these weeks in the odyssey
6.28.99 -- 7.19.99
new york, washington, san francisco, washington, toronto, paris, zurich

Trains, Planes, and Very Nearly An Automobile

Motion. It's the lifeblood of the Office Odyssey experience, as essential to our existence as laptop computers, comfortable shoes, and a healthy supply of ibuprofen. Like the Rolling Stones, we gather no moss -- only frequent flyer points. Unlike the Rolling Stones, however, we're not ten thousand years old and we have neither a drug-addicted lead guitarist nor a propensity for messy divorces with supermodel wives. Heck, we don't even have groupies! Well, at least any that I know about. Kristanne might tell you something altogether different.

After our five day bout of New York debauchery, Family Values were actually sounding pretty good to us. Kristanne thought she wanted some Compassionate Conservatism, too, but since neither of us could really figure out what the heck that was, we decided to hold off. Instead, we jumped a southbound train from Pennsylvania Station at about a quarter to four. We read a magazine and then we were in Baltimore. Dinner in the diner, nothing could be finer...and I think you can guess the rest. Yep -- I had to ask Kristanne to slap me about the head and neck repeatedly until I could get that damn "Chattanooga Choo Choo" song out of my noggin once and for all.

Only too happy to oblige when it comes to physically abusing her husband, Kristanne had my vision blurring and my head clouding nicely by the time we rolled into Washington DC to meet up with her parents, Calvin and Rosalie (that's them in the picture at left, smiling out at you through the soap-operatically hazy glow that perpetually surrounds them). Accustomed as they are to major variances in my personal appearance (and longish periods of inexplicably addled behavior), Calvin and Rosalie didn't even blink at the shiner welling up under my left eye. Nor did they seem to take particular notice of my tendency to groan the word "Chattanooooooogaaaa...." and immediately cover my head with my hands. Do you think maybe that's what they mean by compassionate conservatism? Somebody alert George Bush!

Washington was hot. Dang hot. The kind of hot that coats your body with Crisco, wraps you up in soggy saran wrap, and puts you under the heat lamp down at 7-11, sandwiched between yesterday's corn dogs and a heaping pile of jo-jo potatoes. That kind of hot. Plus, you can't even eat the corn dogs. They're just a mirage, sitting there taunting you with their tasty meal-wrapped hot-dog goodness. It's not easy being that hot and not being able to eat the corn dog vision that's right in front of your sweaty face, let me tell you.

Now that I think about it, that may be a slightly personal vision of what the heat was like. I guess most television weather reporters don't start their forecasts with sentences like, "It's hot out there! Dang hot! Corn dog hot!" Nor do they put colorful corn dog icons on their weather maps to indicate which areas of the U.S. are experiencing the most oppressive heat. Maybe they should, though. I'd definitely watch the TV weather more, I tell you that much.

Of course, DC is a lot more than just black eyes and corn dogs. There's also the main attraction -- Calvin and Rosalie themselves. If Chuck, Lisa, and Calvin the Younger are the First Family of Fun (see last week's episode for the details), then Rosalie and Calvin the Slightly Elder But Still Quite Youngish Appearing For His Age Which Is Somewhat (But Not Much) More Than Calvin The Younger's are definitely the Proud Progenitors of the Perpetual Party.

(Note To Self: Stop the furshlugginer alliterated family titles before you see Vince and Jen, lest you risk either a spontaneous cranial explosion trying to come up with a new one or complete disownment by all your in-laws.)

Of course, seeing Calvin and Rosalie also meant a much-anticipated reunion with our fuzzy buddy, Edgar the Cat. Though he was still a little bit ticked off about the whole plane ride from Seattle to DC we put him through three months ago, he still seemed pretty happy to see us. Either that or he just thought we had food. Edgar has a sort of monomaniacal disposition. "Do you have food? I want it. Do you have food? I want it. Maybe you should rub my stomach now." Loop and repeat those sentences and you've pretty much got Edgar's life.

Unfortunately, just as we were settling into a nice DC groove, enjoying leisurely breakfasts, great conversation, and lots and lots of air conditioning, the call came in from on high and I had to grab a plane out to San Francisco for a short business trip. I had been trying to pin this business trip down for weeks but I kept getting cryptic remarks back from my superiors. Remarks like, "When the time is right, then we will know." Or, "There are things known and there are things unknown. And in between, there are the doors of perception. Currently, your business trip is having its fingers slammed in the doors of perception. Do you see?"

