The Transition



THURSDAY, May 4, 1995.

Tuesday's nine hour train ride from Venice to Zurich was excruciating. By now, I'm used to long hours on the train, but the anticipation of being reunited with my powerbook, clothes I haven't worn every other day for two months, and maybe even moving into my apartment made me antsy. On the train, I spent about two hours chatting with four Italians - a fifty-something Italian couple and a mothersson combo across the aisle. Big headache, but highly educational. The bright-eyed, big hoop earing wielding fourteen year old was very patient and was so entertained and excited to be talking to an American that he didn't seem to mind the painfully slow communication about American sports teams and music. When I finally arrived in Zurich, I took a taxi to my cheap (for Zurich, but about twice as much as the Italian equivalent) hotel that was conveniently within walking distance of the station (who knew?). The location was good and it let me wander down to the Neiderdorfstrasse to check out the night scene. I remembered the area from my visit in November (a different lifetime) when the guys from the lab took me out for cheese, ham and wine after dinner. Plenty of pubs, restaurants, and a few strip clubs which are seedy (from the outside) but don't spoil the neighborhood. I even ate a plate of reasonably good Chinese noodles. Ah, but it will be a glorious day when I return to 3rd Avenue and 76th Street for a plate of my favorite beef chow-fun.

Wednesday was a big day. I went to UBILAB at 10 AM. When I'd been in Zurich the first week in March for application paperwork, I'd forgotten the address of UBILAB and ended up at the bank headquarters on the Bahnofstrasse. The receptionist called over to UBILAB for me and then called a cab. When I arrived at UBILAB, everyone gave me shit. "Weren't you here in November?" Yeah, like after three months, I remember the name of some small little street in Zurich. I'd practically forgotten again, but I somehow managed to remember and spared myself incredible embarrassment.

The really good news was that my apartment was available. A guy named Dirk, another temporary employee living in the same building, escorted me and served as an interpreter. Mr. A Knup, the extremely Swiss (he keeps things super-clean and has lots of rules) building superintendent, greeted us. I got running translations about keeping the front door locked, my mailbox, my door buzzer, the laundry room (only open on weekdays during working hours), was loaned some dishes, sheets, blankets, and paid about ten bucks to get a shower curtain installed. At first glance, I was disappointed. It was hardly the apartment of my dreams. It's a small, box-like studio with white walls and flat, industrial grade, green carpeting. No real kitchen - just a sink with a hot plate, almost four square inches of counter space, and a little "dorm size" fridge. Still, it was home and I quickly resigned myself to being happy with it. There's a wardrobe near the door, a table with two chairs, a bed, bookcase, dresser, coffee table with chair, and a headboard with shelves. All it really needs is a few dirty socks on the floor and a stereo.

After the orientation and the handing over of the keys, we rode the tram back to UBILAB. Walter wasn't around so I left him a note saying that I'd like to stop by and pick up my powerbook and duffel bag from his house in the evening and perhaps go for a beer or dinner. What I was really thinking was that I wanted my stuff from his house right now, but I knew I'd have to wait. I went back to my hotel to get my backpack, and they graciously let me violate the check-out time policy. I went home with my pack and took every last thing out of it. Then I stuffed it in the wardrobe. It was a triumphant feeling to see my things strewn about on the floor and know that I could just leave them there. This was my HOME. Even though I was planning to leave for Paris on Friday morning, it felt amazingly good to put my backpack AWAY. Then I ran out to buy some toilet paper, because even in Zurich, nature calls.

Back at the lab, Walter sent me out to buy some groceries for dinner. It was a nice warm day in Zurich (the first of the season they said) and it was to be BBQ night at the Bischofbergers. I went to Letzipark, a little shopping center around the corner, bought the groceries and some towels. After killing some time Net Surfing (I anticipated that it would be fun, but it wasn't. Same net shit, different day), it was back to Walter's house for dinner. The night consisted of a typical Bischofberger parade of vices. A before dinner wine punch, dinnertime wine, post dinner schnapps, chocolate, nicotine (for them), and coffee. Here's a guy who likes to unwind. We chatted and chatted and I got to hear a cool story from his wife about her vivid but difficult to enunciate memories of traveling to East Germany as a young girl. Though I enjoyed the meal and the company, I had a terrible stomach-ache which made me very uncomfortable, and what I really, really wanted more than anything was to get my stuff and go home. Finally, the evening was drawing to a close. Walter lugged my stuff down from upstairs and called a taxi.

