and creeds before it was cool?

I'm not going to lie to you here; Girl Scouting is badass.

In a lot of the world (i.e. Europe), Scouting has become coed, and this is great. There are many positives to coed groups, and I know several really fantastic Boy Scouts whom I secretly feel would be cool enough to be Girl Scouts. But you know what I don't buy? That Girl Guiding and Scouting needs to mimic or join the boys in order to get it right.

One of several equally depressing anecdotes: A coed group of really, really fantastic Scouts from universities around the UK is staying here at Our Chalet. On a recent day on program, the group was split up into smaller groups to have a campfire building competition. One group happened to be entirely female. "Could we have one of the guys join our group?" they asked.

ARE YOU SERIOUS? Like, I know a lot of ways to build fires, but I was unaware that having a Y chromosome made you somehow better at it. I'm confused, do you light the fire with your penis instead of a match? No? I've heard similar sentiments of internalized sexism from girls, young women and leaders for the past 16 years of my scouting life. No, I don't need help carrying this, which is likely why I picked it up in the first place.Yes, I am capable of rolling up a tent.  No, the male leaders are not automatically funnier than the female ones; have you met me? I'm effing hilarious.

While I'm ranting, I'm completely over this idea that Girl Scouts is the inferior version of Boy Scouts. I swear to God, the next time some Boy Scout insinuates that I'm less able to handle something outdoorsy than he is, I will use my lashing and pioneering skills to tie him to a roasting spit, and my one-match fire skills to bonfire his condescending ass. The only thing Boy Scouts are categorically better at is peeing off of things, which I'm not entirely sure is something to brag about.

A brief survey of reality will tell you that we are, in fact, still living in a world that values girls less than boys, and that doesn't magically disappear in a coed scouting environment. Someday, in a perfectly egalitarian world, that would be fantastic, but Girl Scouting as it now stands is a unique, all female environment that does what our world needs more of: empowers girls and young women.

Here is what Girl Scouting teaches girls: You are a fully capable human being, who is able to both play dress up and build shelter out of trees. You are capable of changing the world, and the most important thing in life? It's up to you to find out what it is, but it's not impressing boys.

On a personal level, there is nothing in my life that has been untouched by my time in Girl Scouts. Beyond my semi-concerning addiction to Thin Mint cookies, Girl Scouting gave me my first time rock climbing, public speaking, using first responder training, jumping off of things I was scared to, white water rafting, comforting crying children, learning to lash a swinging chair out of wood and twine, skinny dipping, figuring out the meaning of life on a dock underneath the stars, and challenging myself, failing, and learning it's ok.

It's not that these things cannot exist in a coed environment. It's just that my copious amounts of observations and common sense tell me that Girl Scouting and Guiding does a damn good job of raising girls who are strong and self-sufficient enough to not require a boy around to light a freaking campfire.

The World Association of Girl Guides and Girl Scouts is the largest non profit organization in the world dedicated to woman and girls, with 10 million girl members and countless grown-up ones. We plant trees, teach HIV/AIDS awareness, send delegates to UN conferences, and, most importantly, have fun. The sisterhood I belong to changes the world every day in ways that I can still hardly fathom. Girl Scouting and Guiding is as essential to a free world as air, and I could not be prouder to be part of a movement that empowers youth the way that it does.

And the girls? They are more insightful, compassionate, funny and courageous than you would ever think possible. Not a day has gone by working with these girls that they don't completely blow me away. From my little campers at Girl Scout camp who have grown into amazing role models, to the girls at Our Chalet a couple weeks ago who taught me songs and made me cry from laughing so hard, I get goosebumps thinking about how lucky I am to be part of their lives. People occasionally ask me how I can possibly sacrifice a summer (or two, or six) to Girl Scouts, of all things. My question is, how can you possibly not?

Christoph Is All That Is Man

Christoph is the grounds and maintenance guy at Our Chalet. He is probably about fifty and has a mohawk, earring, beard and thick German accent. We are pretty sure he has no blood in his veins, only a constant stream of nicotine and coffee. Here are the things Christoph has taught me how to do this summer:
1. Chainsaw
2. Recycle
3. Swear in German

Occasionally, Christoph goes on trips up to Germany to get meat and whatever else, because in Switzerland everything is insanely expensive. On these trips, he will bring along vollies who are annoying and persistent and really want to tag along. I totally fit this bill. Also, mostly he just says whoever is in his car at 9am can go with. 

