The Weekly Wad

Only Two Seasons

The wind was peeling away the last remnants of moisture and elasticity my battered skin had left. The icy cold metal of the gas pump fused with my frozen hand and it became hard to discern where the pump ended and my hand began. My mother sat in the car in heated comfort while her eldest was cryogenically freezing in a stooped, gas-pumping stance.

It’s not the snow. For all of the national joking at the city’s expense for it’s alleged surpluses of the white stuff, the Queen City doesn’t get nearly as much of it as the punchlines suggest. Many a Buffalonian would argue that what really makes the winter here so ferocious is the abject cold; the soul-destroying, lock-freezing, Bills jersey-penetrating cold. And then on some days, it’s suddenly a balmy forty degrees. Break out the Bermuda shorts.

I’m currently in month three of an unexpected extended stay in my hometown and just like before, the weather’s getting to me. This time, however, it appears as if the weather is getting to Buffalo, too. There seems to be several more school closings than I remember for inclement weather far less severe than I remember. A term like ‘driving ban’ used to be something we laughed about in reference to southern cities unable to handle an inch or two of snow. Through January and February, I’ve heard mention of a few such driving bans announced on local television. I still have vivid memories of entire winter evenings spent driving three to four miles an hour in zero visibility, using familiar rocks and trees as reference. I hope Buffalo’s not becoming as snow-phobic as Miami.

Most Buffalosians accept the harsh winter season as merely a backdrop for hockey season. Everyone in Buffalo watches hockey. It’s not to say every Buffalo-ite is a fan, although most are. Due to the ubiquity of TVs in every corner of every building, however, no one can say they’ve never watched any hockey this season or in every season past. For someone like myself who doesn’t necessarily fancy the sporting life (especially watching the sporting life on TV), it’s been slightly annoying. Bars aside, one could come across a hockey-broadcasting television set in gas stations and restaurants. For the TV-impaired establishments, a radio broadcast suffices. Conversation is eradicated once the commercials end as attempts to talk to an avid fan are met with silence and blank stares.

In suburban Buffalo, sushi and salsa music are paired together at the O Lounge; a concept working far better in practice then in theory. Their coatroom was packed with winter jackets so thick, incoming garments didn’t have a prayer of squeezing in. A good salsa band played in the far corner of the cool blue bar area and those not sitting on the backless couches off to the side were salsa dancing a tropical storm. As I sipped a decent mojito, several pairs of hips moved to the rhythmic beats. Couples were dancing as tight as the music demanded and both partners, rather than look into each other’s eyes, as they should, were looking past each other at the several flat screens filled with images of skating men being flung against plexiglass.

When the band took five, everyone – women, too – turned themselves to watch the televisions a couple of feet above eye-level while gently moving their hips in conjunction with the salsa music being piped in through the speakers. On the ice, men in skates made use of their hips in a manner that was anything but gentle. The band members themselves quit tinkering with their instruments in order to cheer on athletes using wooden instruments of their own to gain control of a hard, rubber disk.

The fresh mint at the bottom of the mojito glass began to clog the straw. As I raised my head to see the bartender about another, my eye noticed the rhythmic trance the lounge’s patrons seemed to be caught in. I couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if the power suddenly went out. Would all the Buffalologians instantly freeze, mid-salsa, with their eyes fixated on a black screen? Or would there be a mad dash to the car radios?

Mustering every last remnant of energy, I reinserted the pump back into its holster. I made my way around the front of the car against the merciless gusts of frigid air, muttering a favorite expletive over and over again. Quickly, I rapped the passenger side window. Once the glass partly lowered, a burst of warm air and soft rock came through, along with two twenty-dollar bills. Yanking the money from the outstretched hand, I turned and ambled towards the station’s mini-mart, past the sea of pumps housed beneath a much too brightly lit roof.

Once inside, the thawing began. At the register, I handed the frozen bills over to the cheerful cashier and refused the discounted car wash offered to me. On the counter sat some Sabres paraphernalia for sale along with several things my doctor wouldn’t want me to eat. The change was deposited into my hand at lightening speed. I stayed at the counter a few seconds longer than I should, enjoying the warmth and no doubt greatly confusing the teenage girl behind the register.

When I inevitably had to turn around and make the painful trek back to the awaiting Toyota, I knew it was just a matter of time before the familiarly frantic voice of an announcer would be gracing every airwave in town. The Sabres were home that evening.

