YUCK, I'm in Zürich...
Oct 11th, 2008, 01:38 PM
#21
Well, I live in Zurich and don't find it "Yuck" at all.
The people are reserved but helpful.
The lake is beautiful.
There are miles of gorgeous hiking trails with spectacular views right out my back door and when I want to go further afield Zurich is pretty convenient to just about anywhere else.
I row on the lake in the evenings and the sunsets are amazing.
In terms of QOL, not too many other places top Zurich - almost any survey will prove this point.
It's not Paris or Rome in terms of excitement, and I agree the food isn't world class, but for living your daily life it's pretty damn good.
gruezi
The people are reserved but helpful.
The lake is beautiful.
There are miles of gorgeous hiking trails with spectacular views right out my back door and when I want to go further afield Zurich is pretty convenient to just about anywhere else.
I row on the lake in the evenings and the sunsets are amazing.
In terms of QOL, not too many other places top Zurich - almost any survey will prove this point.
It's not Paris or Rome in terms of excitement, and I agree the food isn't world class, but for living your daily life it's pretty damn good.
gruezi
Oct 11th, 2008, 05:14 PM
#22
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Another verbal bouquet, StCirq - merci, danke, gracias. You description refreshed my own memories.
Several years ago I spent an unscheduled extra week in Zurich when my mother was admitted to the hospital. The hospital staff could not have been more wonderful, but I agree that in town a rather reserved persona is common. Not rude, not exactly stiff, but definitely reserved.
Interesting the burgeoning of Spanish restaurants. At the hospital when my mom was being admitted, the nurse in charge did not speak much English and I spoke virtually no German - but we manged to communicate quite nicely in Spanish! Turns out he was a flamenco aficionado.
I agree the food is, in general, adequate but less than stellar and runs to the high side in terms of cost. But I did snag some killer chocolate at the Coop!
Can't wait for your reports from India; travel safely and enjoy.
Several years ago I spent an unscheduled extra week in Zurich when my mother was admitted to the hospital. The hospital staff could not have been more wonderful, but I agree that in town a rather reserved persona is common. Not rude, not exactly stiff, but definitely reserved.
Interesting the burgeoning of Spanish restaurants. At the hospital when my mom was being admitted, the nurse in charge did not speak much English and I spoke virtually no German - but we manged to communicate quite nicely in Spanish! Turns out he was a flamenco aficionado.
I agree the food is, in general, adequate but less than stellar and runs to the high side in terms of cost. But I did snag some killer chocolate at the Coop!
Can't wait for your reports from India; travel safely and enjoy.
Oct 12th, 2008, 12:28 AM
#24
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Zürich is more palatable in sunlight, and it’s a bright day as I head down the Bahnhofstrasse to the boat dock. Saturday, and the streets are teeming with life. I’m an insanely fast walker, and have to rein in my impatience with strollers and lollygaggers. And no one jaywalks here – which is probably a good thing, actually, as there is a ganglion of trams everywhere you look, and jaywalkers would probably get mashed as flat as Rösti if they ventured off the sidewalk. Still, there’s something weirdly alarming about facing a battalion of mean-looking, orange-haired, metal-studded twenty-somethings standing meekly across an empty street.
There’s a huge flea market at the end of the Bahnhofstrasse opposite the docks and I can’t resist. It is, of course, uniquely Swiss, with vintage clothing that features woolly things, and wooden skis and clogs and snowshoes, and Lederhosen and Dirndls, and lace and embroideries, and loads of old costume jewelry. I buy an old silver ring with a green amber stone in it for 15 CHF and meander around for a good long while before crossing the street to the ticket booth for the boat. A very kindly, patient man listens carefully to my painfully executed request for a round trip ticket to Rapperswil, first class on the way over and second on the way back, with at least a couple of hours to while away there. The boat leaves in 5 minutes, so I hop aboard and climb to the top deck, take a table in the sun, and order a Milchkaffée.
My fellow passengers include an unusually high percentage of old men with young women, to the point that I am pondering whether I’m on some sort of Mistress Cruise. Really, they’re everywhere! White-haired gents wearing skinny jeans and tailored shirts and blazers, with young women in miniskirts and tights and bright lipstick. They sit and sip wine and smoke and whisper to each other. The passengers who don’t appear to be engaged in illicit liaisons are mostly elderly. In fact, from my admittedly minuscule experience, I’d have to say this is a nation of elderly people. Which reminds me of an old German teacher of mine, who once told me Switzerland was a retiree’s dream.