This morning, after some tearful goodbyes to the three volunteers heading back home today, Christoph found himself in the car with myself and Heather Tennessee. This is not her real name, but we've dubbed the two Heathers based on homeland instead of surname because that obviously makes more sense. The radio of Christoph's car was playing Grease, and he was in full Scout regalia, necker and hat included. The man is awesome. 

The road trip to Germany was a few hours, during which both Heather and I floated in and out of consciousnesses, waking occasionally to ask questions about the life of a maintenance man and/or how much longer?  We crossed the Rhine and came to... a grocery store. Christoph was bitter that there was no "chicken truck" in the parking lot, but we proceeded to the store, and bought a bunch of really cheap food, which is probably normal priced, except that I'm now used to cheese that costs about $7. Christoph translated the different types of amazing-looking fresh bread, and we were on our way again to the Black Forest. 

I know that I'm probably a huge nerd for this, but I love fairy tales. The Grimm brothers are creepy and everything, but the Black Forest factors large in places I want to go hunting for mythical creatures. Christoph told me everything there was to know about the woods as we drove in, and seriously, the place is amazing. It's named the Black Forest because of trees that block out a lot of the light on the forest floor, which gives it a kind of mysterious sense. We passed through a couple picturesque little forest villages, one that appeared to be built on a bog, and finally found what Christoph referred to as a "chicken truck." This literally means a truck parked in some random parking lot which sells rotisserie chickens out of the side of it. Heather and he bought some, while I was quite happy with my tuna and bread from the grocery store. 

After eating on a fallen tree at the side of the road, we continued on past a lake area that had more people in one little space than I've seen the rest of my summer combined. The three of us agreed to continue onward, and we ended up by the world's largest cuckoo clock, having Black Forest cake in the middle of the Black Forest. The cake was meh, but the forest made up for it. And the cuckoo clock? Fairly weird, and built into the side of the house. I think that's cheating, as far as "world's largest" is concerned, but whatever. 

We drive on in hopes of finding our next grocery store in France, just across the border, but it was a ghost town and Wikipedia tells me it's because August 15th is the "Assumption of Mary." Things I have learned while here: Europeans are really into public holidays. 

We've made it about 10 minutes beyond the sad, closed little grocery store when Christoph pulls over abruptly and tells us he needs "a shrub and a smoke," which Heather and I find to be a really interesting way to put that. The rest of the drive is the single prettiest road trip I've ever experienced. We pass French vineyards and sunflower fields, occasionally driving through towns with beautiful, vine-covered old buildings. Christoph has a brief but vocal disagreement with the woman's voice on his GPS, because she seems to be sending us on random back roads. When we make it to Swiss border patrol, the group of about ten uniformed guys wave us through with barely a glance; for all their Swiss Army Knives and whatever, they seem to be pretty low-key on borders here. 

We made it home just as the sun is setting over the mountains on the other side of our valley, and Heather and I proceeded to raid the kitchens for dinner. I have no idea how my life has shaped up to be this much like a (wonderful, albeit weird) movie, but I can't believe I only have two weeks left. Road trips to Canada just won't be quite the same...

Billy O'Donnell Visits Switzerland

For those of you who have not met Billy O'Donnell, there are a few things you need to know.


1. He loves trains. A lot. I'm pretty sure he still has model trains somewhere in his basement.
2. He mountaineers like a boss.
3. His jokes are terrible. Really, really terrible.
4. He doesn't speak English. He speaks sarcastic New Yorker.
5. He is my father, which you would figure out within two seconds of meeting him. His jokes are that bad. It's genetic.


As you might guess based on points 1 and 2, Switzerland is basically his personal Mecca. As soon as I found out I would be working in Switzerland this summer, I had a feeling my dad would be joining me for a visit, though I'm not asking myself whether it was me or the Matterhorn.


The epicness that was his visit began when he arrived by missing the right bus stop and then proceeded to hike up the Our Chalet hill with his huge pack on. He, of course, instantly became BFF with every single person working in reception, and then he decided that rather than stay in the really nice rooms in the Chalet, he would rather camp in a tent. That evening he and I tagged along on the hike to Bunderfalls. Since I wasn't feeling the trip up under the water, we split from the group and went on an adventure in search of a specific bridge.