Well, no, I didn't really, seeing as how my Zen education faltered on that whole "just sitting" thing. I mean, who the heck wants to do that all day? Zen is crap, man.

(Second Note To Self: Avoid generalizing and summarily dismissing ancient religions and cultures in future installments. Also, take more showers. Hygiene is important.)

My misguided understanding of the spiritual world aside, I soon found myself on an airplane winging its way to San Francisco. More than this, I don't really remember. Somewhere over New Mexico, my inner clock completely froze up, this latest time zone shift apparently overwhelming its meager capacity for change. I do remember interviewing a candidate for a tech writing position at our company and answering all his inquiries by commenting, "You know, that's a really good question. You should definitely ask that of someone who works here." When reminded that I, in fact, did work there, I simply smiled benevolently at him and slowly nodded my head. "That is correct," I would say, "but my fingers are currently slammed in the doors of perception. Soon all will be told." After he ran screaming from the building, I grabbed my laptop and jumped on a plane headed back to Washington DC to rejoin Kristanne, Calvin, and Rosalie in time for the Fourth of July festivities on the Washington Mall.

As would befit Independence Day in the nation's capitol, the festivities were extravagant. At least they looked great on TV. It was too dang hot to be outside for more than a few minutes at a time. We punted and went to see "Star Wars -- The Phantom Menace" over at the Megamultiplex, deciding together that Jar Jar Binks must die, and soon. It wasn't all indoor thrills, though -- we did hazard a trip outside to check out the really quite impressive fireworks show. Patriotic fervor is a sort of hobby for us.

Too soon, though, it was time to go back to the airport for our flight back to Europe. Plus, at this point, if Kristanne and I go longer than three days without visiting either an airport or a train station, we start to go into serious withdrawals. Airport addiction -- America's hidden tragedy.

When we bought the tickets for this trip three months ago, we really didn't pay much attention to what airlines we were ticketed on. Just give us the cheapest flights, thanks, save us some cash and get us there in one piece. We couldn't have known. There was no way we could have known. Yup -- we were ticketed on Air Canada.

At first, this didn't seem like such a bad thing. I mean, I love Canada. It's a great place, full of natural beauty, and, well, Canadians, people who in my experience are usually pretty darn nice. So, sure -- let's fly Air Canada. When we got to the ticket counter, things were still looking good. There was absolutely no line and the airline agent, though brusque, was hyper-efficient, whisking our bags onto the carousel and us out to the gate in record time. Since once we got to Toronto from Washington we would only have about a half hour to meet our connecting flight to Paris, we were a little bit worried that our flight was already running about ten minutes late. Still, we could probably make it, right?

Well, no. Once we got out to the gate, the agent there guffawed loudly when we inquired as to the possibility of making our connection. "Hehehehe! Naw, you guys are completely screwed, no way you're going to make that flight. You got any bags going to Paris you want me to pull?"

Well, yes, but just our entire lives, nothing to worry about really. Once the agent calmed down from her paroxysms of laughter at our pitiable plight, she agreed to pull the Paris tags from our luggage, assuring us that this meant they would be there for our unscheduled night in Toronto. During the process, she actually became quite friendly, asking us where we were going and how long we'd be staying. She was very excited to hear that we were eventually planning to go to Zurich, a city she'd lived in for almost six months. "Wow," thought we, "what a friendly and efficient counter agent she has turned out to be. And with relevant experience in Zurich, too! What a grand coincidence!"

The more we thought about it, the less disturbed we were about being stuck in Toronto for a day. After all, the airline was picking up our meals and hotel, we'd have our luggage, and neither of us had ever been to Toronto before. What a great opportunity to see a new city!