I should have looked more carefully at the scale of my map, because I honestly didn’t realize how long a trip it would be to Rapperswil – a good two hours by boat. But it’s a lovely day and I have no commitments to anyone but me, and as the haze lifts and the sun becomes stronger, it becomes a beautiful, if slow, ride, with sailboats gliding by and snowcaps on distant peaks and bright fall foliage and orderly villages lining the lake shore. We stop in half a dozen ports, each with a flower-bedecked pier, some with dockside cafés, most with a cluster of swans and ducks circling round. The boat is nearly full as we approach the dock at Rapperswil, and with a more diverse population than it started with. As I stand in the gangway waiting to disembark I notice a poster that declares that Rapperswil is some sort of fashion mecca. Seems a bit odd, but I guess we’ll see.
Rapperswil is built on a steep hillside overlooking the lake, and from the moment you round the bend in the road that leads from the dock it is just so perfect it’s shocking. Really. Every house, every hotel, every bar, every restaurant, every yard, every shop, every church, every everything is just so tidy and kempt and gleaming and orderly and well placed and spiffy to the nth degree that, frankly, I want to scream. I don’t scream, of course, but I honestly do chuckle out loud as I wander its precious, pristine alleyways. It’s absolutely gorgeous, to be sure, but where it takes me cerebrally is back into the halls of my elementary school, where the aptly named Heidi G. used to torment me unwittingly. She was the perfect girl who lived in the perfect house and had perfect parents and a perfect room with all her perfect clothes color-coded in perfect dressers, and she always had perfect scores on tests, and had perfect handwriting and perfect hair. And I hated her. I spent a good two years of my early life dreaming up ways to mess up her perfectness – in my fantasies I greased her chair in Latin class with motor oil, snuck into her gym locker and left a dead skunk, accidently sprayed her with something lethal in Chemistry….This is how I am feeling about Rapperswil. It needs something ugly to happen to it, even if it’s just in one little corner somewhere. Better yet, a full-blown plague of some sort – locusts maybe, something that would infest and chew away at all this gorgeousness, or just a massive wave of pollution to grime up its insufferable polish. To be fair, Heidi G. and I became good friends, and perhaps Rapperswil and I can reach a mental truce of some sort, but I only have a few hours here and this is what strikes me.
The streets are full of adorable handcrafty shops with all manner of unique offerings – none of which interest me as I’ve adopted a jaundiced view of the place pretty much from the start. I really don’t want to bring home a pair of hand-knit wristlets with Edelweiss flowers embroidered on them or a hand-blown glass candlestick painted with lake views or a tea towel or a rustic basket or a horn or a bell. I do want a gelato, though, and so I stroll to the perfect gelato shop, oddly called I Dieci, and order a “Normale” with nocciola and straciatella. I take some comfort in the fact that the owner is Italian and beams when I order in his language. This place needs a good infusion of Italian chaos, though, not just a token Italian.
I take my gelato to a bench by the lake and decide that I’m not going to take the slow boat back, even though I’ve paid for the ticket, but rather I’ll take the train. It’s not that I’m in a hurry to get back to Zürich; it’s more that I don’t need to see much more of the lake and I think the train will be a pretty ride. I hear a strange language spoken and realize it’s Romansch. I like that. It’s really old and interesting, very Latinesque.
So after sunning by the lakeside for a bit and finishing my gelato, I head for the train station, which is right across the street. There’s a train every 20-30 minutes, and I buy a ticket for the next one and park myself on a bench at the station.
