17 January 2005

So last week as I was walking down the street after dinner one night, I all of a sudden realized that I haven’t seen a limo or a stretch SUV in months. Months!! Apparently, the term “party like a rock star” is a foreign concept here, since you never see people sliding out of a stretch Hummer to dodge the velvet rope and go to the VIP room, for the most part due to the lack of stretch Hummers, velvet ropes, and VIP rooms. In fact, since many bars here close rather early, compared to the 4 a.m. closing time of most Manhattan bars, there is not a lot of time to party like a rock star. On the other hand, many Swiss will party like high school ravers, since the Ecstasy-heavy clubs stay open quite late, and the guys get spiffed up in their tapered, ankle-length pants (it would be unheard-of for guys to wear pants that come within an inch of the ground), and girls wear their sassiest 80’s gear, and they stay up until all hours, awkwardly twitching to endless techno. Party on, Wayne.

The Swiss like everything to be predictable, efficient, and functional, which really makes life easier in many ways, since you always know what will happen, and when. Sometimes, however, the system doesn’t make it as far as you would like, and you will come across a blatant oversight in logic and practicality which makes you think that sometimes, the Swiss like to smoke a little too much crack. There is one thing in my apartment that I silently curse out every time I use it, and that is my shower. The bathtub is a normal bathtub, with a normal faucet and normal taps. The showerhead is a standard European showerhead, attached to a flexible hose and mounted on the wall.

OK, fine, so what’s the problem? The problem is that someone decided that it would be great to have some cabinets in the bathroom, and that the best place to put these cabinets would be *in the shower.* So along the entire length of the bathtub, there are cabinets that come down to about 5 feet, 3 inches, forcing anyone who is not a Munchkin to either hunch down or tilt to the side while taking a shower. I’d like to note that there are lots of other cabinets and closets in my apartment, and that these particular cabinets are unused, because there are few things that I want to keep in cabinets that are in my shower, since I imagine that things get rather humid in there.

One thing that I find rather quaint here, in a strange way, is the Swiss insistence on keeping a “strong military.” All able-bodied males are required to serve in the military, and after an initial, intensive 4-month training period, they are required to go back for two weeks of refresher service every two years for 22 years. They are issued assault rifles, which they keep at home, and 20 bullets, which are numbered, so that when they check in every other year, it can be ascertained that they are returning with the same 20 unused bullets (now there’s a career to brag about, checking the serial numbers on bullets). There are about 1 million people in the Swiss army (and yes, they do get Swiss army knives), and the Swiss air force proudly flies about two-dozen American-made fighter jets, for annual military expenditures of about $3 billion. What I find quaint about all of this is that the Swiss are so convinced that it is absolutely necessary and fully effective to maintain this military force, as this gargantuan military deters attacks from Switzerland's many enemies, and fends off invasions by evil nations hungry for Swiss cheese and chocolate. (I would like to note that the always-brilliant Dubya was absolutely certain that Switzerland did not have an army at all, so I'm a little skeptical of the deterrent value of an army that some world leaders know nothing about).

Two questions: first of all, who would attack Switzerland when it holds the money of all of the most influential people around the world, and second of all, would 1 million semi-trained ground troops and two dozen planes really hold off a full-scale attack from any larger country? It reminds me a little bit of the rose in The Little Prince, who boasted that the tigers and their claws were no match for her four thorns.

And on a completely unrelated note, I was in a gas station market over the weekend, and realized that the mini-marts here are of an entirely different ilk than those accompanying Exxons and Texacos in the States. No Slurpees or dancing hamsters, no hot dogs of questionable age and origin. Here, you go to the gas station market when the regular grocery stores are closed (any time after 8 p.m.), and you can buy baguettes, frozen foods, fruit, and other foods that do not begin with Nacho Cheezy or Blue Razzamatazzberry.

I would like to note that my favorite item for sale was called “Crack Sticks,” which were just frozen fish sticks, but I just love the idea of having a conversation such as the following, “Honey, I’m going out, do you need anything?” “Man, I really want some Crack.” “Well, I don’t know where I can get you any, it’s 8:15 at night!” "Go to the gas station, look for Frank, and ask for Crack Sticks. In the meantime, I'll finish putting those cabinets in the shower.”