*     *     *     *     * 

     In spite of this first impression, over the ensuing five years I was slated, on average, to do layovers in Zürich every three months; stumbling across serious crevasses in Zürich’s society.

     During the spring of my second year of layovers at Zürich, I chanced upon something odd as I explored the  Altstadt.  On several different narrow streets, I observed businesses with their plate glass display windows caved in.  

     A few still had a brick lying in the middle of the display.  So naturally I assumed they were victims of “smash and grab gangs.“  However, what would one “grab“ of value out of travel agencies, real estate offices or bakeries?  This made little sense.

     A couple of months later, in the summer, I did another layover in Zürich.  Coming out of my hotel, I decided to catch a matinee of the latest Batman flick.  

     As I wandered in the Altstadt, once again I took note of more smashed display windows.  Eventually I reached my favorite bakery, where I’d purchase amazing, Swiss chocolate-filled, butter croissants.

     Blocked arteries and heart attack here I come, dear reader!  But what a delicious way to go!

     Sure enough, someone had pitch a brick through “my bakery’s“ display window!

     Except “my baker,“ dear reader, being a clever fellow, turned tragedy into enterprise.

     Instead of boarding up his window, as others were doing, “my baker“ picked up all of the long, broken shards of glass and glued each one back together with silicone; centering the brick in the middle.  It appeared as if the broken glass and brick had been suspended at the instant the brick penetrated the plate glass!

     Because of “my baker’s“ new display, dear reader, both locals and tourists flocked to his bakery.  If only to satisfy their curiosity: “Hey, baker, what’s with the brick floating in your display window?“

     After the movie, I came out of the theater and absently strolled the narrow, cobbled streets, as I mentally wrestled with where I should have dinner.  I was leaning towards a place that served excellent Kalberwurst, a veal sausage cooked in onions and gravy, with a side order of Rösti – a Swiss version of crunchy hash browns – and washing it down with a Stadtbüheer (Swiss lager).  

     I stepped out on the intersection of a narrow, cobbled cross street, as I drooled deep in thought, and detected movement off to my right.  Looking in that direction, I discovered a line of 50 Swiss Policemen, standing shoulder to shoulder in riot gear, roughly 20 feet away!

     One of the Swiss cops stepped forward – shouldered a 12-gauge shotgun with an orange stock - and fired!  As I turned to see what he was shooting at, I felt the round’s shockwave snap past my face!  At the other end of this narrow cross street, I found a milling crowd of university students.  The round struck one of the students in the chest – knocking him onto his back – while bouncing off his chest and landing on the cobblestones!  Evidently it was a non-lethal bean bag projectile.

     Afterward I heard this, “Thump...thump...thump...”  Glancing back at the cops, I spotted them pounding on their transparent, polycarbonate, riot shields with batons in unison, as their line advanced towards me!

     Needless to say, dear reader, I got my furry, aviator’s buns out of there!

     Reaching the cramped, sterile lobby of my hotel, I rang the bell at the front desk.  The day manager came out of the backroom, heaved an impatient sigh, and placed both hands on the counter.  He was a small, wiry young man, with sandy hair and watery blue eyes – wearing a white shirt with red tie and dark slacks.

     “Yes...what is it?” he asked impatiently.

     “I was almost shot by r-riot police,” I replied.  “Would you please t-tell me what in hell is going on?”

     The manager then did something, dear reader, that I personally found was so rude...and so Swiss.

     He made the sound of a boy farting - waved me away with his hand – dismissing me and said, “It is nothing.”

     And this SOB actually started to turn his back on me to leave!

     Prompting me to grab his red tie – jerking him back to the counter – as I said, “Listen, pal, I-I was damn-near shot!  You better tell me what the fuck is going on, or I’m c-coming over this counter!”

     “It’s the students!” the manager sputtered.  “They’re upset with the rents!”

     “W-What?” I asked, as I let go of his tie, allowing him to step back.  “What the Devil are you t-talking about?”

