Copenhagen: Pushers and Ponies

I came to Copenhagen because I had never been here before.  And, as I was living in Maine at the time, I found a cheap direct flight from Boston to Europe.  I was mildly interested in Viking history and considered myself an avid fan of Scandinavian crime fiction, having read Stieg Larson's Millenium trilogy as well as a few detective novels by Norwegian author Jo Nesbo.  I had read a few polls stating Denmark to be the top country in several lists from the least corrupt nation, to the highest taxed, and even the happiest.  I discovered the concept of hygge through random Amazon searches and then typed in Scandinavia at the Southwest Harbor Library, which contained a Rick Steves travel guide and The Almost Nearly Perfect People, an insight into the Nordic utopia of Denmark, Sweden, Norway, and Finland. With a few months in between jobs, I decided to make a trip through northern Europe as winter approached.

I booked a room at a boisterous hostel that attracts mostly young foreigners enticed by the common room that becomes a pub at night.  I chose the hostel because of the price (about $27 per night) included a shared dinner, a bonus that fit my meager budget of $75 per day, a task that is not so easy in the highly-taxed Nordic countries.  Copenhagen is a ridiculously expensive city.  I bought a deluxe hot dog for $18 and high-quality cup of hot chocolate for eight bucks, and these were from street vendors.  I haven't considered going to an actual restaurant because the prices are too high.  This might seem miserly, but I am trying to spend over a month in these countries without over-straining myself financially.

On the first day I walked to Christiania, a collectivist hippy commune that declares itself a Free State (i.e. not Denmark and not the EU).  Originally, the man-made island was designed to fortify Copenhagen from the Swedes, who attacked the Danes quite frequently as Denmark once ruled them.  The gulf between the two countries is so miniscule that today a bridge spans from Copenhagen to Malmo in southern Sweden.  Even after Denmark had lost most of its empire, the island of Christiania was used for military purposes until the 1970s.  When the place was abandoned, squatters moved in.  The police tried to force them out, but the people of Christiania did not put up a fight and so were allowed to stay.  The social experiment began.

The people of Christiania formed a collectivist society rather than a democracy in which the majority vote wins.  In town meetings, everyone must agree on a topic before action is taken. No cars are allowed in the Free State, and plenty of creative artists have chosen to live in Christiania.  There are tiny homes, colorful shacks, quaint cottages, camper vans, and even a house made of windows.  When I visited Christiania, I saw several small children playing in a field.  A sign in English thanked me for wanting to visit the area but advised me to choose a different route so as not to disturb the kids.  The closing line was not "Sincerely" or "Thank you" but "Big Hugs."  As I squelched through the muddy, unpaved paths, I yielded to a small Danish girl riding a pony.

"She isn't dangerous," the girl said, but still I gave the animal a wide berth.

A few blocks away I found the famous Pusher Street, where dealers sell marijuana out in the open just as the hot dog vendors do.  I saw signs advertising different varieties and a price tag that said 3 g for 100DKK, which is roughly fifteen dollars.  I noticed a few vendors offered free sniffs to any potential buyer who remained unpersuaded but desired a sample.  An American I befriended actually approached a dealer with no intent to buy, as he did not smoke, to which the dealer replied:  "You should start."

The neighborhood reeked of weed, and several pedestrians smoked blunts as they walked down the street.  Marijuana is illegal in Denmark, so the place is no stranger to police raids.  The dealers sell their product in plastic containers which sit in a fold-up bag in an open stall.  This system is designed for fast escapes.  If they need to high-tail it, they simply pick up their tote bags and run.  The sale of marijuana here is no secret and has, in fact, become a tourist attraction, but most police are willing to look the other way because when drug-dealing is contained less violence ensues.

Hard drugs were once sold on the car-less streets of the commune, and a few people died of overdoses.  The Free Towners voted to evict the addicts and banned the sale of hard drugs, which opened the market for marijuana.  After a dealer shot a policeman in the head, officers shut the area down.  The dealers started battling over new turf, and violent crime rose.  Christiania opened once more, and the containment theory seems to be successful in lowering drug-related crime.  Anyone who has seen The Wire will be reminded of Hamsterdam.

