“Pops, can we go visit Italy this summer? I have a social studies course on it next September.”
How could I refuse?
“Lex, if you want to understand a country better, you should compare it to another completely different in character. How about if we start in Switzerland and end in Italy?”
Arriving at our downtown Zurich hotel by taxi from the airport, we were not met by a glamorous, smiling, cosmetic-laden receptionist in her twenties, but a man in his thirties wearing a grey suit with every crease in line. He was as stiff as cardboard. Everything was formal and to the point. No smile. No words of welcome.
Zurich became our home base as we travelled by train to various towns and sites in Switzerland on day trips.
Our first excursion was to the lovely medieval town of Lucerne. Set beside a lake, we had to traverse an ancient narrow wooden zig-zag pedestrian bridge to enter the town. The whole length of the bridge was covered in a wooden sloped roof. Why? To guard the city. If invaders arrived, local archers would man the bridge and fend them off. The roof protected them from arrows. The narrowness of the bridge prevented a mass attack on the town.
Crossing the main square, Laura espied a gift store. It displayed various handmade Swiss cuckoo clocks. Since a child in the Philippines, Laura’s dream was to visit Switzerland and purchase such a clock. The store was full of them in every size and colour. Naively, I asked the elderly owner “Are there any for sale?” She glared at me.” We do NOT have sales. EVER.”
The clock cost hundreds of dollars. There was a saving grace. The 20%+ sales tax could be refunded as we were visitors. “Do you have a refund tax form? We are leaving for Italy next, by train.”
“No sir. I will write you our standard invoice. Present it on the train to the Italian border customs and let them stamp it for you to process.” No smile, no have a pleasant trip. Nada.
On our last day, we lost our way to the train station. Loaded with luggage, egging Laura and the boys on, I asked a severe looking woman the direction. “Why are you talking so quickly? Why this rush of words? We do not behave that way in Switzerland.” With that dressing down, she haughtily divulged her information in crisp, economic sentences.
Aboard the train, I accidently bumped into a St Bernard dog, laying to one side. The dog didn’t yelp, but docilely moved away. “What a well-trained dog you have,” I commented to the owners.
“Of course. We are Swiss. We have to fully train our dogs to get a permit to keep them.”
On the way to Italy, I anxiously searched the train for border officials. There were none. No one inspected our passports. We could have been uninvited refugees. Italy didn’t seem to mind.
In Venice, we were privileged to reside in a hotel, steps away from St Mark’s Square. Everywhere we went we were greeted as long-lost friends and family. Each time, my credit card seemed to shrink. Everything cost double of that in Switzerland. There was no strict price for anything. Instead of us approaching a shop, vendors would come out from every direction plying us with knickknacks we didn’t need. In the square, we visited the oldest café— Caffè Florian. I asked for a cassata ice cream—one that I ate in Africa as a child in the only Italian restaurant in town. “No problem, sir.” He promptly returned with it.
“How come it isn’t on your menu?” He demurred “We call it Spumoni.” In Switzerland nothing was done to sell you or sway you. If you didn’t ask for something precisely, you got nothing. Beneath the Italian’s charm and flamboyance, he was there to take whatever he could from us. What was a matter of survival to the Italians, was a matter of form to the Swiss.
We left for home, almost bankrupt.
Years later, what are my lasting memories of that trip? A blur of grey, clockwork people in Switzerland. A late-night stroll in the centre of Venice. All the tourists have retreated from the city. A fog develops. Beside the canal, a covered gondola is parked. Far from the madding crowd of the day, there is utter silence, save for the occasional lapping of water. You are transported back centuries in awe.