I’m unsure if my mother recognized me when climbing into the car. My hair had turned white and my face was so windblown I looked like the reason dermatology is a medical profession. Trying to wrap icicled fingers around the steering wheel, I almost did a triple-take when my sports-ignorant mom commented that she had heard the Sabres were doing good. For the rest of the ride, I kept a watchful eye on that radio dial.    

Zurich With a Straight Face

What I enjoy most about enjoying a grilled sausage or wiener in Europe is the lack of buns. They only get in the way. In German-speaking and Scandinavian countries, in contrast to their Mediterranean peers, so does silverware.   

The protocol usually follows thusly: take the chosen sausage, or wurst, handed to you by a burly peddler, and hope for the best. The wurst is usually presented on what resembles a flattened French fry boat or on a napkin, which in turn serves as a palette. Splotched on the palette are some serious mustards; angry, spicy and no-nonsense, into which the encased meat is submerged. The sausage is then handled deftly on its way to the mouth. Take that sentence out of context.         

Most of the time, though, you’re rewarded with a succulent, flavorful, oral orgy making you instantly wonder why you would ever eat a store-bought hot dog ever again. In budget-decimating Zurich, a wiener is also the cheapest meal in town. I resigned myself to such a reality once I saw how shockingly expensive a restaurant meal – any restaurant meal – was.

Consequently, a whole other reality I had no choice but to surrender to was that of behaving like a true budget traveler, a heading that for the most part I’ve been able to masquerade under. The exception, of course, being the gobs of currency left on top of restaurant bills; the indiscriminate handfuls of pesos/florints/pounds/lyra given to street-side food vendors; the small ransoms paid to market stall workers. The quest to try and cram every culture, core and all, into my digestive tract has never been a cheap one.    

Several days before Christmas and the final day of my two-month slog through Eastern Europe and Egypt, my twenty-four hour layover in Zurich had to be especially inexpensive. No small feat as the Swiss have one of the highest per capita incomes in the known universe. Food aside, everything was inflated. The Swiss Franc might as well have been a goddamned gold doubloon; frankly speaking.

So I tried my best to keep it cheap. I had begun by booking the cheapest hotel I could find online, a week prior. When I had arrived at the one-star Zic Zac Rock and Roll Hotel, the attendant manning the front desk nonchalantly asked me if I would prefer the Janis Joplin room or the Bryan Adams room. Was that a real question? I had hoped for The Rolling Stones room but it was a quad. The Who and Led Zeppelin were taken and I couldn’t find a Clash room listed.

I took my key and hoisted my pack over my shoulder. Walking down what more or less resembled a hallway in a hostel, I remember wondering if trashing a room in a self-styled rock and roll themed hotel would be just too ironic.

I finally set my cumbersome bag down in a small hovel about the size of Ms. Joplin’s discography. It was very clean, though, and was equipped with a sink and a surprisingly comfortable bed. About the only thing distinguishing a Janis Joplin room from your ordinary, run-of-the-mill room was one of her album covers and a half-naked, black and white photo of her on the wall. I suppose I didn’t know what to expect from a Janis Joplin room, I had just hoped for a little more Joplin and a little less room. 

Since I arrived in the city center that morning on a quick and clean express train from the airport, I had spent the first few hours wandering the storybook (and I hate using that word, but it fits), narrow, cobbled streets of the old town. Zurich is cold in the winter, but unlike past winters, it was snow-less. In a country where skiing is tantamount to breathing, this was a local problem. Likewise, I had wanted to see snow sitting on the spires of old Calvinist churches and the soft glow of weathered, yellow streetlights struggling to penetrate the whiteness.

I didn’t, as such, get my wish. What I was reminded of, on the other hand, was how no place does Christmas like Europe. It’s not snobbery; it’s a fact. All along the city’s main shopping street, the Bahnhofstrasse, simple white lights were strung in neat rows, hanging vertically from wires suspended above. They elegantly lit up the pedestrian walkway without having to resort to candy-bright red and green lights or two metric tons of tinsel. The several incarnations of Santa were nowhere to be seen. Neither, for that matter, was a ‘Sale’ sign.

Surprisingly, Zurich (and luck) made budget traveling relatively easy. Admission to the Kunsthaus Zürich, one of Europe’s flagship modern art museums, was coincidentally free that day and, as I strolled through the minimalist art space, I couldn’t help but smile at the thought of avoiding their normal fifteen Euro extortion.

