Goodbye Switzerland


Arrivaderci Svizzera

Mention the names, Lugano, Ascona, Locarnoand Bellinzona located in a region called “Ticino,” and the listeners might naturally assume they’re inItaly.
Send them a postcard and it might not set them straight: palm trees, mimosas, Mediterranean red roofs, loggias, azure waters with bellagio fountains piercing through indigo skies, surely this must be either the coast of the Adriatic or that of Sicily. But behind the waving but stiff date palms and velvet lilacs are telltale signs are freshly painted crosswalks, manicured gardens, punctual trains, a 6 PM curfew and men traipsing around train stations with machine guns wearing berets. You’re not inItaly anymore, Toto.

Coziness under guarded control, anarchronism versus state-of-the-art technology, strange bedfellows in an isolated, majestically storybook fantasy land with no natural resources but rock and earth. Cautious but Resolute, Welcoming, but alien, claustrophobic and prudent; clean, rich, stingy, prudent, orderly, beautiful and sparsely populated, comfortable and as transparent as a disengaged glass cable car rising up above the clouds; as quietly paranoid as a red-bellied hummingbird, with the fervent militarily mettol of Braveheart.

These are the Swiss.

Walking paradoxes, whose principal national aesthetic pitches rustic Alpine coziness against high-tech efficiency. Proud, sober and self-reliant, the Swiss have maintained so much independence and neutrality, yet remain some type of microcosm of Europe, composed of alternative French, German and Italian types. But don’t dare call them one of those. “They’re…… Swiss!”

Painfully neat and rigorously prompt, shabby and the slipshot, the Swiss have a weakness for cuteness. They indulge in coy diminutives. A German Biertsube becomes a Stubli, a Wurst become s a Wurstli. And as they fly off mountains with sticks attached to their feet they yodel in their predominant dialect, the pseudo-German dialect of Schweizerdeutsch, crackling with “K” emphasis in a innocent yet raspy Alemannic rebellion of the Country that gave them their language. Don’t dare call them German. Fur-clad socialites raise jeweled fingers at Geneva’s quai du Mont-Blanc, as the women of Appenzell stand beside their husbands on the Landsgemeindeplatz, raising their hands in the purest form of direct democracy on the planet. (They were only given that right to vote since 1991!) But don’t dare call the French.17 year-olds party their asses off in Bellinzona at a “Discoteca” for Carnivale. But don’t dare call them Italians.

And there are perks to them not being French or Italian or German. For one there is the infrastructure. Trains are always on time and seem just too clean. Hiking trails are equipped with freshly manufactured signs every 35 feet telling you your exact coordinates. The cable car has gone through myriad inspections. Curtains are broiled, hotel rooms are spotless. Cheapness isn’t offered as an option. Your clocks are all made by Rolex, and your bed linens are tossed four times a day, with a slice of chocolate turned back at night. The smoke that accumulates in the cafes are aired out, as the soil is turned in the flowerboxes in the quiet town of Goeshnen. Men with mustaches and recessed cheekbones air out their cottages each and every day to allow mountain air to flow through.

Wealthier than Sin, the Swiss are also stingier than a Mormon at a strip club. Shots are measured with scientific precision as if it was poured in lavatory beakers. Towels in your bathroom will be straightened, spaced, toes pointed in the same direction, as orderly as little Soldiers. Glass, Steel, Concrete, and the electronic turbocharged engines in the Mercedes and Alfa Romeos are cleaner than a Virgin’s honeypot. Law Enforcement agents look more like tourists, strolling through their safe, clean, boring cities making sure pedestrians aren’t deviating from the crosswalks.

In Beogoius, Zurich, behind closed doors mysteriously sly little Swiss gnome bankers rub their hands and manipulate world currencies by sitting on top of their gold, then return to their homes transient of their wealth.


Then, take a yellow “Postbus” 2,000 meters above sea level and the country is transformed. Amidst the Alpine whiteness find rocky trails and brisk clip, cheeks glowing, eyes as icy bright as the glaciers, and the healthy faces disappearing behind mirrored goggles and war-paint sun block. A Horse-drawn plow peels back thin topsoil on an impossible steep hill above the clouds in the country where the government spends as much on subsidies to maintain their farmers harvesting cheese and chocolate as they do on manufacturing.

The German-Swiss cross through the Saint Gotthard pass and emerge in blamy Ticenese Sunshine, vacationing in the Italian portion of their country. They drink Merlot and eat gnocchi while resting assured that the hotel they are staying in is strictly regulated by the Swiss Hotel association, and they are spending the Franc, not the euro.

The Italian-Swiss only constitute a mere 8% of the population.They are geographically cut-off from their northern countrymen by a mountain chain, and have a minature geography that allows from constant sunshine amidst stunning foothills. The people are more rustic than their fashionable Milanese counterparts, old women putting on wigs and lipstick like they were 7 year old Americans playing make-up. Ticino is the most glamorous of regions. Along the water promenades of Lake Lugano or Locarnoyou’ll see pollards, rododendrons, and bobbying yaughts. You’ll even see sailboats in Janurary. The mountain villages are scattered with stone huts and castles, church towers that serve as a testament to latin Dukes of Milan, from whom they gained independence from in 1798.

NJO: Originally posted on the blog Feathers of Steel at liberabit.blogspot.com.

Y'all caught that one simile, right? About what the fucking car engines are like? I KNOW RIGHT.