Fear of Freedom

The snow sits upon the hills like a blanket tucked in tight only strengthening my desire for sweet slumber soon.  With a jolt, the plane touches down and we glide into the gate.  With efficiency only the Swiss possess, we're quickly swept onto a tram, through customs, and before I know it I'm searching for the blue duffel encasing my backpack at the baggage claim. There it is.  I grab it and finally realize: this is it.  Here I am in Switzerland and what happens next is 100% up to me.  It's the kind of freedom that squeezes your heart so hard, you think it will jump right out of your chest but it somehow keeps beating, faster and faster.

Before I get too caught in the web of my thoughts, I start making decisions and making them fast.  First, it's off to currency exchange, then I'm racing out of the arrivals gate and into the main airport center where I quickly locate the sign directing me towards the Railway Center.  Only a million escalators later and I'm standing in front of a self service kiosk.  I'm proud to say I purchase a ticket to Zurich HB (the main train station in the center of the city) in German and after even more escalators, I find myself standing on a platform and then with a long hard glance at my ticket I realize . . . I have no idea what train I'm supposed to get on.  Okay, I think to myself.  I can do this.  After double checking, triple checking, and quadruple checking my ticket against the arrivals board I'm still utterly confused.  I'll have to suck it up and seek some kind soul who speaks English to help me out. And that's when I finally notice it.  All the trains will stop at Zurich HB.  So as confused as I still am, I decide to wing it and hop on the next train that pulls up.  With a stroke of intelligence (okay - maybe luck), I board and an eerily quick ten minutes later I'm suddenly disembarking in the heart of Zurich.  Well, that was easy?

Zurich HB is a monument in its own right; strong and regal it stands right on the edge of the Limmat River.  The river itself calls your attention, definitively contained by two aged stone walls and periodically crisscrossed by bridge after bridge. Clock towers are visible in the distance and I can just catch a glimpse of the river opening to the mouth of Lake Zurich.  Trying to preserve the motivation I felt before, I hit the streets hard and with purpose.  Despite my speedy pace and aching back, I am soaking up the beauty of my surroundings.  It's such a surreal experience being responsible for myself in a strange city, relying on  solely my mind and my body to accomplish my goals.  I head for the hostel I booked from home in the U.S.  If I make it by 12pm then I can leave my bags at reception until check in at 3pm.  A look at my watch tells me it's almost 11:30am (I thankfully and conveniently remembered to change it on the flight over thanks to my lovely seat neighbor, Mauricio aka Mau).  As my hostel is only a short distance from the train station, I slow my pace and try to think non-touristy thoughts to no avail.

Oh, so many cobblestone streets. And look how old everything is! Everyone's dressed in black - how European.  That view of snow-covered rooftops gracing the surrounding hills is stunning.  I absolutely must snap a photo.  Oooh and a photo of this pedestrian area! How quaint! I wish there were more places like this in the United States. 

Before I know it, I'm outside the hostel, the City Backpacker.  According to the sign on the door, reception is still open until noon.  I take a deep breath in anticipation of what is to come, having been warned by countless reviews on hostelword.com. Four flights of stairs up to the reception desk, four flights of narrow winding cramped stairs with low entryways you have to beware.  After some huffing and puffing and sweating (I'm in complete winter gear here) I reach the top and want to plant an American flag like I've just climbed Mount Everest or landed on the Moon.  It's not just the fact that I've made it up the stairs with 42lbs on my back and at least 20lbs in my hands - it's that I'm here.  I'm in a hostel that I booked myself, that I reached myself, in a country that's miles upon miles from my home and I've made it.  And I'm celebrating a little victory in my head until I read the sign that's posted on the reception door.  CLOSED. For a second I'm praying that it's a false german cognate.  I read the rest of the sign.  Nope the "Come back later!" betrays the purposeful English.  I glance at my watch - it's 11:37am.  Did I mess up the time when I changed my watch on the plane? A second, more piercing glare at the doors confirms a negative answer to that question.  In small twelve point font a sheet of paper illuminates the frustrating predicament I'm in. It lists updated hours, and yes, the reception desk closes at 11am and will not open again until check in begins at three. I guess you really can't trust everything you read on the internet - or you know, anything posted on hostel front doors.