It was on this random search through the rocks of the river that I have a revelation; Billy O'Donnell is legitimately the coolest dad ever. I point to a large rock? He races me up it. I cross the rickety bridge at a run? He goes across without holding on, eyes closed. Hardcore is a family trait, guys.


The next morning we left for Locarno, a beautiful town in the Italian-speaking part of Switzerland. The town is right next to the border, actually, so we passed through the Italian town of Domodossola on our train ride over, a town my father mistakenly called "Dumbledore" at least three times.  Locarno is drastically different from my little mountain town in the Berner Oberland- far from the pines and chalets I'm used to, the train tracks were surrounded by palm trees and colorful concrete houses. At some point on a quiet, really beautiful part of the trip, we saw some sheep grazing across the valley from us. My dad leans over and goes, "What did one sheep say to the other sheep? I love ewe. Get it?" He proceeded to laugh really hard at his joke. So in case you were wondering, my revelation about Cool Billy was rather short-lived.


For our three days in Locarno we ate plenty of gelato, walked around by Lago Maggiore, and checked out every. Single. Bookstore. My little sister always complains when we do this, but he and I both enjoyed ourselves, so take that, Annie. We took a cable car up part of the mountain (Cimetta, I think?), and then hiked the rest of the way up, where we had a spectacular view of the lake and surrounding mountains. We were planning on spending the night at this place near the peak, but it turns out that we didn't have enough cash, so we quickly hiked down the other way in order to catch the last bus back to Locarno. We made it, and the bus ride was sort of the most terrifying experience I've ever had.


While I went back to work at the Chalet, my dad went off on train adventures around Switzerland, and I met up with him in Zermatt about a week later. Zermatt is the tourist town at the base of the Matterhorn, and the kindest thing I can say about it is that the streets reminded me of Aspen in high-tourist season. We stayed at a hotel called the Alpenrose on the very edge of town (because despite being from Long Island, my dad hates large crowds), and it was without a doubt the best place we could have stayed. As the last building on the street, we had an unobstructed view of the Matterhorn from our balcony, and it was almost too amazing to be real. During my brief two days there we did a significant amount of hiking on two different mountains, stopping only when I got some really interesting blisters. 


While we hiked, my dad practiced his German with the other hikers we saw. "Hello" in Swiss-German is "grüezi," though locals seem to pronounce it "GROO-suh" with a weird "r" and everything. Here is how my dad chose to pronounce it: "groosee," "gross," "goose," "goosah" and, my personal favorite, "roosta." I think we blended in really well. 


I went back to Adelboden on my own, but when he arrived a few days later, there was simultaneously a scavenger hunt going on at Our Chalet. The girls apparently dubbed my dad "the bearded man in the tent" when they stumbled upon him on the Chalet grounds and thought he was a squatter, which I honestly think is a good nickname for him. I was doing a sunrise hike the following night, so we mostly hiked around the valley on the flattest bits we could find, and greeted our fellow hikers in the weirdest German they'd ever heard. Also, because he's a water maintenance engineer, we passed some sort of something that had to do with hydro-something and it was like we were discovering a new form of life. Seriously, this country was built for Billy O'Donnell.


After my hike up Bunderspitz (which was awesome, but probably a story for another time), I was too tired to do much. My dad made fun of me for napping, and then we took the bus to the Frutigen train station, where he was going to catch the train to Geneva. It's funny, but seeing my dad here made me realize how much I'm like him. The inability to judge how much I shouldn't climb things, the bad jokes, the obsession with bookstores. Next time I travel with him, I think I'm just going to film the entire experience so you can get all of the horrible puns I've refused to write down. I felt like this was the culmination of all the hiking trips he took me on as  kid, and despite (because of) the linguistic issues of a New York engineer in Switzerland, it was quite an entertaining trip. Maybe next time we'll pick an English-speaking country with mountains and try again...

Mountaineering > Mountain Fires

As I sit comfortably nestled in the Alps of the Bernese Oberland, I am painfully aware of the wildfires that are consuming the Rocky Mountains. These mountains here get rain every other day, and myself and the other Colorado vollie, Carly, are blowing hard to send it back west. It's been such a surreal experience to follow the progress of the fire and evacuations via facebook feed; I feel a little selfish, enjoying these bright, sunny, fire-free days here while people back in Colorado are losing homes (and pets, and lives, and Girl Scout camps). 