Unfortunately, I don't have any pictures of Pusher Street because taking photos of dealers is a major faux pas.  A tour guide has related stories of dealers destroying phones and smashing cameras all for the sake of anonymity.  I only took a picture of the famous exit sign that reads:  You are now entering the EU.  For a place that sells drugs in direct defiance to the government, the place doesn't feel unsafe or sketchy at all.  I even saw a family of four taking in the sites, and the parents, I imagine, were explaining to their children the benefits of decriminalizing marijuana, a lesson the United States is learning state by state.  Christiania will have the opportunity to legalize weed if its citizens can scrounge up enough money to buy the land from the government so that they can form their own country.  They already have their own currency:  silver coins with decals that range from snails to a bicycle cart.

Journey's End

The Rijksmuseum treats art as therapy.  Inside the gallery, there are yellow posters strewn around various paintings.  The authors of these giant post-it notes explain art in a very warm, approachable manner.  Museum-going is often viewed as a snobby activity designed to elevate one’s status and exercise the cerebral cortex.  But the average person shouldn’t feel pressured to memorize names, dates, or styles.  We can admire pretty pictures simply because they make us happy or they make us forget our pain. 

Art doesn’t have to be cold or boring.  I hate staring at portraits of stuck-up aristocrats with pale skin and frilly clothing.  The women always look like they could use a good screw, and the men seem as though they haven’t laughed in ages.  But if I don’t want to contemplate these stern faces, I don’t have to.  I can just move onto the next pretty picture. 

“Life is short and not all artworks are doing things that you need,” the post-it note authors wrote, “We tend to blame ourselves if we feel bored in an art gallery, but boredom can be an insight:  a signal to yourself that nothing worthwhile for you is on offer.”

What if I approached life as though it were a museum filled with people instead of paintings?  Why am I propelled to make the friends I’ve made?  How have I developed these tastes?  And why do some connections tug at me just a little bit harder?    

On this trip to Europe, I have crossed paths with many strangers, and there are a few people I’ve grown to truly admire.  By the end of the tour, most of my best friends happened to be those I sought out in the beginning.  There were two picnic tables outside a London pub where we had our first conversations.  Initially, I didn’t say much to those surrounding me, but then these people became the hardest to say goodbye to.  I don’t know if this is a coincidence.  Or perhaps we can judge based on outward appearances and intrinsic qualities who would make for better companions. 

Although it is easy to get swept away with our emotions, I’m not so sentimental as to suggest I’ve gained a new family.  A bond that strong is not so easily formed in one month.  But I will say I’ve made friends I will think about when I return home.  I will wonder how their lives are different now that we are no longer together.

Before setting out on a solo journey to Europe, I had not expected to be shaped and altered by the people I met.  I adopted new philosophies and absorbed foreign accents.  Thanks to the Aussies and the Kiwis in my company, words like “keen” and “heaps” make more frequent appearances in my vocabulary.

More important than the lingo is the truth behind the words we said to each other.  We only had thirty-two days to get to know one another, so whatever was on our minds we had best say it because we couldn’t be certain we’d see each other again.  This is the fullest way to live, but not all of us can maintain this effort permanently. 

As we hugged each other goodbye, we held back tears or let them loose and made promises that we may not keep.  Plans for future reunions are handy distractions from the pain of momentary loss.  As humans, we get ridiculously attached to the people and the places we’ve come to like. 

If we could evade the tethering responsibilities of conventional life, we might delude ourselves into thinking we should stay on the bus and continue riding around Europe until we grow sick and tired of it.  We never want to leave a paradise, so long as it remains new.  But eventually even the exotic places can become too familiar, and we so easily grow weary of the same old, same old.

“The reason I like chocolate cake is because I don’t eat it all the time,” I said to my friend Dan during our last day on the ride back to London.

“Isn’t there a saying like absence——or is it distance——makes the heart grow fonder?” he said.

“Either one would do.”

Despite the melancholic partings and the lump in the back of my throat, I was eager to return home, where I didn’t have to pay to use the bathroom.  I could keep all of my clothes in a dresser rather than haul them around on my back.  I couldn’t wait to stay in one spot for a while.  But it is conceivable that I may tire of this routine and feel trapped inside the house once more.

During my habitual morning walk to the mailbox at the end of the driveway, I am bound to gaze down the block and wonder what lay beyond.  If my surroundings become stale and I grow bored with this gallery of the world, I can move onto the next pretty picture.  A desire to seek lands yet unacquainted with our eyes may drive us out of our homes, but stunning views are rarely the most satisfying souvenirs.    

