Surprise Switzerland Edition

I’ve always thought “paying for friends” was a silly criticism of joining a sorority or fraternity. The University of Florida has something like 50,000 undergrads. Please tell me all the ways in which it’s a bad idea to try and bring that down to a less daunting size at the age of 18, having come from a small, private school where classrooms totaled about 15 or so students. Plus, for most of us, it was the only thing we paid for thanks to Florida Bright Futures and Florida Pre-Paid. Sure, I guess we also paid for parking tickets and boot removal once the number of tickets piled high enough and the occasional $90 fee - a huge sum of money at the time - to get your car out of a tow yard when you blatantly parked in tow away zones because you couldn’t conceive of walking a distance that seems like mere steps after 13 years of New York-living, and you had that sense of entitlement only the 18 to 24-year old crowd truly can. OK, so looking back, along with my friends, we could have sponsored a scholarship program with what we paid in parking-related incidents over 4+ years. Oh my god, someone give her an Adderall stat!

My point it was a good investment. I really, really liked some of those bozos. Still do. And when I set out on my first, real solo travel adventure as a proper adult, I decided to buy a friend in the form of a ski instructor for three of my four days on the slopes. (He was unavailable the last day on account of needing to jaunt over to France and purchase a motorbike?)

I figured it was a good investment not only in terms of companionship, but also death prevention. The Alps have a different classification system for their runs, or pistes as they call them. In many cases, they’re longer, faster and harder than what I’m accustom to in Colorado. It’s not lost on me that there’s a Freudian slip somewhere in there. And Vermont doesn’t count. (Sorry!... not really... East Coast skiing is trash.)

Anyhow, I was right. Harry was British, impossibly charming and a phenomenal coach. I skied better, smarter and faster than I ever have in my life. Without him, I would have either been less adventurous and/or missed a hairpin turn, fallen off the side of the mountain and died in the valley of the shadow of the Matterhorn. If you’re going to buy the farm, it’s not a bad place…  Ma! The Adderall. Fuck! Oh, also, Harry is a surf instructor in the summer and his parents own a vineyard in the south of France. Describe a more attractive combo. I’ll wait.  

If you can believe it or if you’re even still following, this is probably a good time to mention that this story isn’t about Harry and me. Please. This isn’t a Disney movie and my life isn’t that enchanted.

Friday night in Zermatt, I went out to a place called Brown Cow. They have a menu that doesn’t involve fondue, a smell you’ll wear the rest of the night, but it doesn’t matter because it savages your stomach and you have to go directly home upon settling the bill. They also have Aperol Spritzes that only cost $9.50chf and a big, wrap-around bar which is great for dining out solo. While I sat and ate and drank, I noticed a guy sitting catty-cornered from me who was staring and half smiling every time I looked up and around the bar. He was cute, but he never came over and introduced himself when the seats next to me were occasionally up for grabs over the course of my dinner and drinks.

No big deal. I was satisfied with the evening so far and ready to move on to Gees, so I asked the bartender for my check. He walked back over and he told me, “The gentleman over there would like to pay for your dinner.” Ummm, OK, the last time that happened I think I was 21-years old on spring break in Lake Tahoe, watching March Madness with three of my best bozos, and it was less that someone bought our dinners, but sent us a tray of shots.  Probably because they wanted to get in our (much more forgiving at the time) ski pants. It probably worked, too. What?

I walked around the bar to thank the man and en route, the universe for the ego boost. Ricky was also flying solo, but as it turned out, only because his friends had severe altitude sickness. They were visiting from Scotland, so I understood maybe like 70% of what he was saying, tops. When I told him the gesture was appreciated, but not necessary, he answered back, “well, you were sitting there alone.” It took every fiber of my fiercely independent, feminist being to not take his ginormous beer and throw it in his face while shouting, “I was sitting alone because I chose to, motherfucker!” Plan B was to smile and tell him I was on a solo trip. He thought that was super cool and asked why I chose the Alps. I said I really wanted to ski and I really didn’t want to see anyone in a distinct, red trucker hat, so I flew across the pond.

As an aside, I thought that would be glaringly obvious to anyone who asked. As it were, “the screaming carrot demon in charge of the United States is ruining the country and my life” isn’t everyone’s immediate thought as to why an American might find herself in the Swiss Alps. Weird.

While we sat there talking and having another drink, now together, a few things became apparent to me. First, Ricky was pretty darn drunk – much more so than me, and I’d been drinking since my first A-Spritz at 2:30p with Harry. Adorable Harry... Second, I would not be making a night of it with my new, Scottish friend. I wasn’t feeling it. And lastly, I needed an escape plan because Ricky clearly thought otherwise.

When he excused himself to the bathroom, I grabbed my phone and made a point of being glued to it as he returned. He’d left his phone and some money out on the bar and asked me if I was going to let someone walk off with all of it. There’s my opening, I thought. I’m going to have to sacrifice the fancy cocktail bar, but I have an out! I apologized and said I hadn’t noticed any of it sitting there, but, well, you know how bad we Americans are at vacationing and I was just catching up on some work emails as it’s only about 5p in New York... and unfortunately, it looks like I need to go send something off to a client in the next hour. Fake harrumph! 

As he paid for all of this, I became even more confident in my decision because lordy, was this man drunk! He gave the bartender a laughably big tip and it wasn't because he was feeling particularly generous. He was having trouble counting his Swiss francs. I asked him where he was staying and he pointed in a direction the was opposite of my hotel. I mistakenly thought that was great, forgetting how literal I can be. The direction someone points in this state is meaningless.

We walked outside and because part of every day must involve pushing a rock up a hill, turned in the exact same direction. I crossed my arms like our president does when he threatens war with North Korea. I’d previously thought this to be a universal sign for “this isn’t happening,” in romantic encounters, but I suppose now also includes, “I don’t know WTF I’m talking about à nuclear winter!” As we continued to walk in the same direction, I got a little panicked we were, in fact, at the same hotel. He was talking about his hotel had a heated pool on the bottom floor. Mine did, too. I didn’t want this man to know where I was staying, much less what floor I was on! Visions of a drunk Scott knocking on my door opened me up to a phenomenon I like to call waking, walking night terrors.

It was at this point where I cut him off and said, “oh look, there’s the sports shop – that’s where I need to turn!” For reference, there’s some sort of sports and/or rental shop every 10ft or so in Zermatt. As I trotted down the side street, arms still crossed, I added, “Ok, well, thanks again for dinner! Enjoy your trip! Bye!” I wasn’t sure I was totally in the clear because all these streets sort of meet back up, so for good measure, I ran down a railroad track to a little passageway, all the way down to and across the river and then up another hill. What better time than the present to go check out the lobby of a nice hotel you pass every day on the way home from skiing?!

Once I was safely in the confines of my own hotel room, sans any signs of the drunk Scot, I actually did send a presentation to one of my clients. I’m not a total liar. Overall, however, a bit of a swing and a miss on a Friday night. But that’s OK. While ski season might be winding down, summer is just around the corner and I hear Portugal is an excellent place to learn how to surf. I might even need to book a lesson.