First Day in Zurich

The next morning I woke up early and checked out, hauling my bags across the cobblestoned and down the picturesque little streets on my way to the train station, and when the train rolled in, right on time, and I boarded and spent an uneventful 5 hours watching the green countryside roll quickly by as I sat in my luxurious second class seat complete with an electrical outlet (thank goodness) so I could blog or watch TV as I liked along the way.

I finally pulled into the Zurich train station and was immersed in an ocean of sound and movement and was totally confused as to where to go. Luckily, I found a huge board ahead of me flashing the times of all the trains that ran in Zurich, including (luckily enough) the S-bahn system, and after walking through the many corridors of the main train station I finally found the right train, and zoomed off in the direction of the youth hostel. The train spit me out some distance from the place, but some signs pointed the way, and with the help of another friendly resident, I finally arrived in front of a squat reddish-purple building in the middle of a wide residential area. Standing just next to the bus stop was a tiny black guy, who looked about as lost as I felt. I approached him and he asked me in what sounded like British-accented English where a certain street in the city was. I told him that unfortunately I was equally unfamiliar with the city, and pointed at the hostel behind me, a clear indication that I had just arrived.

He told me a little bit of his story as he waited for the bus to arrive: he was actually from Uganda, and had been living in Geneva studying computer science. He was about to begin taking classes at the University of Zurich and was looking for an apartment he had seen listed. I told him that unfortunately I had no idea where the apartment complex he was looking for was, but he looked relatively unconcerned and instead of rushing off to find his apartment as I thought he would, he simply looked at me in a simple and direct manner and asked if I had any plans for later. Usually my first night in a new place is spent walking aimlessly around anyway, so I told him that I needed to check in and run some errands, but that I would meet him inside the hostel in an hour or so. Happy to have met someone to talk to so quickly, I went inside the red-purple building and found a helpful and VERY multilingual staff who checked me in and directed me to my room on the first floor of the building.

I entered the room and was immediately relieved—this was no bare bones hostel, it had a sink in the rooms and functional lockers with keys, reading lights, and a small desk. I knew that I would be happy in the place. I went downstairs, asked at the desk and walked the short block to the nearest grocery store, enjoying my new sampling of Swiss chocolate, and dealing with the unfamiliar currency. After so many months, the Euro had begun to seem so normal that I no longer had to squint down at the coins to identify their values and could easily give cashiers exact change. On the Swiss Franc, however, I was thrown into an entirely different currency system, one which began with the huge 5 franc coins and ran all of the way down to 5 cents (or its equivalent). But every coin was the same color, and contained much of the same insignia, and size was not necessarily an indicator of the value, so I was stuck fumbling at the cash register until I could finally pick out the right amounts. But I took care of my shopping quickly enough, coming back with some veggies for the next few days and contact lens solution, and came back to a room still empty of roommates.

I met my new friend, who I discovered was named Marco, and the two of us grabbed the nearest means of public transport—which I quickly discovered was the tram, not the S-bahn—and headed toward the center of the city. We passed some very posh shopping districts, dotted with designer labels like Armani and lower scale stores like Zara and H&M, the streets filled with the tiny European women in their skinny jeans and high heels. As we rode, we filled more of the blanks in of each other’s lives—I told him about my adventures in Europe, and he told me about how he ended up in Switzerland. Then the city opened up and we reached the waterfront area, the tram swinging around to get a great view of lake Zurich and the snowcapped mountains that we could just barely make out in the distance, fading into the blue of the sky. We got off there, having no idea really where we were but content enough to walk for a while.

This was an older part of Zurich than I was living in—all of the buildings were clustered together on the waterfront and even encroached on the bridges, and in the distance we could see the steeples of several different churches soaring their ways skyward. Ahead of us, we could see a smaller street winding along, its restaurants spilling their tables out into the street, and crowds of people moving around. It was still early though, and we simply perused the options, which ranged widely from Chinese to Italian and then to what I supposed to be the “native fare”—sausages, potatoes, and beer. Much of Switzerland already seemed very similar to Germany, and the food looked like it was no different. We kept walking as the street meandered, and emerged along the waterfront, a narrow area where the lake worked its way up into the heart of the city. Farther down, it opened up into a blue and white expanse, where the city continued to border the water all of the way into where it faded into the mountains.

We stopped at about this point and picked up some fresh fruit at a local vendor, which we munched on as we walked, down to what looked like the theater district. I saw several cinemas and what looked like those old fashioned theaters, complete with the red plush seats. From here, looking back at the old part of the city, I could see the constant buzz of activity that indicated a thriving night life and a city with a lot to offer. I was excited. But by then I was getting pretty hungry, so Marco and I returned to the cramped street we had seen on the way and stopped in at a local tavern, which served a variety of meat and potatoes. Both of us ordered sausages because they were the cheapest, and seated ourselves on the long tables that filled up the hall—no individual tables for people—we ate cafeteria style, elbow to elbow with complete strangers. The place was noisy and the waiters rushed about carrying huge steins of beer and plates heaping with various types of meat. Making conversation was difficult in that place, but I managed to get Marco to talk about his experiences in Uganda, a place that I was totally unfamiliar with.

Turns out, parts of it are just as wild as the word “Africa” conveys. He said that it was still common to occasionally see wild animals in the rural areas, not the usual boring deer or rabbits, but genuine lions and gazelles. Which I found endlessly fascinating. He asked me about Florida and North Carolina, and I told him how different I found it from living in the US—the distances and the climate and the food. He agreed, but he also said that the more time he spent away from home he realized how similar every place is. He made a Uganda for himself in Switzerland, because, after all, people have more in common than their surface differences. I could not help but agree.

After we had finished up our sausage and potato meals, we took another stroll back up to where the lake tightened up into a river and various boats could be seen perched on the water, some hosting live music and dancing, and some looked like they had been converted into restaurants where we could hear the sound of voices and the clanging of dishes come over the water. I was really tired by then, and ready to head in, but Marco convinced me to stay out with him for a little while longer. Just for one drink, he said.

A few minutes later we found ourselves seated in a little restaurant in a crowded square filled with chattering people, surrounded by the low lights on the tables and the clattering of silverware. I had a glass of white wine, and he helped himself to a beer, and we kept talking for a long time. I could tell that he was interested in me, but I was not, and I decided to prematurely end the night after one drink. After all, I had wanted to interview Calatrava the next day and needed to do some last minute research so that I could talk intelligently when I met him. So after paying, the both of us hopped on the tram to take us back to the youth hostel, where Marco had also booked a night.

When I arrived, I found my roommates fast asleep in my room, so I gathered up my books and papers and moved down to the lobby to do some quick reading before turning in. It had been a long day, and after a short amount of time I was really too tired to read much more. I resolved instead to wake up early and get the rest of my preparations, my interview questions and such ready before heading over to Calatrava’s office. All I had was the address, a map, and a letter of recommendation. I hoped that it would be enough.