Without the aid of this journal and my camera, details of this journey would surely grow foggy with time.  Even though I took care to document the events at the end of each day, moments were assuredly lost and undoubtedly exaggerated.  Memory is unreliable and imperfect, yet the company we keep does its best to leave indelible imprints.    

                

Looking at Prostitutes

Amsterdam is a city of temptation.  The stench of marijuana wafts through the doorways of coffee shops.  Plastic-enhanced prostitutes display their nearly nude bodies in the glow of the red light.  I squeezed through the skinny passageways while chewing the last bites of my chicken curry. 

With my empty takeout box in hand, I did not feel sexy, nor was I in a comfortable state to indulge in bedroom activities, yet I tried to adopt the mindset of someone hiring a prostitute for the first time.  What kind of things must happen to a person so that he can grow comfortable with this transaction?  Having sex with big-bosomed strangers is a common male fantasy, but what causes a person to act on that desire? 

According to a conventional definition, I’m not the most masculine of men.  I can’t mend a broken stair or discuss engines.  I’m passable with a hammer, and I’m strong enough to start the motor on a lawnmower.  I don’t believe these qualities make a man, but handyman skills and ruggedness have become common expectations of heightened masculinity.  Sleeping with whores is also a way to prove one’s manliness and to advance oneself in a competition of egos. 

While on this trip, I was confronted with many choices that forced me out of my comfort zone and threatened to crack the glue holding my identity together.  I had to tread carefully because I wanted to crack my outer shell so that I could grow into someone new.  But I worried about crossing treacherous lines.

I was under the influence of a new flavor of friends I didn’t have at home, and I was under the spell of foreign lands.  I had no obligations and no one telling me I was making poor decisions.  I was learning that many aspects of my personality were unshakeable habits, but some of my thoughts were not so stubborn.  Who is to say I wouldn’t be tempted by the song of the sirens?

A blonde woman with pale skin stood behind a glass door.  She was thinly clad in a light blue bikini.  Two burly men opened the door and asked for a threesome, but she denied them.

“I only take one,” the prostitute said.

I envisioned myself grabbing hold of the handle, my hands steady.  I would approach the woman confidently.  Would I greet her properly and ask how she’s doing?  Or would I straightaway ask her the price as though I were ordering a sandwich?  If I were the type of man capable to open this door, I would cut right to the chase.  I would inquire about the cost, not because I was on a budget.  The number would not deter me; one’s reason rarely conquers sexual desire.  My asking would be a mere formality, a fulfillment of the process of this charade. 

She’d close the curtains and lead me to the bed that would otherwise serve as her desk if she chose a more socially-accepted field of employment.  She would probably moan, but feel nothing, while I would be pumping mechanically, lovelessly.  Would I enjoy this fiery, shameless act of copulation?  Or would I feel empty inside knowing that, despite the friction between our bodies, there is no connection between myself and this woman?  Would I concern myself with her opinions, her feelings, her goals?  Would I wonder what she does in her spare time?  What makes her laugh?  What would she rather be doing? 

No.  I would be just another customer in line paying to achieve a dream because I could not accomplish it by my own powers.  I would dress in my same outfit, but emerge through the doorway a man with a tarnished history.  The seedy desires of foul men trap women behind glass cases, and the men, in turn, are imprisoned by their own desires.  But we did not build these prisons.  These definitions were created for us. 

Europeans are much more relaxed in their opinions toward sex, but my American upbringing was more inclined toward repression.  Although they weren’t allowed to be preached openly in public schools, Christian values always lingered in the background, and religion does much to treat the body as a sacred object.  When combined with conservative politics, the socially-sculpted mind views prostitution as shameful, but a one-sided viewpoint is hypocritical.  We are all tainted with voyeuristic pleasures, so we can’t help but look.  

We scrutinize images of strangers, and our eyes are drawn to attractive destinations.  We watch movies and stare at faces prettier than ours and wish we could look like that so that we could be looked at more often.  We can hide behind virtue, but vices and vanities are not always easy to reject.