Which is where I am sitting, reading, minding my own business, when I am hit upon by an 85-year-old man. Now, I’m well into my second day here and frankly feeling a bit linguistically cocky, tossing off Genau’s and Stimmt’s and Ja, sicher’s as though I were an old hand, but when I am approached by an elderly man in a maroon blazer (who for the record looks exactly like Danny Kaye) who unleashes a torrent of German on me with a question mark at the end, I’m totally stymied. “Entshuldingen Sie mir, mein Herr, aber ich spreche nur ein wenig Deutsch,” I proffer. “Können Sie langsahm sprechen?” And he beams and sits down next to me. Which is very close to me indeed, as it happens that the bench I am sitting on has a middle plank that is massively warped and is sticking upright out of the bench from about two feet inside the sitting area, meaning only about three feet of space is actually sit-able. Then he very slowly asks me if the train to Zürich will be stopping here. Yes, I tell him, in fact the train that’s sitting right in front of us is the 16:40 train to Wintherthur, which stops at Zürich, among other places. He beams and touches my arm lightly. And where are you from, he asks, and I say America and he frowns. ABER, he says, emphatically, you are a world traveler, no? Why are you in der Schweiz? And I explain, laboriously, that I am here for only two days, en route to India to meet my daughter. And she is also a world traveler, he asks? Yes. And what do you think of Switzerland, he asks. And I am itching to be expansive and feeling horribly constrained by my lack of language skills – I really, really hate it when I can’t speak a language well enough to express myself – but I tell him it is beautiful, amazingly beautiful, but I find it too pretty, too pristine, too perfect. And he grabs my arm again and says “JA!” and then goes into some explanation of Perfektionism and the Swiss that is beyond my exact comprehension, but I get what he’s telling me. It’s a nation of perfectionists. Then he tells me he’s 85 years old and was a Philosophy professor and lived through WWII and is afraid we’re headed for another Weltkrieg. And that Switzerland was always a nation “gemischte,” but that now, with the current wave of immigrants, the culture, though always a mix, has been so diluted that it’s depressing to him. Yet he loves the natural beauty around him, and the tranquility the country is so famous for. I am loving understanding him.
We get on the train together and he makes sure that I understand that the train is going to go in what seems like the opposite direction from Zürich, but that it winds around and we’ll be sitting on the lake side. He leads me to the top floor of the train so we can view the “panorama,” he says. He tells me I am a “natural woman” and goes on to explain that what “real” men find attractive in a woman is a naturalness, nothing artificial, and that he “knows” I am natural. I am feeling very naturally uncomfortable at this point, but he’s 85 and he’s about to get off the train at Säfta, so I know I’m ok. And he’s an avuncular sort, and I am enjoying the chance to attempt conversation in German. He points out the vineyards on the lakeside hills, and I tell him about my house in France, and he is astonished, bemused, finds it almost irrational that he has met an American woman who travels the world and has a house in France. He points out some cows on a hillside and says they are an American breed, and I joke (yeah, I can actually make a joke in German)that they are here so the Swiss can have American hamburgers. And he laughs. And here is his stop, and just before the train slows he points out his house to me. It’s a big house on the hillside, obviously with the panoramic views he described. He’s a wealthy old codger. As the train slows he leans over and embraces me, kisses me on both cheeks and wishes me well on my journey and in life in general. I do the same. I’m happy to have met him and to have had the chance to expand my language skills. I will remember my Danny Kaye.
We chug into Zürich and I am all business now. I leave for India in the morning and I have stuff to do. I have a complete meltdown, the likes of which I have never had before, upon realizing I haven’t seen my passport for more than 24 hours. Seriously – I am shaking and perspiring and about to cry, until I realize it is, of course, in the purse I was carrying until I started wandering around Zürich with another, larger bag. I should know myself better than that! I have a weisse bier at the café that is just outside my Gästhaus and have a last look at Zürich. I have mixed feelings about this city, this country, but that's not a bad thing. Travel can't always be perfect.
Speaking of which,tomorrow I go to India. I’m overwhelmed.
There’s a huge flea market at the end of the Bahnhofstrasse opposite the docks and I can’t resist. It is, of course, uniquely Swiss, with vintage clothing that features woolly things, and wooden skis and clogs and snowshoes, and Lederhosen and Dirndls, and lace and embroideries, and loads of old costume jewelry. I buy an old silver ring with a green amber stone in it for 15 CHF and meander around for a good long while before crossing the street to the ticket booth for the boat. A very kindly, patient man listens carefully to my painfully executed request for a round trip ticket to Rapperswil, first class on the way over and second on the way back, with at least a couple of hours to while away there. The boat leaves in 5 minutes, so I hop aboard and climb to the top deck, take a table in the sun, and order a Milchkaffée.
My fellow passengers include an unusually high percentage of old men with young women, to the point that I am pondering whether I’m on some sort of Mistress Cruise. Really, they’re everywhere! White-haired gents wearing skinny jeans and tailored shirts and blazers, with young women in miniskirts and tights and bright lipstick. They sit and sip wine and smoke and whisper to each other. The passengers who don’t appear to be engaged in illicit liaisons are mostly elderly. In fact, from my admittedly minuscule experience, I’d have to say this is a nation of elderly people. Which reminds me of an old German teacher of mine, who once told me Switzerland was a retiree’s dream.