Likewise, the sparklingly efficient city buses I took to reach the excellent Buehrle gallery in the more suburban reaches of town, were free for me to hop on and off of with abandon. I’m assuming the French and German instructions on the ticket machines confirmed my behavior but there didn’t seem to be a translator anywhere in sight.   

The rest of the day was spent aimlessly – and affordably – meandering through the Old Town; crossing and re-crossing the Limmat River and finding new alleyways to wander down. Dozens of interesting cafes and niche stores were liberally hidden around dark corners and winding, narrow streets. Zurich was so easy to love, yet hard to buy. For an avid shopper, which I was not, a place like Zurich must be a window-shopping hell. How could even the locals manage to eek out a living where a cup of hot chocolate set me back twelve dollars?   

“It is expensive for us, too.” A jovial man in his mid-forties said while his wife eagerly nodded in agreement.

Hearing that was a confirmation of insanity. At Kropf, a restaurant highly recommended on the Internet, the couple, whose table they sat me at, were two immensely engaging people. While happy to join me in bemoaning the economic state of affairs, they were equally happy to recommend a good Swiss brew to wash down the only sit-down meal I, and my bank account, allowed myself to have.

The restaurant boasted a few Renaissance-esque frescoes plastering the walls and ceiling. Although, I appreciated the dramatic feel they gave the room, they were still maybe just a tad over the top. I sipped a liter stein of frigid Cardinal beer as the Swiss couple tried to explain the country’s bizarre political structure and its confusing official language policy. As the husband and wife battled with their own language confusion, I scanned the room for any other obvious tourists only to find myself alone.

By the time the waitress had made her third appearance, the happy couple wished me a merry Christmas and bade me farewell. Talking to them relaxed me and I was sincerely touched by their openness. A distant observer might have believed we were old friends, sharing a meal and not the complete strangers we were, brought together by chance and large beers.   

Before leaving, the couple and the waitress both agreed that my menu selection was, “very typical Zurich.” I had hoped she wasn’t referring to the price. While calf’s face in a vinaigrette sauce is probably not typical anywhere – save France – I was very curious as to why just reading it on the menu made my stomach growl, or moo, as it were.

Not but a few minutes later, a stout, gray-haired woman was led to my table, and seated diagonally from me. Diane, too, was generally cheery and before long, I was talking it up with her about Italian travel, food, iPods and, of course, how expensive all of those things were in Switzerland. I usually hate dwelling on money matters but it seemed to have been not only a great icebreaker in Zurich but damn near the talk of the town.   

When my face came out, I was starving. Beer has that effect on me. Far from being an actual calf face with eyes, ears, etc., the dish was the small tender bits of, primarily, cheek meat. The sauce was light, yet exceedingly flavorful. Accompanying the calf’s mug was a helping of traditional rosti, a slightly greasy, shredded potato treat resembling hashed browns. At some point in the meal, a salad also made an appearance.      

Merely two bites in and the verdict was rendered: Kropf gave good face. Diane was enjoying an upscale wurst, at a downscale price. After dinner, she bought me an espresso and ordered herself a coffee, “with a little something in it,” and we chatted about Swiss Christmas traditions while she finished her cigarette.

When her cup emptied, the nurturing Diane eventually paid her tab and said goodbye, too. I lingered on for a few more moments, surrounded by the simmering din. A double espresso goes down quicker when drinking alone, so I finished soon thereafter and then asked for the bill.

Considering my location, I wasn’t too shell-shocked by the final price. Forty-five dollars for some calf, a salad and a beer wouldn’t be that exorbitant if I wasn’t really watching my francs. The assorted company alone was more than worth it.    

Cold air billowed out of my mouth with every breath while trekking up the steep hills of the Old Town, post face. I took several postcard-worthy shots of Zurich at night from bridges or atop various outlooks. I could feel it was going to be an early night as the pains and strains of two months of travel reasserted its presence just in case I had forgotten. Not to say I couldn’t feel the allure of a dimly lit bar or a dram of whiskey cooled by two ice cubes. My joints and my mind, however, were telling me to pack it in.    

Janis’s mattress couldn’t have been more therapeutic. Cozily staring at her fake gold record on the wall, something dawned on me; the last four letters in the name Zurich. Rich indeed.