I’m a (grown-up) third-culture kid living in a fourth culture.
I moved to Switzerland for love, or so my husband, who is de la région, thinks. It was really for the food. In our wedding vows, he promised me “chocolate, caramels, and fondue all our life.” Okay then. I’ll take all that and the mec, too.
Of Switzerland’s four national languages, I can speak one. Guess which. Hint: it’s not Swiss. Or Swedish.
I’m a freshly minted Suissesse.
I have the passports of three countries in my arsenal. One is Swiss. None are Swedish.
I help others learn English.
Occasionally, I speak my own version of Swinglish: “Wow, you’re in form!”; “Can we see us tomorrow?”; “Where did I leave my fidelity card?” (With respect to the latter, not too far away, my husband hopes.) Depending on the audience, this can be embarrassing.
When I’m not searching for Swinglish, I’m reading, running, mothering, or taking pictures of other things.
And I’m glad you’re here!