I should have looked more carefully at the scale of my map, because I honestly didn’t realize how long a trip it would be to Rapperswil – a good two hours by boat. But it’s a lovely day and I have no commitments to anyone but me, and as the haze lifts and the sun becomes stronger, it becomes a beautiful, if slow, ride, with sailboats gliding by and snowcaps on distant peaks and bright fall foliage and orderly villages lining the lake shore. We stop in half a dozen ports, each with a flower-bedecked pier, some with dockside cafés, most with a cluster of swans and ducks circling round. The boat is nearly full as we approach the dock at Rapperswil, and with a more diverse population than it started with. As I stand in the gangway waiting to disembark I notice a poster that declares that Rapperswil is some sort of fashion mecca. Seems a bit odd, but I guess we’ll see.
Rapperswil is built on a steep hillside overlooking the lake, and from the moment you round the bend in the road that leads from the dock it is just so perfect it’s shocking. Really. Every house, every hotel, every bar, every restaurant, every yard, every shop, every church, every everything is just so tidy and kempt and gleaming and orderly and well placed and spiffy to the nth degree that, frankly, I want to scream. I don’t scream, of course, but I honestly do chuckle out loud as I wander its precious, pristine alleyways. It’s absolutely gorgeous, to be sure, but where it takes me cerebrally is back into the halls of my elementary school, where the aptly named Heidi G. used to torment me unwittingly. She was the perfect girl who lived in the perfect house and had perfect parents and a perfect room with all her perfect clothes color-coded in perfect dressers, and she always had perfect scores on tests, and had perfect handwriting and perfect hair. And I hated her. I spent a good two years of my early life dreaming up ways to mess up her perfectness – in my fantasies I greased her chair in Latin class with motor oil, snuck into her gym locker and left a dead skunk, accidently sprayed her with something lethal in Chemistry….This is how I am feeling about Rapperswil. It needs something ugly to happen to it, even if it’s just in one little corner somewhere. Better yet, a full-blown plague of some sort – locusts maybe, something that would infest and chew away at all this gorgeousness, or just a massive wave of pollution to grime up its insufferable polish. To be fair, Heidi G. and I became good friends, and perhaps Rapperswil and I can reach a mental truce of some sort, but I only have a few hours here and this is what strikes me.
The streets are full of adorable handcrafty shops with all manner of unique offerings – none of which interest me as I’ve adopted a jaundiced view of the place pretty much from the start. I really don’t want to bring home a pair of hand-knit wristlets with Edelweiss flowers embroidered on them or a hand-blown glass candlestick painted with lake views or a tea towel or a rustic basket or a horn or a bell. I do want a gelato, though, and so I stroll to the perfect gelato shop, oddly called I Dieci, and order a “Normale” with nocciola and straciatella. I take some comfort in the fact that the owner is Italian and beams when I order in his language. This place needs a good infusion of Italian chaos, though, not just a token Italian.
I take my gelato to a bench by the lake and decide that I’m not going to take the slow boat back, even though I’ve paid for the ticket, but rather I’ll take the train. It’s not that I’m in a hurry to get back to Zürich; it’s more that I don’t need to see much more of the lake and I think the train will be a pretty ride. I hear a strange language spoken and realize it’s Romansch. I like that. It’s really old and interesting, very Latinesque.
So after sunning by the lakeside for a bit and finishing my gelato, I head for the train station, which is right across the street. There’s a train every 20-30 minutes, and I buy a ticket for the next one and park myself on a bench at the station.
Which is where I am sitting, reading, minding my own business, when I am hit upon by an 85-year-old man. Now, I’m well into my second day here and frankly feeling a bit linguistically cocky, tossing off Genau’s and Stimmt’s and Ja, sicher’s as though I were an old hand, but when I am approached by an elderly man in a maroon blazer (who for the record looks exactly like Danny Kaye) who unleashes a torrent of German on me with a question mark at the end, I’m totally stymied. “Entshuldingen Sie mir, mein Herr, aber ich spreche nur ein wenig Deutsch,” I proffer. “Können Sie langsahm sprechen?” And he beams and sits down next to me. Which is very close to me indeed, as it happens that the bench I am sitting on has a middle plank that is massively warped and is sticking upright out of the bench from about two feet inside the sitting area, meaning only about three feet of space is actually sit-able. Then he very slowly asks me if the train to Zürich will be stopping here. Yes, I tell him, in fact the train that’s sitting right in front of us is the 16:40 train to Wintherthur, which stops at Zürich, among other places. He beams and touches my arm lightly. And where are you from, he asks, and I say America and he frowns. ABER, he says, emphatically, you are a world traveler, no? Why are you in der Schweiz? And I explain, laboriously, that I am here for only two days, en route to India to meet my daughter. And she is also a world traveler, he asks? Yes. And what do you think of Switzerland, he asks. And I am itching to be expansive and feeling horribly constrained by my lack of language skills – I really, really hate it when I can’t speak a language well enough to express myself – but I tell him it is beautiful, amazingly beautiful, but I find it too pretty, too pristine, too perfect. And he grabs my arm again and says “JA!” and then goes into some explanation of Perfektionism and the Swiss that is beyond my exact comprehension, but I get what he’s telling me. It’s a nation of perfectionists. Then he tells me he’s 85 years old and was a Philosophy professor and lived through WWII and is afraid we’re headed for another Weltkrieg. And that Switzerland was always a nation “gemischte,” but that now, with the current wave of immigrants, the culture, though always a mix, has been so diluted that it’s depressing to him. Yet he loves the natural beauty around him, and the tranquility the country is so famous for. I am loving understanding him.
