Aimless Stumbling: Getting Lost in Zurich

All good travellers agree that the true test of a city is whether or not it can impress the visitor when it’s having an off-day. Considering that I arrived in Zurich amid a dense, moody fog the night after a rainstorm, I was in a prime position to test this theory.  

But evidently Zurich was ready for me, and no sooner had I located the airport’s train terminal than I was whisked into the town centre by the most luxurious set of wheels this side of the Orient Express. A few high-speed minutes later I was to be found in the magnificent neo-Renaissance central station, wandering among a lively concourse littered with restaurants and shiny happy people. Such a beautiful place, I thought, before reminding myself that I was here to critique Zurich the city, not Zurich the train station.  

Indeed, what of Zurich the city? Does it live up to the high repute of the aforementioned Hauptbahnhof? The answer, in short, is yes. Nestled in the heart of the Alps, Switzerland’s largest city is a splendid maze of intrigue characterised by meandering cobbled streets that twist, turn, rise and fall in an entirely unpredictable fashion. Steep-sided buildings dripping with all the cuddliness of a gingerbread cottage nestle alongside stooping remnants of the city’s medieval past. The atmosphere and appearance is certainly historic – if not always artistic – and the character is chic and sparkling. It is an excellent place to spend an afternoon, even if the visibility is no more than 100 yards.  

It was during this giddy amble through the old town that I got well and truly lost. Suffice to say it was entirely my own fault, but that’s neither here nor there. Feeling confident in my conclusion that Zurich is superior to sliced bread, I had decided to conduct a further experiment by seeing whether or not I could relocate the same Italian café plonked a couple of streets from the banks of the Limmat River. Well over an hour and several bridge crossings later, I sat down on a riverside bollard and realised that not only was I never going to find the café, but that I had no idea where the train station was. The city is certainly beautiful, but is also mind-bogglingly complicated to navigate in fog and without a map. If it wasn’t for the kindly retired couple who had witnessed my bizarre bridge-crossing behaviour I would probably still be there today.  

But one thing struck me about Zurich that surpassed everything else; where are the mountains? I had been told of a city surrounded by peaks, but having visited a Zurich shrouded in a fog thicker than a winter broth, my experience of the place and Switzerland as a whole lead me to two quite controversial conclusions:

Switzerland is, in fact, entirely flat, and the Alps don’t actually exist.

© Copyright, Amadeus Finlay, 2010

Self-Doubt in Toledo: Taking a Bite Out of the Big Apple

I had never doubted myself until a fruit salesman in Ohio confidently informed me that that I hadn't lived till until I had visited New York. With my whole world shattered by uncertainty I decided to flee Toledo, heading east at breakneck speed in search of enlightenment as well as a life-changing dollop of reassurance. And I am pleased to report that I have never regretted anything less, for the moment I first set my eyes on the famous Manhattan skyline seven hours later I giddily conceded that the Big Apple had got me by throat. Life was suddenly worth living again.  

But it is an odd place to be, as New York is a celebrity city that is defined by its infamy and manifested in a way that is both entirely alien yet somehow completely familiar. There are the countless songs, the innumerable cultural references, the famous places and those yellow cabs; so much Americana all at once that you are almost sick of it before you arrive. Yet nothing could have prepared me for the raw, full-blooded reality that comes with stepping into the heart of downtown. The buildings are taller, chunkier, more solid and more defined in their appearance than any media form can ever hope to encapsulate. It is imperious and grand, but also mischievous and untamed. The city bustles the way every 1980s movie would have you believe. It is loud and it is energetic, with a constant purr from some unseen and unidentified engine. The people look as New Yorkers as should look; an alternative collection of self-made caricatures proudly existing as physical manifestations of the city that envelops them.  

Seeking a logical starting point, I headed to Time Square Metro Station to take the IRT Lexington Avenue Line south; at least this way I would be able to zip about until I got an idea of where I wanted to go. Which suited me just fine, for the iconic New York Metro is a standalone experience in itself, a baffling network of interwoven lines patrolled by a haphazard fleet of polished metal caravans. Austere, devoid of colour yet full of edgy charm, these rattling cuboids are the public transport equivalent of a fairground ride. So happy I was to be travelling on the Metro that I fell asleep, only to be awoken several hours later by a mechanic in the Bronx. Evidently I had gone all the way up and down Manhattan. Twice. All that remained for me to do now was get out somewhere in the depths of the city's northern end and wander around until I located my car.  

There was a fruit salesman in Toledo I needed to catch up with…

© Copyright, Amadeus Finlay, 2011

Reflections of A Self-Righteous Scrotum

There is a lot to be said for the idiom, 'you can't go home twice', and before today I never truly understood what it meant. If I'm honest I believe I mocked and scorned the notion as I have spent my life coming back home after work/school/holidays, but that was a dickheadish notion espoused by a self-righteous scrotum who actually knew better, but chose inflammatory intransigence nevertheless… 

ANYWAY! 