Then we landed. Our first clue that something was not quite right was Air Canada's inability to account for our luggage. Well, not all of our luggage. The one bag we didn't want -- the really heavy one holding all our books and none of our clothes -- came out unscathed. Not only was the rest of it not on the carousel as promised, it was also not clear whether it was on its way to Paris (having made the connection without us), still in Washington, or stuck in some sort of holding pattern in the Toronto airport. When I asked the luggage agent where he thought our luggage might be, he responded with a guffaw eerily similar to that of the counter agent back in Washington. I felt strangely like slamming his fingers in the doors of perception, seeing if he might have some clue then. Once it became clear that our luggage would not be forthcoming, we headed off to the Air Canada ticket counter to collect our meal and hotel vouchers. We were not pleased. Our friendly personalities were not shining through. Matters were not helped when the ticket agent examined our flight records on her computer and said, "So, I see that you are both going to Paris and then a week later one of you has a one-way ticket from Zurich to Paris. Does that sound correct?"

Zurich? Where the hell did that come from? Sure, we eventually wanted to go there, but we never bought any airplane tickets. Somehow, that seemingly efficient agent back in Washington had absent-mindedly managed to add a Zurich leg to our trip during our conversation. As I began to forcefully and repeatedly bang my head on the counter in front of the agent, Kristanne gently brushed me aside and straightened matters out. On to our hotel!

The hotel was great -- absolutely first class. We began to calm down, even considering taking a shower. Since we didn't have any clean clothes, it seemed sort of silly to get all clean and then just put on the same dirty clothes. Of course, our future neighbors on tomorrow's flight to Paris might have had a different perspective on this choice, but they weren't around to offer any opinions. So, we headed down to a free dinner and a couple drinks, loosening up and enjoying the ambience of a real Toronto airport hotel. Eventually, we decided to check our email, see if anything was up.

But wait! What was this! Why were they calling our names from the gate counter? What more could they possibly have to tell us? Could it be something like, "Umm, we just wanted to make sure that you knew we weren't going to upgrade you. Neener, neener, neener." Something like that, perhaps?

Nope, it was a no-fooling, honest-to-goodness Free Upgrade to Business Class! We couldn't believe our good luck! After dancing a surreptitious little jig over by the newspaper kiosk (completely annoying all the other travelers who had been in the exact same boat as us), we walked onboard the airplane chanting, "We're going to business class, we're going to business class..." and making little "Face!" arm gestures at the unlucky sods still waiting. Sometimes, we're not very good winners.

That's Kristanne over there at left, enjoying the fruits of our labors -- the giant seats, the lumbar support, the attentive wait staff, the little lemon-scented hot towel. Checking out our fellow Business Class passengers (well-dressed businessmen, mostly), it was readily apparent who the freeloading interlopers were up here. Clad in the same clothes we'd already been wearing for a day and a half, we looked rumpled, happy, and completely out of place (for example, nobody else seemed to be taking pictures of each other). It was great!

If you've made it this far, you're definitely in it for the long haul! That was sure a lot of text back there, wasn't it? I bet you wish there were some more pictures, don't you? Trust me -- there are. But for now, why not take a break and grab a snack or something before finishing this puppy up? Collect your thoughts and cool out? I know I'm going to!

Business class is great -- if you can sleep. We were so excited by our luxurious surroundings that we did not. So, I smoked some of the free crack they were handing out in the Business Class VIP lounge and then played nine holes on the little mini-golf course, muttering about corn dogs the whole time. Then, we tuned into the horror movie double feature -- "I Spit On Your Grave" followed closely by the even more harrowing "I Thumb Through Your Magazines." Scary stuff.

By the time we touched down in Paris at about 7:00 AM local time, neither of us had slept a wink. If we had a hotel or something, this would not be a problem. Unfortunately, though, all we had was two tickets on the night train to Zurich, not leaving until 10:40 PM. Well, that and a serious case of sleep deprivation in the making.

Still, Paris is Paris. You can't let little things like sleep, shelter, or clothing get in the way of your good time. So, after collecting our bags (which miraculously appeared on the carousel well after everyone else's had already come and gone...Air Canada works in mysterious ways), we navigated our way through the Metro to our train station so we could stow everything in a locker. Freshly unencumbered, we trotted out into the Parisian sunlight, ready to defy the odds and see as much as we could in the fourteen hours we had.