We get on the train together and he makes sure that I understand that the train is going to go in what seems like the opposite direction from Zürich, but that it winds around and we’ll be sitting on the lake side. He leads me to the top floor of the train so we can view the “panorama,” he says. He tells me I am a “natural woman” and goes on to explain that what “real” men find attractive in a woman is a naturalness, nothing artificial, and that he “knows” I am natural. I am feeling very naturally uncomfortable at this point, but he’s 85 and he’s about to get off the train at Säfta, so I know I’m ok. And he’s an avuncular sort, and I am enjoying the chance to attempt conversation in German. He points out the vineyards on the lakeside hills, and I tell him about my house in France, and he is astonished, bemused, finds it almost irrational that he has met an American woman who travels the world and has a house in France. He points out some cows on a hillside and says they are an American breed, and I joke (yeah, I can actually make a joke in German)that they are here so the Swiss can have American hamburgers. And he laughs. And here is his stop, and just before the train slows he points out his house to me. It’s a big house on the hillside, obviously with the panoramic views he described. He’s a wealthy old codger. As the train slows he leans over and embraces me, kisses me on both cheeks and wishes me well on my journey and in life in general. I do the same. I’m happy to have met him and to have had the chance to expand my language skills. I will remember my Danny Kaye.
We chug into Zürich and I am all business now. I leave for India in the morning and I have stuff to do. I have a complete meltdown, the likes of which I have never had before, upon realizing I haven’t seen my passport for more than 24 hours. Seriously – I am shaking and perspiring and about to cry, until I realize it is, of course, in the purse I was carrying until I started wandering around Zürich with another, larger bag. I should know myself better than that! I have a weisse bier at the café that is just outside my Gästhaus and have a last look at Zürich. I have mixed feelings about this city, this country, but that's not a bad thing. Travel can't always be perfect.
Speaking of which,tomorrow I go to India. I’m overwhelmed.
Oct 12th, 2008, 01:30 AM
#25
Liebe St. Cirq,
You have a marvelous writing style which I envy. You graphically depict not only your surroundings, but your personality as well.
I find some of your perceptions of Switzerland right on and others downright arrogant. It seems your dislike for Zürich has seeped into a dislike for Switzerland. No matter where you go or what you see here, you'll find fault.
Speaking of generalisations, you're becoming more and more French every day!
However, like a fly to the light, I am looking forward to your continuing story of Zürich and the area and will read with much interest.
You have a marvelous writing style which I envy. You graphically depict not only your surroundings, but your personality as well.
I find some of your perceptions of Switzerland right on and others downright arrogant. It seems your dislike for Zürich has seeped into a dislike for Switzerland. No matter where you go or what you see here, you'll find fault.
Speaking of generalisations, you're becoming more and more French every day!
However, like a fly to the light, I am looking forward to your continuing story of Zürich and the area and will read with much interest.
Oct 12th, 2008, 04:01 AM
#28
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Moan, moan, moan. So you didn't like Zurich in particular or Switzerland in general. Seems like you didn't want to like Switzerland anyway, why the compulsion to pen an endless whinge about it?
Perhaps you should have come over here to Basel. Good museums and good restaurants (no need to eat a brat unless you choose to) and it's a short train ride from Zurich.
Perhaps you should have come over here to Basel. Good museums and good restaurants (no need to eat a brat unless you choose to) and it's a short train ride from Zurich.