I didn’t hire a prostitute, so instead I merely window-shopped and looked upon those beautiful women with a combination of lust and pity.  Usually it’s safer, and more socially acceptable, to look through the window.  That didn’t stop others from opening the doors, but why should it?  Those men lived in different worlds governed by laws unfamiliar to me.  They carried on fulfilling their desires behind closed curtains, but I could still picture what they were doing.  The border between thinking and doing is invisible, but that doesn’t make it any easier to cross. 

The Alpha-Male

Contiki, a tour company devoted to traveling around the globe, has developed a reputation for vacations filled with drunken debauchery and frivolous flings for youngsters clinging onto the last thread of youth.  I thought that members of my group overindulged with alcohol from time to time until I encountered another Contiki group.  In Heidelberg, Germany we met those on The Big Chill camping tour, which visited both Western and Eastern Europe for over forty days.  During the last legs of our journeys, we shared the same camping sites, and we would soon discover that they were not the most courteous of roommates.

After dinner at the campsite, both Contiki groups split into teams for trivia and games.  This was a battle of the sexes, but the men were easily outnumbered two to one.  As a result of this imbalance, there were two teams of women and only one for the men.  The trivia questions dealt mostly with history and world geography, and the games got silly before they turned strange. 

During a conversation over dinner that night, Sam, our driver, told me inevitably that an alpha-male distinguishes himself during every tour he has worked.  The alpha-male is usually a childish buffoon, eager for attention which he eventually receives by being hysterically immature. 

As if on cue, a loud, foul, and shirtless fat man chugged a plastic Coke bottle full of clear alcohol and jumped into the dirty creek near our cook tents. He splashed in the filthy water and made a lot of unnecessary noise produced only to attract an audience.

“And that, ladies and gentleman, is the alpha-male,” Sam said as though reading his lines from a clever Hollywood script.   

For the first game, contestants had to squeeze a balloon between their legs and complete a figure-eight route without touching the balloon with their hands.  The chubby, obnoxious alpha-male in the other group volunteered for the game before knowing what the event would entail.  Despite his drunkenness and overall lack of agility, the man performed surprisingly well and then took a seat onto a backless chair.  Unable to keep himself quiet and still, the alpha-male lost his balance and fell on his bare back.  Then he proceeded to roll around in the dust while his cohorts shrieked with hyena-like laughter. 

From the ground, the ogre of a man threw his nearly-empty two-liter bottle high into the air.  The bottle nearly hit a woman from the other group, but the man did not apologize.  His tour manager glared at him sternly.  Judging by his face, I could tell the tour manager had offered this look several times before and berated the stubborn oaf with futile warnings.  He seemed incredibly frustrated with having to babysit this manner-less pig. 

Nearly all of the boys from The Big Chill smoked cigarettes and sexually harassed the women in their group.  The alpha-male parodied pop songs to bully a girl whom the group calls Sloppy because she gets drunk every night.  They frequently made fun of each other’s nationalities.  One man kept repeating, “French Canadians can suck a bag of dicks.”

To top off the competition, the groups had to devise a creative way for one person to pour a shot into another’s mouth.  As the teams conferred, a guy from the other Contiki tour offered a distasteful, yet undoubtedly hilarious option.  In theory, this method would win us the round, but the only question was:  who would be willing to submit himself to such an embarrassment?  A brave man from our group volunteered, and really I could see no other option.  He was the perfect man for the job, and none of us would judge him for his sacrifice. 

A giddy excitement coursed through me.  I hadn’t felt this way since I dressed in dark clothing and threw eggs at cars with my teenage friends.  Repressed energy floods the body when you perform forbidden acts, knowing full well you are breaking the rules.  I knew what was about to happen, and even though I didn’t really condone such childish and freakish behavior, a heavy bout of laughter simmered in my gut and waited to be unleashed.

The shot was poured, and everyone crowded around the two participants.  One of the guys inside the circle lay on his back and stared up at the crotch of the other volunteer. 

It became quite obvious what would follow when this man pulled down his pants.  He then squeezed the shot glass between his butt cheeks and spilled the shot over the man’s chest below. 

The entire campsite erupted with laughter, and I couldn’t help but join in.  The scene was strikingly funny because I had never personally witnessed anything so strange.  Part of me felt like I was walking in Mia Farrow being raped by the devil in Rosemary’s Baby.  Many of our parents would not approve of this behavior, and these activities were not advertised in the brochures.  On the travel magazines, I saw conservatively dressed girls smiling in front of the Eiffel Tower.  Our group fell somewhere in the middle spectrum between these ideal portraits and the belligerent chaos I had just witnessed. 

