My then husband, the father my two children, was transferred from Helsinki to Geneva. He left before the children and me to look for a house. I followed with my daughter, Linda, six, and my son, Max, four. Along with heaps of luggage and the children, I also traveled with a frisky and willful boxer who answered to the name Beve.

Beve became a member of our family a few short weeks before Max was born, 23 months after Linda. Max and Beve grew up together, inseparable, one the shadow of the other.

It’s probably evident that the children would traveled with me in the cabin, but Beve had to be crated and was put in the baggage compartment. Cruel? Yes, but airlines didn't allow big dogs in the cabin, not then quite some years ago, not now.

During the flight from Helsinki to Copenhagen, where we had to change planes, Max kept asking for Beve, whining that he wanted to see his dog. As we were about to board in Copenhagen for the next leg of the flight, Max had a fit, a temper tantrum to trump all temper tantrums. He threw himself on the tarmac in front of the stairs to board the plain, kicked his legs, screamed on top of his lungs that he had to see his dog. Nothing removed him from the tarmac, least of all me with my hands full of carry on luggage, goody bags, and Linda clinging to my skirts. To my amazement, the baggage handlers accommodated this screaming little boy, brought out the crate with Beve to reassure Max that his dog was all right. Then, of course, Max wanted to travel in the box with the dog. Shortly after we were air born my angelic son screamed himself to exhaustion and fell asleep. We eventually made it to Geneva airport, all of us alive, Beve a bit groggy from the sleeping pill I’d given her before take off from Helsinki.

This was a foretaste of what life was going to be like in Geneva with two kids who, like their father, didn’t speak a word of French although they were bilingual Swedish and Finnish. My French was pretty rudimentary, but I did better than the rest of my family.

Until our house was ready for us to move in, we stayed in an apartment hotel across the street from a large square with parking space. Husband pointed to a sign that mentioned 7 pm to 6 am and some words I told him were nothing he needed to bother about. The next morning, husband stormed into our room, waiving his arms like windmills, cursing and shouting that it was my fault the car was no longer in the square. Instead of a parking lot, there was now a farmers’ market, which I learned later happened twice a week, but how was I to know the sign spelled this out; I only had three years of French in high-school. Later that morning, husband paid a heavy fine to have the car released from the pound where it had been towed.

Installed in our lovely home on the outskirts of Geneva, we enjoyed all the pleasures of residential living and city life. One of my first must-do purchases was to outfit Linda, Max and myself with swim suits. In Finland, we had our own summer place by the sea and used to skinny dip like most Finns.

The weather was gorgeous that first June we were in Geneva. The children had to be by the water as they were used to, so I packed a pick nick basket, we donned our new bathing suits and took off to a public beach. Free at last in a familiar setting, Lind and Max scampered and shouted with joy. As their little feet hit the grass, they stripped off their swim trunks and made for the water. In no time, two guards appeared, pointing, gesticulating, their eyes spewing shock and outrage. Apparently, in Switzerland, small children aren’t allowed on a public beach in their birth costumes.

Culture shock followed culture shock. On one of our walks in town, I grasped each child’s hand firmly in mine, as they were not quite used to traffic. Linda stopped to stare at an black man, and pointed. I told her it was impolite to point and stare. Never having seen a black man before, mouth gaping, she continued staring, making me cringe. My sweet innocent daughter commented that this man had spent a lot of time in the sun to be so tanned.

Little did we know that restaurants served lunch from 11 am to 2 pm. We arrived at a downtown eatery close to 1.30 pm. Max’s favorite meal was “stek, frites, salade,” a French classic of steak, French fries and salad, which he ate with gusto. We’d finished the French fries, but Max insisted he wanted more. I sighed in resigned anticipation of Max’s outburst after the waiter told us there were no more “frites” because the kitchen was now closed. Silent, Max slipped off his chair and vanished from sight. Not long after, he reappeared accompanied by the waiter, who carried a large platter of “frites.” Max spoke no French, but already at four he could charm the fur off a monkey.

On one of our walks in tow, we waited on a street corner for the traffic light to turn green for us. Next to us a gentleman spoke to his puppy dog in French, wanting her to sit. He gave his commands in a firm voice, but no pull on the leach, no tap on the behind made the puppy obey. My sweet Linda gazed at me with her chocolate brown eyes and said, “Mami, if the man spoke Swedish to the puppy she would obey.”