These mountains here are not so different from the Rockies, and though the altitude is significantly lower, the same sort of mountain-culture is still here. Granted, people in Adelboden smoke more cigarettes and backpack a little less, but I've really enjoyed the few very Swiss mountaineering moments. Klettersteig, a cross between hiking and rock climbing, has become the best thing to ever happen in my life. Think scrambling, but with a harness. Up the side of a mountain. It is EXACTLY what eight-year-old Cate would have wanted as a career. And also it makes me feel like Katniss Everdeen.


On a potentially cooler level, though, this week we hiked to the peak of Elsigenalp (called Elsighorn, because the Swiss feel it is important to label different parts of the same mountain differently). This was my third peak I've hiked to in the valley, but the first where I've had a view, and it was absolutely breathtaking. The hike from a lower alpine lake to the peak was going to be myself, one other summer vollie and the Program Director, Katie, but at the last minute another vollie and two from the Ohio troop jumped in. The girl, Emily is this really sweet sixteen-year-old who was actually quite nervous about the longer hikes, but she matched us step for step all the way up to the beautiful view that met us at the top. From the orange "X" carved into the rock, we could see the mountains two valleys away, every home in Adelboden, and Thunersee, a lake really far in the distance. At some point, the clouds briefly rolled in around us, and Emily couldn't stop looking around in awe. "I've never been in a cloud before," she said, and I promptly got goosebumps.


Katie got really excited about searching for Edelweiss, and since we're Girl Scouts, we obviously had to sing the song once we found one. You know how the lyrics are all, "Small and white, clean and bright?" Yeah... They're  not. I mean, yes, they're small, but real, live, Edelweiss are kind of fuzzy little grey flowers with these weird yellow growths in the middle. When I told Katie this, she looked like I had just killed her puppy (because Edelweiss are her favorite thing ever), but it worked out because when we started singing "Edelweiss," a rainbow came out in the valley beside us. A rainbow. It was like someone was apologizing for making Edelweiss so awkward-looking by letting us pretend we were in The Sound of Music. 


On a completely unrelated, but really sweet note, there's a Girl Scout/Guide superstition about this grace called the Johnny Appleseed Grace, and how if you sing it, it will rain. Pax Lodge is the WAGGGS World Centre in London, and they've been singing the Johnny Appleseed Grace to send rain to Colorado. If that's not a supportive international community, I don't know what is. 

My Life is Too Cool for Words

...so I ended the previous blog post with a claim that we would go to Häm's Bistro, but little did I know it would be probably the best thing to ever happen in my entire existence. 


We've just finished our potluck Summer Solstice dinner, right? We're hanging out, and finally we meander down the path to Häm's, which is this little local bistro that sits up in our valley about a five minute walk from Our Chalet. It's cute. We've been there a couple times before to hang out, and I think Häm, the man who runs it, already knows we're going to be regulars. 


This bistro, just so you know, rarely has more than five people in it besides the twelve of us we usually roll in with. And who is at Häm's this specific night?


Riot police. There are police with their police uniforms on and two giant riot police trucks chilling next to this building which is probably smaller than the average dorm room. They're not raiding the bistro or anything, though-  they're having a drink and hanging out. Eventually we start joking with them about practicing their mad riot-control skills on us, and Jess gets handed the keys to the truck. We then proceed over to the riot police trucks where she climbs up with two of the guys and turn on the sirens and riot hose. 


The night ended with a few of us playing Uno with the riot police. I'm not making this up. 


On an entirely different page, this morning I woke up at 5am to watch the cows of Adelboden make their way up to the higher alps, where they will graze for the summer. It's a huge deal each June, and the entire valley turns up to watch. Because the Swiss are all apparently morning people, it happens pretty much in the middle of the night. 


I bussed up to the base of the alp with Naomi (the summer vollie from New Zealand) and two adults leading the troop that just arrived at Our Chalet. The five girls were still asleep, but the two leaders were these absolutely lovely women from Ohio, and the four of us together had a great time watching the cows, making fun of the rebel cow who decided to go hang out by the parked cars, and taking a gondola up the dramatic landscape to the top of Engstliganalp. Because Naomi and I had our dashing red staff neckers on, we all got a discount on the gondola, which is further proof that being a Girl Scout is like being dipped in Awesome Juice. 


From the top, we could see the long line of cows winding their way up the steep, rocky paths and their very, very patient owners who moved them along. The leaders bought us hot chocolate from the restaurant up there because they are probably the nicest people ever, and we spent some time lounging around and listening to them give us love and life advice. 