The majority of the other group struck me as a band of mischievous, over-privileged savages with rich parents and no discipline.  Of course I had just met them and was perhaps being biased, but they did make a strong first impression.  Their immaturity made me appreciate our humble group.  We are like friendly neighbors who share sugar and flour, but some groups aren’t so lucky.  They resemble breeding grounds for anarchy.       

The Right Time to Buy

At the bottom of Jungfrau Mountain, I browsed Swiss pocket watches in the quaint town of Lauterbrunnen.  

The woman behind the counter wore glasses, and her gray hair was poofy.

“May I help you?” she asked.

 

Now that she focused on me, I could no longer peruse the watches from a safe distance.  I couldn’t skip out of the store without feeling guilty for treating the merchandise like free museum exhibits.  None of the watches had price tags on them, so I inquired partly out of curiosity but mostly due to a latent desire to possess such a significant object of class and wealth.

I told myself I may buy one that costs less than $150, but I expected to be deterred by exorbitant prices that would eliminate an arduous decision.  I find the burden from heavy contemplation is easily removed by forces outside my control.  If I simply could not afford a watch, my impulses would not have to battle my higher reason.  A debate would be impossible.    

 
Spending money on luxurious items is a lot like eating chocolate muffins.  I know the muffin is unnecessary and potentially harmful in large quantities, yet I manage to convince myself to eat it.  Every human must be installed with a self-destruct button. 

I shouldn’t buy this watch for several reasons.  I already had a means of telling the time.  I would have to pick up some extra shifts or be stingy in other areas.  Plus, I harbored a typical American anxiety toward strangers stealing my possessions.  What was I to do for the remainder of the trip?  Install locks on the zippers of my tent?  Barred access would only incite a determined thief who could easily knife his way through the nylon rain-cover.

But, another voice in my head began, I was in Switzerland now, and I don’t know when or if I would ever return.  If I managed to protect my treasure and fend off the burglars, I’d have a souvenir to cherish for the rest of my life.  This was beginning to sound like a good idea, and I could feel myself changing from an idle window-shopper into a prospective buyer.

I pointed a wavering finger at the watches with ornate covers, and the shopkeeper lay out several on top of the glass display.  I narrowed my choices down to two and began to make peace with the fact I could not back down at this point.  The watches were roughly $200 apiece, higher than the figure I intended to subtract from my diminishing savings. 

One watch was silver with the red Swiss flag in the center.  The design on the back was simple and relatively unremarkable, but I didn’t want something too flashy.  The other also had the Swiss flag in the center, and the cross was surrounded by a halo of Switzerland’s regional flags.  On a ring outside of the halo, animals were engraved in gold.  On the reverse side was Jungfrau, the Swiss Alp I visited.  The flags reminded me of all the nations I traveled to during my trip to Europe.

“The flag with the bear is for this region here,” the shopkeeper said.

“I’ll definitely remember that one,” I said, “It’s the region where I spent so much money.”

She opened the steel case and wound the watch.  As the second hand began ticking, tiny cogs spun.  I could see the mechanics of time on the opposite face of the clock. 

“It is a very strong steel case,” the shopkeeper said.  “You won’t damage the watch.”

She palmed the watch and clicked it open with her thumb.  She handed it to me, and I fumbled around with the button.

“You made it look so easy,” I said.

“Once you have handled it for two or three days, your hand will know what to do automatically.”  Her sales tactic was subtle, but effective.  I much prefer making transactions with women, who tend to be less aggressive than the men.

I handed her my debit card and said, “At least if I buy this my firstborn won’t have to.”  I was referring to the offspring that is currently only an idea and an expectation in the far-off future.  I do not even possess a mate with which to produce a child, but the jewelry commercials suggested that I needed flashy accessories to entice a woman to sleep with me.  So perhaps buying a pocket watch for my nonexistent child was the preliminary step to granting that child existence.

When the shopkeeper showed me the price in American dollars, I searched for symbolic meaning to attach to this shiny possession to avoid being struck with buyer’s guilt for accruing an unnecessary belonging.  There must be something I could signify about the nature of time and the awareness that as every second ticked away that was one second more that would never tick again. 