My duffel bag weighed a ton, and suddenly I didn't feel so crazy for thinking I'd left Zurich in March traveling light! Walter told the German-only speaking cab driver where to take me. We got to my neighborhood and the guy started asking me questions, and I couldn't even remember the exact spelling of my street and I'd forgotten to bring my address with me and so he gave up on me and left me in the middle of the street. I wanted to cry. My stomach was killing me and I could barely lift my bag and I was fearing for my still ailing back. I really can't imagine how I was trying to run with this bag and my backpack trying to catch my train to Milan in early January and then falling down the stairs with it all! - it's a miracle I didn't kill myself. No wonder I have gloomy memories of those three midnight hours in Luxembourg. I started dragging the duffel and by some miracle, found a map posted by a bus stop and managed to recognize my street name. It was only a five minute walk, but it was an eternity - I only survived on adrenaline and on the certain nirvana of being at long last home with all my euro-worldly possessions. I arrived, took everything out of my duffel, amazed by what I had in there. Then I stuffed it in the closet with my pack, put a few more things away, and went to bed.

Thursday I slept in and woke up at home. I went out and did some grocery shopping and felt stupid that I couldn't exchange German small talk with the check out woman who looked at me disapprovingly. I bought myself a full sized bottle of shampoo which somehow was incredibly beautiful after months of little hotel shampoos or no shampoo at all. I went out again and did some exploring and window shopping on the Bahnofstrasse.

I'm home now, back from an evening excursion to see "Outbreak," a fun thriller that had my back pushed up against the chair. It's funny, the bus that takes me to Manesseplatz where I live is the number 33. The bus that goes from the corner of Gordonhurst Avenue (where I grew up) into New York is also the number 33. Coincidence? I think not. I went to the pharmacy (we're not talking Longs or CVS here, this is one of these groovy European pharmacies where I consulted with the pharmacist who then pulled my cure out from one of hundreds of little wooden drawers) and my stomach is feeling better. OK, not bad, not bad, everything's starting to come together, but how about a relaxing week in Paris before starting work? OK. Why not?


FRIDAY, May 12, 1995.

I spent the last week in Paris. I hardly did a thing other than sleep, write and eat, and I loved every minute of it. I needed a vacation - as in relaxation. It was strange to be in Paris again, six months later and without Elizabeth. I did a little sightseeing - up and down the Champs Elysses, a visit to Jim Morrison's grave, strolled through the Bois Bologne. Spent an afternoon sitting at a sidewalk Cafe in Montmartre writing letters and sipping Diet Coke. Strolled by the piano bar where I had made my international blues debut in November. Popped by the Eiffel tower where I saw a Charlie Pokorny look-a-like gardener (so he says he's in a monastery near Monterey, but he's really keeping the lawn green in Paris). Visited a Dali exhibit in Montmartre - I see this stuff in a whole new light after my trip to Spain. And of course, I ate plenty of great food. Another take-out rotisserie chicken from the place across the street from my aunt and uncle's apartment. Lots of croissants and brioches and crepes. And meals out. I returned to both La Dinee and L'Os a Moelle (this time with Jack and Li-Whei) for more amazing meals. Elizabeth and I didn't always see eye-to-eye about food, but the night we ate at La Dinee in November, we were in complete agreement and squirmed in delight. I squirmed in delight again, and everyone enjoyed themselves, but Jack commented, "it looks like Brad is having more fun than me." Considering my memory of those savory shrimp, I think I was.

Photos of Paris

Photos of Paris

Photos of Paris

One day while riding the metro, I met a sixty-something couple from Vancouver who'd been traveling in Europe for two weeks. They had come from Munich, so I asked them about the accordion player, and they'd heard him too! Elizabeth and I saw him, my friends in Taormina saw him, and this couple from Vancouver saw him too! He exists! I'm not sure why this fascinates me. I think it's always nice to have one's model of reality validated by others.

Last night I met Anthony at Chez Haynes, a little jazz restaurant run by an effeminate African-American man. The band was good and it was fun to hang out in a large international crowd even if I mostly spoke with Anthony. There was even a Belgian, who was now living in Paris and perfectly willing to poke fun at her own culturally unadventurous homeland. I'd already eaten, but most people ordered dinner. Anthony ordered a salad and asked if he could have it with a hard boiled egg. The guy asked him if it said it came with an egg on the menu, and Anthony said no, and so there you have it, sorry, no egg, the customer is always wrong. Later, Anthony and I left a bit early and wanted to pay separately. We politely asked the guy to tell us how much our food and drinks had cost. He was disgusted with us, though he let us do it. He said that we were making his life difficult. He told Anthony, "You're really not a nice person." And this stunned us and set us talking about this weirdo American in Paris before we bid farewell and headed in opposite directions in the metro.

Now I have a weekend at home before I get the ol' Monday morning blues and have to earn my keep again. (Gee, I don't hear you sympathizing.) Hard to believe that I haven't worked for six and a half months. It was a strange feeling riding the train from Paris back to Zurich, a feeling that this was somehow the final journey, that a chapter of my life was drawing to a close. Anticipation. Anticipation. And there I was, off the train, two feet planted firmly on Zurich soil, and it was over. Now I have this explosive need to do a million things at once. I need to get my apartment set up, get a phone, stereo, explore Zurich, start planning little trips - I'm just dying to go to Prague. Two and a half months ago, I had nothing but time. Suddenly I wonder where the time has gone. Where can I find some more?



Copyright 1997 by Bradley Edelman
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