I was worried that the city I'd called home for four years would either be too alien or too much of a head mangle to enjoy. But despite all my fears to the contrary, Edinburgh was as marvellous and as homely as ever. The irony of this medium aside, not once did I experience a barrage of introspective reflection or wallow in the popular culture of sharing my feelings through staged piety. 

On the one hand I have long since got bored with the hipster culture that all social science undergraduates fall into, but also Edinburgh would never tolerate such a performance, the honest, self-effacing city that it is. 'Get over yourself and have two more drinks, a spade's a spade!' 

But I digress... 

48 hours in the Scottish capital is a fine way to pass the time, and as an entirely undiluted exposure the only way for a former resident to appreciate its wonder. But you can't go home twice. No, it would lose the magic. Just like a fling with a former lover, getting back into day-to-day life in all its cold, mundane reality would forever ruin what it has become. in my old age I enjoy the warmth and soft edges of English country life. Give me my brandy and an evening in the company of Holst, content in the knowledge that Scotland and all its edgy Celtic wonder is just up the road... it also gives me something to moan about when commuting in and out of London every day. 

Oh woe betide! I'm off to listen to Radiohead.

Puddle Hopping

It's not yet midday, but five hours of puddle-hopping have forced my hand.

Location: Shakespeare's Pub.

It's funny being here as the city looks as it ever did. It feels like I never left and I am pleased to see it was able to go on without me. Yep, it does not seem to have missed me in the slightest. Well. We all need to have the ego checked now and again...

Curses to you Edinburgh, you fickle feline-like swine!  Where was my welcome back party? 

I guess all the money was spent on the London Olympics.

 Damn those humble athletes...

Health and Safety During the Scottish Summer

Princess Street, 10.46 am. 

It's wet and I'm buying socks as my original pair is wetter than a fish convention. 

It's my own fault really as I tempted fate on the way up here and so it succumbed. Does fate succumb to temptation? Evidently. It's wet. There is rain. More clouds are predicted. 

My new socks carry a health and safety warning. 

"Wash when dirty."

What a Pong

Pizzas, feet, and late night TV.

All cheesy.

And so is this: Its 4.30. We've just pit-stopped again, this time in Scotland.

My ancestors came from this part of the lowlands, and every time I set foot here I can't help but feel I'm home...

Wensleydale, brie, Cheddar, edam…

Pit Stops: The Land of the Human Zombie

Pit stops: every compulsive spender's nightmare.

And at 1.47 in the middle of the night it is also the stomping ground of choice for the zombiefied human dribbler.

Nobody expects anything of you apart from your money, and when in such an arse-about-face frame of mind handing over your hard-earned cash is about all you can do.

Nowhere else is it the norm to pay two quid -a minor fortune - for a tin of fizz.

Nowhere else is it considered normal to drink a gallon of coffee with a side of burgers when the rest of the world is asleep.

And then there's the devil himself in the form of the all night fast food conglomerate that only needs to broadcast the first letter of its name to smash through your sensibilities and suck your wallet - and your health - dry.

Call me a cynic - 'cynic!' - but if you want to make a fortune, forget banking. Open a roadside service station.

Praying For Rain: On an Overnight Bus to Edinburgh

There is nothing better than being cast adrift on a bus on the open road. 

It is somewhere near midnight, lights off, blinds up, silence:  the perfect conditions for the paranoia of a wandering mind. 

Bugger, I think, where are we? 

The destination may be set in stone, but whatever the prearranged final Mecca the endless asphalt in-between casts the traveller adrift in the passionate embrace of loneliness. It is exhilarating, yes, but it also somewhat disquieting, as no matter how you look at it you have absolutely no control over your fate. 

And it is raining outside, which is never a good sign when heading on a resolutely fixed course of due north. Still, at least it isn't snowing. Well, not yet anyway. You see, Scotland is a highly unpredictable beast, even in summer. I remember once when I lived in Edinburgh I was walking through a vicious shower of freezing rain so determined that even the Big Issue sellers had scarpered. And I thought, 'yeah, summer, they must be lying to us...' 

But that was years ago, back when I worried about such things and thought that cowboy hats were fashionable. Today the rain doesn't concern me. At least not when the cricket is on. Bugger it, I decide, I'm a Celt and as such I am a member of the only race of human that is cold blooded and designed to enjoy misery. 

My mind is set. I hope it's raining in Edinburgh... But first of all I have to trust a driver to negotiate all this tarmac. Which isn't an easy thing on a road covered with puddles...

The rest of the story can be found here...:

1) Pit Stops: The Land of the Human Zombie
2) What a Pong
3) Health and Safety During the Scottish Summer
4) Puddle Hopping
5) Reflections of A Self-Righteous Scrotum