All that has been expressed before in a number of ways.  Nonetheless, that justification sounded better than the fact I was a victim of a consumerist culture conditioned into buying things to stave off boredom and to distinguish myself from poor people.  I was afraid my life had no meaning and buying shiny objects helped to distract me from such scary thoughts.  I could stare at my pile of junk and convince myself I was onto something here.  Surely, the purpose of my existence could be purchased at the department store, and if they didn’t have it in stock, the mall definitely would.

“You’ve been wanting this for a while,” Bridget consoled me as the shopkeeper wrapped up my Swiss pocket watch.  “It wasn’t an impulse buy.”

The truth was I wanted to want the watch for quite some time.  I enjoyed pretending to own one without actually spending the money.  I’ve developed a penchant for shopping without buying——for being a minimalist with my possessions.  Aside from my bicycle and my small library of books, all of my belongings can fit inside a large hiking backpack.  I’ve adopted a philosophy that disdains clutter and embraces simplicity, so I surprised myself when I handed over my debit card. 

Was I relapsing?  Had I already abandoned my new lifestyle?  I envisioned myself checking the time like a classy gent in upscale restaurants that warrant men to wear decent pants.  Would I have to buy new pants now?  This could really spin out of control unless I used this watch wisely.  Each time I consult the hour, I’ll remind myself to live cheaply and worry not of my humble possessions.  As I admire the cogs keeping track of the seconds, I’ll remember to never spend so much money in a single day for a long, long while. 

Hot Chocolate on the Swiss Alps

During a hot summer day in Switzerland, I lived like a king, if only kings took public transportation.  The cog railway climbed to the top of Europe at Jungfrau Mountain for a pretty penny.  For the price of my ascent and accompanying descent, I could’ve bought a one-way ticket across the United States flying with a cheap, unreliable airline that charges for an in-flight bottle of water and tries to dilute the seriousness of turbulence with corny humor.       

 

Switzerland hasn’t been this hot in over a century.  Some places reported a temperature of 35 degrees Celsius (95 degrees Fahrenheit).  But I was wearing three undershirts, two jackets, a beanie, and two pairs of socks.  While I waited for the cog train, I sweated through a few layers.  Never before had I ached for the cold that awaited me in the mountains.

As the train chugged up the steep slopes of the Swiss Alps, a gentle breeze blew through the open windows.  Several of my Australian companions were excited to see snow for the first time.  Hozza expressed concern when he noted the thickness of my insulation.  He felt he had underdressed.  Feeling a little self-conscious and over-prepared, I peeled off two of my jackets and rolled up my sleeves. 

We entered a tunnel and when we emerged on the other side we were pelted with a frigid wind.  I shivered at the abrupt transition on the top of the mountain as the temperature plummeted to five degrees Celsius (41 degrees Fahrenheit).  As I stepped off the train, I felt as though I were intruding upon the Fortress of Solitude, but instead found myself in a lobby that sold Swiss watches and hot chocolate in Styrofoam cups.  Bridget, Ash, and I walked through the door that led us through chilly tunnels to the Ice Palace.

The floor, ceiling, and walls were frozen.  The ice wasn’t particularly slippery, but that didn’t prevent me from trying to skate in my running shoes.  Along the corridor were ice sculptures of bears, eagles, and Sherlock Holmes smoking his pipe.

I noticed a horde of Asians congregating near a hole in the ice, so I followed them.  I hooked myself onto the end of a queue, but I didn’t know what everyone was waiting to see.  Ahead of me, I could only see a narrow tunnel of ice. 

“What are we waiting for?” Bridget asking. 

“I don’t know,” I said.  “But anything worth waiting for is usually worth seeing.”

There was nothing to see except Japanese tourists taking pictures of themselves inside a hole in the ice.  While standing in the tunnel, I continued to search for a reason to inhabit this space.  In the process of my investigation, I inadvertently entered the frame, and a Japanese woman holding an expensive camera shooed me as if I were stray dog.  The tunnel led nowhere, and I still couldn’t justify the expensive railway ticket.

Before heading outside in the snow, we ate lunch at the cafeteria.  Since the prices were ridiculous on top of the mountain, we munched on the snacks we carried with us.  I had francs to get rid of, so instead of throwing them into the alpine winds I indulged myself with an expensive cup of Swiss hot chocolate.  For the price I paid for some cocoa powder and hot milk, I could have bought two boxes of Swiss Miss at Walmart, but extreme elevation seemed a more fitting location to sip on this steaming brew. 

