Schnitzerland

I'm back from another round of toddling around Schlitzerland. I reaffirm my assertion that Schlitzerland is the most pleasant country on earth, with the codicil that I have only been to five of the 190+ countries on earth.

This round began with me departing for the airport only to realize that I left my wallet in the wife's car, and the wife happened to be at a brunch in Longmont, 50 miles away. So what else could I do but swing up there and get it on my way to the airport? It turned out that this wasn't really a big problem, as the recent terrorist kerfuffle had prompted me to leave the house five hours before my flight. So I had plenty of time to sit around the airport and avail myself of expensive wireless internet access (on the company dime, of course).

When I was in Switz last February, I never once set foot into an automobile, save for one ten-block cab ride. This time, in a burst of whimsy upon deplaning, I thought, "why not get a rental car, yo?" I briefly paused to determine whether I was in fact authorized by my worky to get a rental car, but quickly pointed out to myself that I sure as shit wasn't not authorized, which is pretty much all the permission I need, right?

And thus it was that I tooled semi-aimlessly around beautiful Zurich for an hour or so before making my way to the quaint hamlet of Burgdorf, my final destination.

Also last time I set foot in Burgdorf, as you might have read here some months back (actually right below), I was beset by a harrowing bout of food poisoning, most likely from a Döner Kebab that I got at an outdoor vendor. Never one to be intimidated by past events, I immediately proceeded to the outdoor vendor this night and ordered up another Döner. Those things are so fucking good, and I couldn't really resist the smell of paprika and lamb that was wafting through the night air. And alas, no food poisoning afoot this go 'round.

The next night I was able to deflect the entreaties of my colleagues to join them for fellowship so I could go roam around Bern by myself. As I've mentioned umpteen times before, there is very little that gives me more pleasure than wandering around a new city by myself, especially a historic European city like Bern. I had been here once before, but only at night, and only for about an hour before admitting to myself that I was grossly underdressed and a prime candidate for hypothermia if I didn't get my ass back to the hotel post haste. This time the conditions could not have been more pleasant; late afternoon sunshine, a pleasant 68 degrees with a slight northwesterly breeze.

As it happened, I hadn't walked ten blocks when I saw a Döner shop that was in a dank passageway between buildings and told myself that I would be much better suited to aimless pedestrianism if I were to ingest another one of these 900-calorie Turkish delights. Almost everyone under the age of 40 in Switz speaks at least a bit of English, especially those working in a service industry, but I have yet to encounter a Döner Kebab shop that had even one English speaker manning the counter. That's okay, though; I can just say "Döner and hold up my thumb (the European way to denote 1), and grab a Fanta out of the cooler and hope the merchant is honest enough to not overcharge me.

By the way, it should be noted that a quasi-metropolis like Denver, you would think, would have at least one place that serves Döners, and in fact I did learn of such a place a couple months ago. So I talked up Döner Kebabs for like a week to my colleagues, and then dragged a few of them to this place and had what was essentially a subpar gyros with some extra paprika. A big disappointment, especially given that the server and proprietress seemed like a real-live Turkish person.

Fortified now with enough calories to fund a several hour stroll, I began my excursion into the old part of Bern. This place is almost comically beautiful, with the old arched bridges, the 1000-year-old buildings, and the green Aare (a common crossword word) River snaking through it. However, I get more pleasure out of walking through the city's neighborhoods, away from the touristas and Beautiful People, to try to get a feel for what it's like to live in such an earthly paradise. One quickly gets the idea that living in Bern, or anywhere in Switzerland for that matter, is really fucking expensive. Still, if I were ever to hit it big, I would certainly consider having at least one house in Bern.

As is the custom when I visit Europe (this is my fourth round), I will now digress again to point out what a superb living arrangement the Swiss have carved out for themselves. While Americans have made a cottage industry and a amorphous political movement out of telling ourselves how great we are, people in Switzerland are quietly and humbly living what seems to be a pretty idyllic lifestyle. People are generous and friendly, not a hint of nationalist arrogance detectable. The other striking thing about Switzerland is that the small towns are places where a person could actually live a fulfilling and purposeful life with many of the amenities of a larger city. Contrast this with the US, where small towns are known for being insular and devoid of character apart from maybe a Wal-Mart by the highway.

The following night I got cowed into joining my German colleague for a night on the town. I had been dreading this, since I generally don't enjoy spending time with co-workers outside of work, especially after spending all day in close proximity to each other. We did that indecisive dinner plan thing, each of us unwilling to pick a place to eat, and finally ended up at this Italian joint. The server/proprieter/chef was an effusive fellow named Eddy, and Eddy had himself a badass pompadour. I couldn't resist asking him if he was into rockabilly, upon which his eyes lit up and he excitedly told me about all the bands he was into (few of which I had heard of; I'm really only a part-time rockabilly enthusiast). He also paused to inform us that this was the 29th anniversary of Elvis Presley's death, whereupon we speculated as to what a 71-year-old Elvis might be like.

A rockabilly couple came into the bar part (we were sitting outside) of the place and pretty soon I looked up and saw the couple staring at us like we were aliens; Eddy had told them that there was an American rockabilly fan outside. Minutes later the rockabilly couple came over to our table with their beers and pulled up chairs and introduced themselves and told me about all of their favorite bands and all of the rockabilly festivals they had been to in the US. Turned out they were both big Deke Dickerson fans, as am I. The woman runs a vintage hairstyle place and offered to give me a pompadour of my own, but I pointed out that since I have thinning blond hair, such a hairstyle would look pretty ridiculous on me.

The next night I had to go back to Zurich, whence my flight back to Denver would depart the following morning. I pulled up to the Zurich Airport Hilton and got a room which cost almost 200 Swiss Francs, but, apart from a phone in the bathroom, was certainly no more luxurious or exciting than the La Quinta Inn in Albuquerque. The dinner buffet, which was little more than a bunch of cold cuts and a few tater tots, ran 39 Francs, about 32 US Dollars! A straight-up cheeseburger off the menu will set you back about 28 bucks. The gougery at this joint was highly appalling, but there appeared to be a legion of business travelers with money to burn. I'm trying to figure out the nature of this unspoken tryst between business travelers and the service industry that caters to them. Hotels that serve business travelers seem to be able to get away with what seems to me like blatant extortion, but the businesses that send representatives to these places don't seem to protest at all.

Then I came home on Lufthansa flight 446, a fucking interminable 10-hour ordeal that makes a brother pert' near want to blow his brains out about six hours in. The Denver-Frankfurt version of this flight is not too bad, since most of it is in darkness and so a person can do at least some sleeping. But the trip back to Denver is daylight all the way, and the Lufthansa flight attendants never let up on you, coming by with duty-free cartons of cigs and lemon-scented towelettes and such. I always request an aisle seat, but I'm starting to rethink that, since I inevitably spend so much of the flight with some guy's ass right next to my face while he stands there in the aisle gabbing with his pals. I know I'm not alone in proclaiming that airline travel is ritual torture, and it really needn't be that way. I have this little dream of airlines eschewing the whole flying bus thing and refitting their transoceanic airliners into something more like the Japanese capsule hotels (like this) where a person can at least have a bit of personal space. Why not?

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