Sure, the Louvre is great, Notre Dame is grand, Sacre le Coeur is beautiful, but first things first, right? We needed caffeine...badly. So, we hit the first romantic looking sidewalk cafe we found on the Boulevard St. Germaine and settled into some frothy cappucinos to try to get our heads together. It was there that the plan began to come together. Great plans, like great marriages, are the product of synthesis and compromise. You do a little brainstorming, put your heads together, take the best parts of both your ideas and come up with the plan that maximizes both your enjoyment. That's just Marriage 101 (also known as "Marriage 101 -- Putting the 'Fun' Back In Fundamentals").

The planning process starts by tossing out some ideas for what you should do. For her part, Kristanne thought we should go to the Musee d'Orsay and check out their famous collection of impressionists, topping it off with a nice visit to the Eiffel Tower. In contrast, I thought we should go to the park and drink beer until we fell asleep. Our ideas thus stated, we moved into the crucial synthesis and compromise period of the decision-making process. Now, pay attention, because this is where advanced marriage skills start to kick in -- together, we decided that my idea sucked. So, by way of compromise, we went to the Musee d'Orsay and checked out their famous collection of impressionists, topping it off with a nice visit to the Eiffel Tower. See how that worked? Don't despair if you don't get it at first -- Kristanne and I are, after all, seasoned professionals.

What we remember of the Musee d'Orsay was just fantastic -- an amazing assortment of famous works by all the legendary masters...Renoir, Monet, Van Gogh, Lautrec. We stumbled through in a slumbrous fog, fighting to keep our eyelids up and our feet still dragging along, one painting at a time, one painting at a time. Finding success where none could reasonably have been predicted, we managed to get through the entire museum without a single nappy-go-bye-bye (ummm, "nap"). At this point, we had been without sleep for about 28 hours. So, after a rather perfunctory visit to the Eiffel Tower (that's Kristanne in front of it over there at left), we dragged our tails over to a park on the banks of the Seine and put our weary heads down to catch some much-needed (and well-deserved) z's.

Before we left the Eiffel Tower, though, we observed an interesting phenomenon. Now, the French people have always seemed to have sort of a love-hate relationship with tourists -- while, of course, they appreciate the money and the attention that tourists bring, they also seem to sorta despise them for not speaking French, for not knowing how to behave like locals, and for, well, not being French. While this is perhaps somewhat understandable, it still seems like a bit of overkill for them to be putting behind bars those tourists who don't stand in the right line at the Eiffel Tower. It's not shown in this picture, but apparently repeat offenders have to put on goofy berets and sing the Marseillaise with proper pronunciation before they are allowed to return to their business.

Six slightly surreal hours later later, we were all aboard the night train to Zurich, blissfully asleep for the first time in 34 hours. Heaven is a second class train car on the night train, screaming babies or no.

Zurich is just ridiculous. First, the Swiss are just way, way, way smarter than the people I usually hang around with. Admittedly, that may not be the strongest possible sample group, but still. Most Swiss seem to speak at least three languages (German, English, and French or Italian), be employed as doctors or academics, and boast a lifetime Family Mensa Membership. Our first clue that things were going to be a little bit different in Zurich than they were in Rome came right when we got off the train. In Rome, you search for 45 minutes for the tourist office. When you get there, it will be closed, but they will have the phone numbers of several hotels in the area posted on the door. None of these numbers will work and further investigation will reveal that about half of the hotels don't even exist anymore (if in fact they ever did). During the entire operation, a mean-spirited old italian woman will repeatedly stomp on your feet while chanting (in Italian), "You suck! You suck!" In contrast, when you get off the train in Zurich, a smiling lederhosen-clad Alpine miss named "Heidi" will greet you with a cup of hot cocoa ("Swiss Miss", natch) and a piping hot tureen of fondue. Meanwhile, Alpenhorn-tooting woodsmen will serenade your arrival with delightfully understated traditional Swiss melodies. Roughly transcribed, these melodies go something like the following -- "Blat. Blaaaaat. Bla-bleat-bleat. Blat." Of course, I'm only approximating. The real tune will be much more heart-rending.