Within the central compound, a network of tunnels connected the train station to the cafeteria to the ice palace and beyond.  Having finished our unorthodox lunch composed of granola bars, apples, and crackers, we made our way to the slopes but instead found ourselves in a dark room surrounded by screens that lit up with panoramic views of the Swiss Alps.  Energetic helicopter shots were accompanied with intense, but uplifting music.  The filmmakers made the mountains seem so thrilling, and those very mountains lay just beyond a nearby door.  Yet these adventurous sneak-previews made me yearn for my uneventful house.

“Watch this makes me want to watch a movie on my couch in Pittsburgh,” I said.

Bridget pushed me forward and said, “Come on.  Let’s go see the real thing.”

The snow crunched under my feet, and the sun’s harsh light reflected off the blanket of whiteness.  Even though I was wearing sunglasses, I squinted in discomfort to block out the burning light.  Aside from being in an airplane, I had never been so close to the rays of the sun.  My body had no idea how to react to this environment. 

I was having trouble inhaling the thin air at an altitude of 3,000 meters.  I was boiling inside my multiple layers, so I shed off my jackets until I was down to a long-sleeve shirt with the sleeves rolled up.  For the first time in my life, I rubbed sunscreen over my face and then marched through the deep snow that was somehow not melting.  

The peaks dusted with white reminded me of vanilla ice cream embedded with chocolate chunks.  I felt light-headed and dehydrated in this frozen desert.  A few gulps of water did the trick, and I hiked up the hill. 

Since Bridget was recovering from a nasty cough, she didn’t want to invite this illness back, so she stayed behind.  Ash and I stomped through the loose snow and revealed our separate lives at home.  As we discussed slaughtering sheep and a liberal arts education, a couple to our left slowly propelled themselves up the incline with their skis and walking poles.  

My footing was less than secure, so I stepped into the tracks of those who traveled before me like a lazy polar bear conserving energy.

At the top of the hill, there was a wooden ski lodge.  To reach the cabin, we zigzagged up an icy path.  I clung onto a waist-high rope and remembered to have three limbs planted before stepping forward.  Reaching the top was rewarding.  We stared out at the vast emptiness of white interrupted by dark triangular protrusions of ancient rock.  Beside a Swiss flag whipping in the wind, we posed for a photo to prove to folks back home that this climb wasn’t a hoax. 

The descent was tricky.  As Ash described her home in New Zealand, I slipped and fell on my butt in mid-response.  Ash asked me if I were okay, and I said that I was, and we carried on with our conversation about an honest day’s work on a farm.  We made our way back the base and found Hozza with frozen feet but no shirt.  He was warming his toes under the sun as Lauren ate handfuls of snow beside him.  Dan was nearby, sculpting a snowman jerking himself off.  Inevitably, this is what happens when you introduce Aussies to the snow. 

Surrounded by miles and miles of ice, where the occasional butterfly flutters, I was astounded by the contrast of my current surroundings and the campground where I woke up in the morning.  I passed a waterfall on my way to the train station, but up in the Alps the water took on a new form. 

Some of my friends had never felt the snow before.  What once was a desire is now a memory as they can now recall the frost on their feet and I can remember the sun that reddened the flesh around my shielded eyes.  The land had made its mark on our bodies, but we did little to disturb those eternal formations.  The mountain had no market value; it knew nothing of economics.  We paid a handsome sum to cover the fuel and profit for the cog train.  In exchange, we had stories we could reminisce about for years to come.  It would be a shame to reach the end of this life and have nothing to say.  That thought alone is worth the price of admission.      

Show Me the Money

When we crossed the border into Liechtenstein, we entered a monetary limbo zone.  The world’s fourth smallest country is snuggled between Austria and Switzerland. If you bought something at a shop and paid with euros, you’d get your change in Swiss francs.  Switzerland is the most expensive country to live in, and Liechtenstein is the richest nation in the world based on GDP. 