     As he straightened his tie, the manager said, “The landlords got together and increased the university students rents.  They sometimes riot in protest.”

     “Is that why I’m seeing b-broken display windows in the Altstadt?“ I asked.

     “Yes...“ he replied.  “The students break the landlord’s windows.“

     The Zürich “broken display windows‘ mystery“ was at last solved, dear reader.  Now was that so hard? 

     For their guests‘ safety, why couldn’t the hotel put up a sign in the lobby warning them to watch out for riots?  This is not exactly rocket science.  It’s merely common courtesy for the hotel‘s customers‘ well being.  Only what do I know?  I’m neither rude nor Swiss.

     And speaking of rude, the following year while on a Zürich layover, I experienced another rude Swiss awakening.

     It was a beautiful, late afternoon summer’s day, and I decided to take a lazy stroll down to the Platzspitz (Riverside Park).  As I hadn’t been down that way in a year or two.  I crossed the Limmat River using the footbridge and entered the park at its sharp point.  Approaching the park, I observed approximately a hundred people milling around.  On previous visits I’d never seen so many people in this relatively quiet, empty park.

     “Oh goody, it must be a summer crafts fair,“ was the first thing that popped into my mind, dear reader.  I love local artsy-fartsy fairs.

     Therefore I greedily waded through the mob, to the nearest temporary kiosks, to see what crafts they were hawking.  As I approached the first one, I came to an abrupt halt; my sneakers were “crunching“ on something.  Looking down, I was surprised to find all manner of litter, which was peculiar since this park had previously been litter free.  Upon closer examination, my surprise turned to horror; amongst the litter, I was treading on used hypodermic needles!

     Where in blue blazes had all this come from?

     Carefully watching where I stepped, hopefully avoiding a puncture and a dose of AIDS, I reached the first kiosk.  Which consisted of a filthy table, scarred with cigarette burns, and propped up dirty blankets for walls.  The proprietor sat on a wooden crate, and was a long-haired, greasy, hippy-type in soiled clothes, who didn’t much seem to mind his deplorable state as he rocked back and forth, eyes closed and totally zoned out.

     Glancing down at the table, I examined his wares for sale: weed, meth, coke and heroin, plus the paraphernalia!

     Expanding my vision, I noted many more kiosks displaying the same items, encircling the park’s picturesque, 1898, bandstand-gazebo.

     I’m in a nightmare, dear reader!  Without a cop in sight!

Where are those damned Swiss riot police when one needs them!

     My next mistake was turning my attention to the hundred young people surrounding me.  Many were zoned out on drugs; lying in the littered grass, leaning against trees, or atop the low concrete wall where the river flowed.  Others were either lighting up or shooting up.  Scabs and track marks easily visible on their naked arms.

     At that point it hit me, dear reader, I’m literally surrounded by a hundred junkies!  Making me feel as though I were a Thanksgiving turkey waiting to be carved, for I had wandered into the perfect place to be mugged for drug money!

How I longed for one of those Arab shitholes in the Middle East, where the goats feed on garbage in the street, and where I’d be one hell of a lot safer than here in “civilized“ Zürich.

     Beating it back to my hotel, once again I’m ringing the bell at the front desk in the empty, cramped lobby.

     And would you believe, dear reader, my old buddy, the wimpy manager with the red tie, came out of the back room. Except this time he maintained his distance; well out of grabbing range.

     We had words regarding the insanity I had witnessed.  I then asked why the hotel wasn’t warning its guests to avoid the Platzspitz, so they wouldn’t risk getting mugged or killed by a hundred junkies!

     I swear to God, dear reader, this little, Swiss weasel waves me away, saying, “This is not the hotel’s problem.“

     Inspiring me to vault over the counter.  The manager spun round, zipped inside the back room, slammed and bolted the door before I could get to him.

     I had unwittingly stumbled upon a “great Swiss social experiment,“ the policy of decriminalization for drug users.  It began in 1987, failed miserably, and was shut down in 1992.

             *     *     *     *     *