Day 2 Zurich

The next morning was a flurry of activity as I prepared myself for what I expected to be a stressful and trying day. I got dressed in the nicest clothes I brought with me, actually did my hair and makeup for the first time in weeks, and walked down to the breakfast buffet. The food was actually quite good—with a wide collection of cereals and yogurt I couldn’t be happier. After some mornings with just bread and nutella it was all I could do not to crack a huge silly grin on my face. Its amazing after so many months of traveling how much a simple thing like a good breakfast can affect my mood—and I was certainly cheered by this one. I seated myself alone at a table and prepared to experience another one of those awkward mornings. Breakfast is always the worst time when eating alone, because everyone at the hostel is up and moving and it is quite clear who is traveling solo. And no one really wants to sit and chat so early.

Luckily for me in a few minutes an Asian man about my age sat down across from me and introduced himself. Space was filling up at the tables and no one really had the option to sit all alone anymore, and I guess he figured I looked the friendliest of all the solo travelers this morning. I expected him to just sit there and munch on his cereal, but instead he looked right at me and asked me how I ended up in Zurich. I told him that I was a Davidson College student writing a thesis on stadium design and that I hoped to interview Santiago Calatrava. Turns out he was a recent graduate of Stanford, who was in Zurich for a summer job and who had majored in English and wrote a thesis on Thomas Jefferson’s relationship with his wife, who died young. He told me that despite all of the Sally Hemmings scandal, all evidence seemed to indicate that Jefferson and his wife had a very loving relationship, one that was completely enigmatic because after her death he burned all of the letters that they wrote to each other, save for one, which was discovered in a writing desk in a secret compartment. The letter contained a quotation from a now-obscure fiction book which they each copied, something that evidently meant a considerable amount to both of them. But there are no explanations, and this guy apparently meant to make some in his thesis. I found it incredibly interesting, that someone could write an entire thesis about something so specific that happened in someone’s life.

Turns out that he was an art history buff too, and when I told him about all of the art museums that I had been visiting, he immediately chimed in with a “well, have you heard about Art Basel?” I said no, and he proceeded to tell me about an incredibly famous art exhibition that was taking place in the next four days in the city of Basel, only about 1 hour away from Zurich by train. There, I would find the biggest art exhibition in the world, with dealers coming from all over the world to display and sell some very important pieces of art, stuff that I had seen in my textbooks—works such as those by Warhol, Giacometti, and Klein. I was intrigued. I thanked him for his advice, and he told me that a friend of his had managed to garner an interview with Frank Gehry with nothing other than a letter of recommendation. So it looked like my odds were increasing.

I suddenly looked at the clock and realized how much of the morning had flown by while I was just sitting there. I needed to finish getting ready and make sure I had all of my papers and interview questions in order before meeting the big man himself. So I said goodbye to my new friend, thanked him immensely for helping me find interesting things to do in Switzerland, and I finished getting ready.

The whole bus ride to Calatrava’s office I was incredibly nervous. What would I say? Would he listen to me? Would he even be available? I watched the streets whiz by out of the window as the tram as my stomach slowly turned itself into knots, and when I reached the right exit, I got out and started walking up the street in question, looking for number 5. I started a few blocks into the city, but as the numbers kept going down I continued walking toward the waterfront, and the shops and businesses gave way to a residential area with stately homes and well manicured yards. This seemed like the wrong place, especially when I dead ended into a museum. However, right before I reached the museum I came to house #5, and under the brass plate with the buzzer was the name “Calatrava.”

However, it looked like there was some sort of serious construction or maintenance work going on around the house—a few crews of men in stained dirty jeans and shirts were carting around heavy machinery. One of them, seeing me hovering about the entrance, asked if he could help me find what I was looking for. I responded by asking if this was Calatrava’s place… and to my surprise it was. The man gestured for me to come with him—his English was not very good and he directed me to someone who would be able to help me find Calatrava better. After trying to explain my situation in Spanish to another worker, he eventually directed me to come inside the house where I stood uncertainly, looking at the sleek sculptures that appeared here and there between the pieces of spare furniture. A young man wearing all black with a slicked down head of dark curling hair approached me and in a strong voice (and perfect English) asked me “so you have come to see my father?”

I guess I was so wrapped up in Calatrava as an architect that I had forgotten that he was a real person too, with a real wife and real kids—one of whom happened to be standing right in front of me with a cool appraising expression. I stammered out an answer—something about wanting to talk with Calatrava about his Athens Stadium designs. His son nodded once, and told me that Calatrava was not in Zurich. He was in Greece (go figure—I had been there less than three weeks ago). However, his son told me that I could go to his offices, which were located all of the way across town. This, incidentally, was the house, which had been used as an office until Calatrava’s business expanded so much that he needed more room. The house was in the midst of renovation, but even with the noise and the dust I could see an elegant traditional looking building with individualized touches by a creative mind. The banisters on the stairs had a curving, sensuous quality that were at odds with the more traditional upright posts. Even the lights that lined the hallway were taken out of Caltrava’s own sketchbooks—I recognized the shape of the man-making-an-offering from his materials about the Bahnhof Stadelhofen station in Zurich.