Due to the wealth of these nations, my Swiss cheese sandwich at Vaduz cost me the equivalent of ten dollars.  Since everything is so expensive, I debated if I should withdraw any money at all from the ATM during my brief stay.  I decided I wanted a few francs for souvenirs.  My goal was to collect foreign coins and give them to my little brother to inspire him to travel or take interest in other countries.  With the change I set aside so far, he could scrounge up enough to buy a Coke in Greece or do a load of laundry in Spain. 

After consuming my costly lunch, I approached the ATM.  Thirty-five francs seemed a reasonable sum to spend on unnecessary items in two days, so I punched in the numbers.  The machine told me the minimum withdrawal was 50 francs.  Spending lots of money seemed to be part of the cultural experience in the Alps, so I accepted the machine’s terms and watched it spit out a crisp 50 franc note. 

I resolved to break this note into more manageable constituents, so I walked into a souvenir shop.  I browsed the magnets and found one with both the geographical shapes of Switzerland and Liechtenstein.  I ended up paying a small fortune for a refrigerator decoration, but I convinced myself I found a two-for-one deal.  I usually feel guilty for spending money due to a persistent mathematical equation I cannot erase from my mind:  STUDENT LOANS > MY PERSONAL SAVINGS.  

 

The lady at the cash register handed me two bills and a massive pile of coins.  As an American traveling in Europe, I had to adjust my definition of pocket change.  I also needed bigger pockets.  Instead of having bills, there are one and two euro coins.  Like the U.S., Europe has dimes, nickels, pennies, but they have fifty cent pieces instead of quarters.  For whatever reason, someone saw fit to invent a two cent coin. 

The only purpose this coin serves is to take up space in your pocket.  My advice is to keep one as a memento whose existence you can continue to question once you get home.  Should you receive any more of these superfluous coins, give them to a homeless person.  If there are no beggars around, then throw the coin in the trash.  See if anyone follows suit.  A revolution could arise.

The Swiss baffle me even more when it comes to their minting.  In my palm lay a massive five franc coin larger than a Reese’s peanut butter cup.  If I were to live in Switzerland, I’d abandon my wallet and lug around a pot of my coins to do all my shopping.  Swiss banks are the best in the world, I’ve heard, but now I envisioned adult arcades with loads of tokens but no lava lamps or giant plush Pikachus.  As I scrutinized the coins jingling in my pocket, I discovered the secret to Switzerland’s success.

Every time I am loaded down with coins that won’t fit into my wallet, I’ll buy anything just to get rid of them.  I’ve found that while traveling I round up to the nearest euro or Swiss franc.  If a gelato costs me €1.20, I am really dishing out €2 unless I can collect enough twenty-cent pieces to buy a one-way metro ticket. 

I never pay with change at home.  I drop my coins in a bottle.  Once or twice a year when the bottle is full, I wrap the coins and deposit them at the bank.  I’m not in Europe long enough to accrue any wealth, so I sift through small fortunes in my palm to give exact change like the old ladies who dig through their purses and hold up the check-out lanes in the grocery store.

After lunch in Liechtenstein, we drove through the farmlands and quaint villages in the shadow of the snow-capped Swiss Alps.  We stopped in Lucerne, a pleasant town with cobblestone roads and wooden bridges under which the white swans float.  

Determined to spend my loot, I was eager to taste the local cuisine.  Since I already own a Swiss army knife and I already ate a Swiss cheese sandwich, there was only one thing left to buy——chocolate.

Under a glass display case, chocolate bonbons sat, waiting to be devoured.  I only wanted one little piece, but these candies were meant to be purchased in bulk, priced by the kilogram. To avoid being judged and sneered at by the cashier, I avoided the petite treats and found a dark chocolate bar at a reasonable price by Swiss terms. 

I placed the chocolate bar on the counter, and the cashier told me the total in German.  I handed him the coins and he said merci.  I was uncertain how to respond.  I started to say danke but instead thanked the man in French.  I was lost amidst a haze of languages and conversion rates, but luckily I just purchased a cure for all ailments.

I unwrapped the foil and bit into three small blocks of the Swiss chocolate.  I chewed slowly to detect the difference from all the chocolate I’ve ever had before.  The Swiss are said to have mastered the manipulation of cocoa beans.  What I’ve discovered is that the taste of chocolate only varies in degree no matter where it is made. 

Perfection is even more perfect in Switzerland, but indigestion is universal.  No matter where you are in the world, if you consume too much chocolate in such a short period of time, you will pay for it dearly.