To make it back in time for breakfast, we gondola-ed down, and had just begun to walk back to the bus, when who should drive by? Häm, the man himself. He offered the four of us a ride back to Our Chalet, which is evidence that a) he is a kind man and b) we go to the bistro way too much. We accepted, made it home in time for toast and coffee, and a good time was had by all. 


Is this real life?

On Wednesdays, We Wear Navy

Our uniform at Our Chalet is navy. Navy pants and a white or navy polo, and in case you were wondering, navy on navy is a really good look. In an odd turn of events, we received our red Chalet scarves (or neckerchiefs, as I have fondly come to refer to them) on the peak of Bunderspitz, and in an odder turn of events, I really like the thing. For starters, the navy outfit and red necker are so hipster and alternative I almost can't handle myself, and also it represents being part of a strong, albeit unfashionable, tradition of badass women of Our Chalet. And they had to wear skirts and be ladylike while they were being badass all those eighty years ago, so a red neckerchief really isn't much to compare. 


As summer vollies, half of us spend about every other week on program (leading girls in the climbing of mountains, jumping off of bridges, etc.), so the weeks in between are spent on guest services, which is a fancy way of saying cooking, cleaning, and giving really awesome tours where you try your hardest not to make up facts. There were certainly some struggles, since I am horrible at folding fitted sheets and my work with the till at the shop left much to be desired. But other than that, the sun was shining, the music in the kitchen was a beautiful combination of "Call Me, Maybe" and 90's music, and my fellow navy-wearers and I bonded over a variety of shenanigans, some of which I will avoid writing about so as to protect the innocent. 


A selection of these shenanigans and their consequences:
1. Woke up with half of my shoes in saran wrap, the others up the flagpole
2. A One Direction poster and a Lord of the Dance poster hanging in our stairwell 
3. Discovered at 1am teenage girls shouting Twinkle, Twinkle outside the staff house at us
4. Learned and was filmed doing the dance to various S Club song while cleaning dishes
5. Hardcore Parkoured down the staircase of the staff house. Also on film. Chanting "USA! USA!"


There were two Girl Scout troops here, too, and though those of us on guest services didn't do all of the hiking/climbing/exploring with them that program did, we spent a ton of time hanging out with them, being bullied into chugging chocolate fondue, joking around and generally enjoying their young and exuberant company. It was definitely sad to see them go, but I'm excited for the incoming girls tomorrow. This is not before more shenanigans on the part of our staff, though- in the books for today is scaling the Main Chalet building via the fire escape ladder, a potluck Summer Solstice Shindig and a trip to our local favorite, Häm's Bistro. Oh, to be young and in navy...

My Friends Convince Me to Jump Off a Bridge

All these years people have been trying to convince me that peer pressure is a bad thing, but I would like to make a case for peer pressure, because today I jumped off a bridge and it was thrilling and terrifying and would not have happened if not for some good, old-fashioned public support.

Let me say that I am probably not the first person you would assume might be scared of extreme heights and sports. I was the ropes course director for three summers at Girl Scout camp and I climb rocks and other such things infrequently but with enthusiasm. Don't get me wrong, small noises at night completely turn me into a pansy, but climbing and jumping off things is generally not my issue.

Today as part of our training, we climbed, repelled, zip-lined and ropes coursed our way around this area outside of Adelboden, and the time came to do a pendulum swing, which is where you jump off of this small little platform attached to a 25 meter bridge (don't ask me for the conversion to feet, because I'm much too tired for math right now). As soon as the rope was attached to my full body harness, I climbed over the railing that is supposed to stop cars and proceeded to scare the crap out of myself by looking down to the open air where I was supposed to jump. Holy. Crap. Free falling is pretty much anti-evolution, and therefore my panic is completely excusable, though inconvenient. I stood on that little metal panel for 3 minutes, and the entire time about 10 of my Swiss nearest and dearest chanted, made jokes and somehow convinced me to step off into the abyss.

Since I have yet to try heroin and no one has talked me into other destructive behavior , I think I can fairly say that peer pressure is a wonderful, guiding force that generally has lead me to do things that make me a more interesting person. There have been the occasionally missteps, of course (goucho pants?), but I would most certainly not have jumped off a bridge today unless all the cool kids were going to do it, too.