His son walked me into what looked like an office—a low light wood table set into the wall with a computer, and a larger pine table where he got out a sticky note to give me the address of the office. I showed him the map of the metro and trams that I had with me, but it was small and so he decided to make sure that I wouldn’t get lost by bringing me upstairs to the main office, a sunlit room with watercolors of bulls by Calatrava himself adorning the walls. His son started up the black desktop and printed out a mapquest blow up of the area of the city. He asked me what my other plans were in Zurich, and I mentioned Art Basel, and he nodded quickly, adding the names of a few other art museums in and around Zurich that he particularly enjoyed. I asked him what he studied—his knowledge of the art scene in Zurich seemed to me to indicate a profession similar to his fathers. “Law,” he replied. So much for that conjecture.

With my new maps and directions in hand, I shook hands with Calatrava’s son, who promised to call ahead to the office and tell the people working there that I was coming. Maybe they would let me see the archives! I was full of hope as I trudged back down the road to pick up the metro. And the nervousness nit me again; my stomach turned into knots as I went back over to the part of Zurich from which I had come, got off at the Bahnoff Enge station and walked the few blocks to a brown three story building.

I saw the same brass engraving on the gate, and rang it to be buzzed in. I entered the office where I found a few secretaries typing away at their desks. They looked surprised to see me. I went over and introduced myself to one of them, a woman with long dark hair, and she eyed me with a disapproving glance and told me that there was no way I could just waltz in to the office without an introduction and expect to see anything. I told her that I had a letter of introduction sent, and showed her the copy I had in my hand. She shook her head, and told me that it was too late notice to expect anything. She said that she would call Calatrava and ask if I could see the Athens materials, but that I should not expect much. I was apparently violating some kind of protocol.

I thanked her and promised to call her back later that afternoon, and rode the tram back home, fighting back tears. I had come all of the way to Zurich, I gotten myself a letter of introduction that had been in the works since January… I just kept kicking myself for not emailing Calatrava myself when I had the chance. I had written a letter way ahead of time, and had expected it to be forwarded along with my letter of introduction months ago, but somewhere between me going abroad and my contact being busy it had not happened until a few weeks ago. It was so hard for me to believe—I thought that I had done everything right and to see it blow up in my face was hard to take. I just hoped that my last ditch efforts would pay off with a chance to see Calatrava’s offices and papers.

So I returned to the hostel to wait. In the meantime, I checked the internet and downloaded every single possible article I could find on Calatrava and his works on the Olympic Stadium, taking notes so that I would know what to look for when I hopefully would get access to the archives. I did not want to leave, I only counted down the minutes until 4 oclock when I could make the phone call. When I did connect, the same woman only had more bad news—due to the late notice my contact had given, and because I was too stupid to do it on my own, I was not going to be able to see the archives after all. I was crushed.

I stumbled out into the late afternoon, determined to get as far away as possible from the hostel and from the whole waste of a day I was stuck in. On the way I ran into Marco, but I was not in the mood to chat or to entertain someone I was not interested in at all, so I told him my sob story and said that I would not be good company. I needed to get out and be alone for a while.

My wanderings took my to the Kunst Museum, which was located in a sleek looking modern building with a huge bronze sculpture located out front. It was a sculpture by Auguste Rodin depicting scenes of the gates of hell—twisting and turning figures trying desperately to avoid the inferno. It was positively magnificent. I stood in front of it for a few minutes before walking into the main lobby where there were a number of more Rodins adorning the entryway. And into the main lobby of the museum, where I bought my entrance ticket, busted out my sketchbook, and lost myself in the soothing silence of the modern art museum. I was greeted by some figures from my Contemporary Art class—Giacometti—who I discovered did more than the attenuated sculptures that I knew him by. There was also George Segal, Richard Hamilton, Robert Rauschenberg, Barnett Neumann, and Mark Rothko. I was happy to see them, for the first time outside of a textbook, and spent the better part of the afternoon drawing and looking at all of the pieces. It lifted my mood immediately, and I lost myself for a few hours.

I emerged from the museum in the fading light, and watched the sun going down across the lake. I took my time getting home, and I walked across the bridge and saw the snow-capped mountains in the far off distance. I kept going, reluctant to take the trams when the scenery close by was so beautiful. It was a lovely night, and I had to keep moving in order to keep from getting too cold. It was remarkably pleasant, and I went through a number of parks and passed a lovely restaurant in an old house in the middle of the forest before continuing on to the hostel, arriving just as the last gasps of light faded from the sky. I was tired from the long and emotional day. I walked into the hostel ready to prepare myself for some picnic food and a movie to drown my sorrows.

On the way in, I spotted a girl doing what looked like architectural drawings. Never shy about asking people questions, I plopped down next to her and introduced myself. She was a student that went to some school in the Midwest, and she and a group of students were studying architecture in Zurich for about 4 weeks. I asked her questions about what she had seen, and she showed me her book of famous buildings in the area, and recommended some places for me to see, including the Corbusier House, which I had missed and my parents had also recommended, as well as a few other Calatrava buildings in the area. She and I talked architecture for a while, which got me really excited, but I was getting tired and I could see that she had work to do so I said goodnight and went my room. My roommates had arrived already, but I had not said much to them yet besides telling them of my plans to head to Basel the next day. Neither of them had been, but it sounded like a good idea to both of them.

After talking for a few minutes, we all decided to go to sleep. I was getting up early the next day to take a train to Basel…