I will not let this get to me. A few pounds of luggage can't drag me down, right? Well, physically I suppose so but I'm talking mentally here.  I can still explore Zurich.  It's only 3 1/2 hours I have to kill. Scratch that - this isn't time to kill.  I'm on an adventure and I need to remember that.  This is time to enjoy!

I set off with no destination in mind and eyes wide open.  And this is what I see:

European character

Snow-covered rooftops. 

Limmat River

 Lake Zurich

Dusk settles in.

After over an hour of walking the streets of the city, snow flurries quietly announce their arrival. The snow in Zurich doesn't simply fall; it gracefully, whimsically and daintily skips, floats, and whirls until it slowly lands upon the ground.  I feel as if I've walked into a fairytale and it, in collaboration with some rousing adrenaline, transform me into a gently wandering awestruck traveler.  But then the wind picks up, hurling sharp, cold bits of ice into my face.  The flurries disappear and the snow picks up.  My breath is fogging up my glasses.  I can't see and my bags are starting to seriously wreak havoc on my back and arms. It's time to seek refuge.  I duck into the first coffee shop I see which happens to be a Starbucks (#classicamerican).  It must have been a desire for my daily dosage of overpriced caffeine that brought me here.  And oh boy, do I mean overpriced.  You really don't want to know how much my grande cup of plain ol' coffee is costing me. Or maybe you do? It doesn't really matter as I'm telling you anyway.  It costs 5CHF and change. That's $6.  SIX! I'm sorry but what?! I try to rationalize it to myself that the warmth and the place to rest are worth it.  After an hour and half of leisurely sipping my coffee and reading a book on my Kindle (definitely a smart pre-travel purchase), I can tell you that every single franc was most definitely worth it. Starbucks saved me! As 2:50 rolls around, I'm ready to rock, rejuvenated and rejoicing that the flurries have returned.

Checking into my hostel is easy as the receptionist speaks English which isn't a huge surprise.  I head to the dorm style room and gratefully shrug off my backpack with a humongous sigh of relief.  After making my bed, I promptly collapse on top of it.  For the next hour and a half, I try to nap but simply fitfully toss and turn instead - the caffeine taking its toll.  Eventually, it's the growling of my stomach that convinces me to groggily drag myself out of the warm bed.  After wandering around the old town of Zurich I realize that most everything is closed on Sundays in Switzerland except for a few cafes, some high end restaurants and bars none of which are the sorts of establishment I'm seeking.  I find myself standing outside my hostel once more and luckily, across the street, there is a small takeaway place and I see something I understand on the menu.  Quiche lorraine! Ah bless those few years of French I took in high school and my love of breakfast foods.  I take it back up to the kitchen in the hostel and settle in to eat my dinner.  I take a bite and am immediately revolted.  It's absolutely hands down the worst quiche I have ever tasted.  I guess the Swiss Germans really do like rejecting all ties to France.  I painstakingly finish it as I don't fancy wasting the nine francs I spent on it.  The last bite is the hardest but once I'm done I grab my laptop and head down to the single common room - the only place where I have access to the magic of Wifi.  I spend an hour or so chatting with my parents and friends.  Time seems to pass so quickly as I recount the mistakes I've already endured and the success I've achieved. After several yawns and the loud complaints of an aching stomach (I don't think that quiche is sitting too well with me), I decide to call it a night.  One blissfully hot shower later, I'm back in bed snuggled underneath a cozy wool blanket.  It doesn't take too long before I'm drifting off to sleep, my body finally crashing after all the travel.  In the morning, I'll be on my way to Sankt Gallen and I have no idea what's in store.  I've learned to accept the unknowns though and this thought no longer terrifies me.  Instead, I let go of any expectations and fall asleep feeling quite peaceful and grounded.  What will be, will be.  And if I have anything to say about it, it will be perfect - mistakes and successes in all.