OK, I'm lying. Still, the reality is only slightly more believable. Once you get off the train and walk to the main concourse, the first thing you see is a big sign declaring "Hotel Information." Below this accurately titled sign is a big map of the entire Zurich area. There is also a console listing about 75 hotels in the area, organized by price range. Each hotel has a numeric identifier. Using the provided touch-display video terminal, you press the number corresponding to the hotel in which you are interested. Immediately, a light illuminates on the map indicating where in Zurich (the "Little Big City" by the way, and, no, we're not sure they know about Reno's claim on that moniker) the hotel is. Then, you pick up the little telephone handset next to the map and dial the same numeric identifier. Immediately, you are connected with the hotel of your choice. Once they have confirmed your reservation, a little slip of paper prints out with the name of the hotel, your confirmation number, and brief directions from the railroad station. Then, a little guy who looks amazingly like the late, lamented Herve Villechaize's legendary "Tattoo" character from Fantasy Island pops out of a hidden door in the console and carries your bags to the hotel you have selected. Incredible. Though our train arrived in Zurich at 6:30 AM, we had reserved and subsequently moved into the perfect hotel room (five minute walk from the station) in a grand total of about 20 minutes. By the way, if our hotel was much taller, you would be able to see it in that scenic picture of Zurich's west bank shown at right. It's not, though, so you can't. Don't blame us -- talk to the hotel people.

Everything in Zurich works, and it works amazingly well. We were both in a mild state of shock when we went to the phone booth to make a call and found that it sported a full-featured computer console, complete with a full keyboard. Using a phone card, you could send an email to anyone in the world right from the phone booth. Now, granted, we definitely have the same technology to do that in the States. It's just that if we had these in the states, the whole phone booth would probably only last a couple days before someone tried to either steal, destroy, or worship it as the new messiah. (I Found God...In A Phone Booth!) Freedom of religion can be a straaaange thing.

Now, many of you have written in expressing sentiments like, "Guys, why Zurich?," or, "What's up with Switzerland?," or "Lose Weight Now Without Even Trying!" Certainly, Zurich has a reputation for being a staid, buttoned-down, banker's town...an excellent place to learn the ancient craft of cheese-making or just sit around watching the paint dry. Still, before visiting, we liked its central European location (close to many major hubs for potential summer visitors), its somewhat cooler climate, and, really, its Swissness. However, we weren't prepared to commit until we checked it out, live and in person. We were sold in all of about a half hour after arriving. It's a physically beautiful town, situated astraddle the Limmat River, itself flowing out of Lake Zurich. Neither of us have seen a town with more cafes, record stores, book stores, and (curiously) music stores. These all seem like pretty good indicators of a fun place to live, but what really sealed the deal was that Giant Jambalaya you see at right. Man, there's nothing like a hearty shovelful of Swiss-Creole cooking to satisfy an empty stomach.

Our decision to stay made, we next set about finding ourselves some shelter. Since Switzerland definitely has the reputation of being an expensive place to live, we were more than a little concerned that suitable accommodations would be well beyond our meager means. Our first look at the newspaper tended to confirm our suspicion -- we couldn't find anything under $2000/month. Ouch. Maybe we should go back to Italy.

But wait! What's this -- "Furnished apartment to share. Must like motorcycles, beer, and tattoos. No freaks, posers, or technical writers. $400/month. Mandatory 'Hell's Angels' tattoo not included."

Aside from discriminating against America's Pride, the Technical Writer, this sounded too good to be true. We decided to check it out, see if we couldn't address any misconceptions they might have about technical writers and their various unsavory predilections up close and in person. What were they worried about? The Liquid Paper stains on the carpet? The clickety-clacking keyboard keeping them up at night? The ostentatious deployment of pompous vocabulary? Or maybe just the well-documented inability of most technical writers to knife fight well?

Now, sure, living with the Hell's Angels might have a significant upside. For example, I could definitely imagine my company building some more flexibility into my deadlines once they found out that I was down with Greasy Frank, Sick Sal, and all the other chain-wielding, gun-toting, Harley fiends around the world. Of course, on the down side, I would probably have to start referring to Kristanne as my "Old Lady," something both of us would really rather avoid. So, instead of renting the Hell's Angels' apartment, we opted for a charter membership, something to show the IRS when it comes to proving our lasting ties to the local community come tax time. Between the Hell's Angels membership and the library card, I think it will be abundantly clear that we are definitely Living In Europe.