Oct 12th, 2008, 08:45 AM
#29
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We are all different, what I liked about Switzerland is the idea of orderliness, cleanliness and perfectness of the homes, towns, mountains, landscapes. It was a relief to me after living in the chaos of Los Angeles and area. I, too, have met colorful, friendly Swiss denizens on the trains and public areas and I have very fond memories of each and ever one. Perhaps you will remember Danny Kaye with a smile. I hope so.
Looking forward to reading about your India reflections!
Looking forward to reading about your India reflections!
Oct 12th, 2008, 09:17 AM
#30
Perhaps it would have been better to visit Zurich after India... Maybe a little order and cleanliness would be nice after the chaos and poverty...
I think it's kind of funny that Switzerland evokes such a negative reaction in some people.
I'm quite sure I'll always miss it after I move back home. And home for me is a pretty nice place as well.
But then, I'm a person who appreciates order, cooperation, helpfulness and a little reserve now and then. I like that I can eat in any restaurant and know the kitchen is clean and the restroom as well.
I like that although some of them do it, most Swiss know better than to blab on their cell phones in public. It's basically a very polite society and that's what makes the quality of life so good. (Okay, the one exception is they just do not <i>do</i> lines.)
I guess the order and cleanliness is what makes it a bit boring for some tourists. I can understand that in a way.
I too like to travel to exotic places. Switzerland is not exotic. But all the beauty certainly isn't so terrible.
And, I honestly don't know where all those pierced teens with orange hair are when I'm out and about. I just have not run into this in 21 months.
gruezi
I think it's kind of funny that Switzerland evokes such a negative reaction in some people.
I'm quite sure I'll always miss it after I move back home. And home for me is a pretty nice place as well.
But then, I'm a person who appreciates order, cooperation, helpfulness and a little reserve now and then. I like that I can eat in any restaurant and know the kitchen is clean and the restroom as well.
I like that although some of them do it, most Swiss know better than to blab on their cell phones in public. It's basically a very polite society and that's what makes the quality of life so good. (Okay, the one exception is they just do not <i>do</i> lines.)
I guess the order and cleanliness is what makes it a bit boring for some tourists. I can understand that in a way.
I too like to travel to exotic places. Switzerland is not exotic. But all the beauty certainly isn't so terrible.
And, I honestly don't know where all those pierced teens with orange hair are when I'm out and about. I just have not run into this in 21 months.
gruezi
Oct 12th, 2008, 01:24 PM
#34
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Hi StC,
> minding my own business, when I am hit upon by an 85-year-old man. .... I will remember my Danny Kaye.<
I think that you had a perfectly lovely encounter with a proper gentleman, who was simply enjoying the company of an attractive woman.
"Hit upon", indeed.
Hmmmph.
Thanks for the story
> minding my own business, when I am hit upon by an 85-year-old man. .... I will remember my Danny Kaye.<
I think that you had a perfectly lovely encounter with a proper gentleman, who was simply enjoying the company of an attractive woman.
"Hit upon", indeed.
Hmmmph.
Thanks for the story
Oct 12th, 2008, 01:53 PM
#36
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>>the whole gosh-darn hills-are-alive saccharineness meshed with metal piercings and tattoos and studded boots and jackets and a pornish undercurrent that hints at, but doesn’t quite reach, the real raw zaftig sexiness you find in more pure Germanic culture. <<
I would say, a good example of sophisticated prejudice.
I would say, a good example of sophisticated prejudice.
Oct 12th, 2008, 11:40 PM
#37
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I love your writing style St Cirq. I do hope you'll be posting a report on your stay in India too.
Though I haven't spent much time in Switzerland (just a few days here and there) I must admit that there is something about the parts I visited that left me feeling rather uneasy and even claustrophobic. I can't quite put my finger on it, but I find it a rather strange place.
Though I haven't spent much time in Switzerland (just a few days here and there) I must admit that there is something about the parts I visited that left me feeling rather uneasy and even claustrophobic. I can't quite put my finger on it, but I find it a rather strange place.
Oct 13th, 2008, 01:15 AM
#38
Hi StCirq,
ditto all the compliments - you've stopped me starting work this morning.
your encounter with Herr Kaye is just the sort of thing that happens when you are travelling alone, and so rarely when travelling in company.
good luck in India,
regards, ann
ditto all the compliments - you've stopped me starting work this morning.
your encounter with Herr Kaye is just the sort of thing that happens when you are travelling alone, and so rarely when travelling in company.
good luck in India,
regards, ann