Our first prospect discarded, we decided to move on to our only non-fictional option, a furnished apartment well within our price range on the west hill above downtown. Our eggs, as usual, firmly situated in a single basket, we went up to take a look, trying like heck not to look to eager. You don't want to scare off a potential landlord, let him see that you are, in fact, completely desperate for housing, willing to trade your day's labor and all your money for the solitary comforts of a roof over your head. It turned out that our prospective landlord was the butcher for the little neighborhood in which the apartment was situated. I think we played our cards pretty darn close to our vest when the first words out of my mouth were, "You know, Kristanne really likes to wash dishes for free. Always been a hobby of hers!" Then Kristanne chimed in, "Yes, and I'm not sure why, but Sid just loves to lug sides of beef from refrigerators to cutting boards. He can't get enough of it! Also, he likes corn dogs."

Hmm. Perhaps this was not quite as cool, calm, and collected as we would have liked to have been. After visibly recoiling from our slightly over-anxious onslaught, Walter was still gracious enough to let us have a look at the apartment. It was perfect. After reassuring us that we needn't sign ourselves up as indentured servants to move in -- "Yes, well, simply paying the rent will be enough for me, thanks" -- we headed back down to our hotel to get our backpacks and move in for real. The entire process was really ridiculously easy -- no paperwork, no credit checks, no broker's fees. We just agreed on the rent and how long we would stay and then we shook hands. "Just get me the money when you can -- I trust you," said Walter, momentarily flooring these two jaded Americans. Noting our mild shock at his trust, Walter went on to say, "You will find that things are somewhat different here in Switzerland. We still trust people." We weren't really sure what he meant by that, but it sounds to us like he's probably lying. So, we've decided to act as cagey as possible, not take anything for granted, and to abuse his "trust" as often as possible. Sound like a good plan? After all, somebody's got to bring these people into the braver, newer world, right?

The building we live in is a smallish set of apartments right behind Walter's butcher shop. Most of the apartments he just rents to his employees so they can have someplace close to live (particularly important when you go to work at 4:30 in the morning, which many of them seem to do). We seem to be the lone exception, but to make up for our lack of employment we make sure to buy lots of chicken, sausage, and cheese. Kristanne, in particular, is the Teutonic Stud, casually bantering with the various clerks in German as she chooses the choicest cuts for our nightly table. As for me, I find that being in Switzerland has removed my ability even to speak English. I have sort of reverted into Monday Night Football Man (post Java Man, but pre Cro Magnon), mainly pointing and grunting at what I want. "Such a sweet girl," I imagine the clerks thinking, "more's the pity she ended up with Naboo the Nattering Apeman."

In addition to being close to the butcher shop, we're also situated right next to a couple of different lines of Zurich's predictably comprehensive streetcar system. The streetcars go pretty much anywhere in the canton you would want to go and run with typical Swiss precision. That's Kristanne enjoying their smooth comforts in that picture there at right. One thing I don't understand about them, though, is why the heck the car completely empties out every time we get into one. Perhaps it's time to rethink our bathing schedules?

Or, more likely, it's our newfound Swiss diet of cheese, melted cheese, and things dipped in melted cheese. Remember that fondue craze of the seventies? It's still alive and well in Switzerland, clogging arteries and raising cholesterol counts the country over. The Swiss seem to take it a little too far, though. I tend to balk when the restaurateur brings you a nice glass of melted cheese to wash down your meal of things dipped in melted cheese. A man, after all, has got to know his limits. Especially if he ever wants to take a dump again.

So, that's what's going on in Zurich. If you need us, we'll be down at a cafe by the lake, sipping some coffees and taking in the views (like Kristanne is doing in that action snap there at the right). Or riding the tram up to the zoo. Or hiking around Mt. Zurich. Or just chilling out with a nice glass of cheese and a corn dog down on the Niederdorfstrasse...the possibilities are limitless. Come by and see us sometime!

See you next time on the Odyssey!

Last Week's Front Page Picture

As for that picture, I believe that's the Seine River in Paris with a giant sculpture of Celine Dion's chin looming up out of the background. In keeping with their inexplicable fondness for the refuse of American culture (somebody please explain the fascination with Jerry Lewis...I really want to know), the French have now appropriated yammering squawkbox Celine as their icon of musical excellence. Which is why we left France for Switzerland. Quickly.