Regaining the Perfect Travel Companion - Switzerland Travel Story
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Title: Regaining the Perfect Travel Companion
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Switzerland robbed me blind. Unlike upfront countries like the Netherlands who housed their thievery in shady looking men lurking about the train station, Switzerland ripped me off by casually charging US $8 for a lonely piece of cheese (albeit a savory slice of fresh Alpine Gruyere). By maintaining a steep exchange rate on the Swiss Frank while all of the surrounding countries are dominated by the near-equal Euro, Switzerland can be exorbitantly expensive for a backpacker.
Needless to say my travel companion, Amy and I were choking our already tightly pulled purse strings. Worries about our restrictive budget amplified in Geneva where money appeared to be a non-issue for everyone else. I guess all the money saved in taxes from Swiss bank accounts go towards brightly colored Ferraris and horology. The scenic, cosmopolitan city is immaculate and efficient- two traits that seem only imaginary to its lower Mediterranean neighbor, Italy.
Despite the ash-blue Jura Mountains reflecting ethereally into Lac Leman (Lake Geneva), team morale was down. Amy and I were languid and weary; the mid-August heat hanging on us like a drunken friend who refused to just go to bed. Over a sweating crock of velvety, yet pricy fondue, I silently established that fiscal worries were just a front for what was really wrong.
Amy and I had traipsed around Europe together before, and we had never allowed something as trifling as what we carted in our wallets get us down. We were a dynamic team- tried and tested. We perpetually had this infectious, extroverted spirit that steered us towards remarkable people. After each adventure we’d return home with elaborate tales as souvenirs to disclose to our friends. We were a Swiss clock- efficiently playing off of each other’s strengths (I was the navigator, Amy the researcher), and blasé enough to allow for the unplanned (O.K. maybe we were more like the slightly less proper Cuckoo clock).
The dynamic between us was distorted. There was only one thing that could be responsible for skewing our usually parallel mindset. Something was unspeakably erroneous: Amy had a boyfriend! Am I being overdramatic to conclusively assume that this was the problem? Not at all. When you’re only traveling with one other person moods- weather they be positive or negative- are fluid and contagious. Her lack of energy to put herself out there had gotten to me, and I was now just as guilty of harboring a reclusive attitude.
We needed a brilliant night out to emerge from this slump. Because we didn’t have the kind of funds required to properly live it up in Geneva, we decided to do the next best thing: dress like we could. It was early enough in our journey where we still had clean clothes, and were willing to put in the effort to fix our hair and put on makeup. That evening we’d resolved to morph into “champagne backpackers.”
Ah, the champagne backpacker. Every traveler has encounters these esthetically indulgent creatures often in the obvious, must-hit cities like Rome, London, or Paris. Although often female, the rare male champagne backpacker can be spotted by the gleam in his illuminatingly, gelled quaff, or his sharply starched, trendy button-up shirt. Females can be found packing straightening irons, or tooling around cobblestone streets with wheelie luggage instead of backpacks. Contrary to their finely tuned appearances, they are still patrons of hostels and other fiscally un-intimidating backpacker joints- thus their acquired oxymoronic name.
On the topic of the champagne backpacker, one must be sure not confuse the term with the habitually opposite “backpacker snob.” The backpacker snob is often found in remote, off-the-beaten-trail locations frequently characterized by daunting environmental conditions like the Kalahari Desert, Tibooburra, or the island of Khai Nok. Regardless of your personal past, the backpacking snob has always traveled longer than you, farther than you, and has been without food longer than you. To the backpacker snob even brushing your hair is over-indulgent. If you tell them a story about meeting a bunch a Portuguese students who let you crash on their floor, he’ll turn around and show you the tattoo the Maori people of New Zealand gave him during tribal incitation.
Despite varying habits, open-mindedness is the advised mentality in dealing with all schools of backpacking- after all, the common thread is that we are all travelers, and we’re here to learn from each other. Having encountered creatures of these habits, I had seen first hand the rarity in finding a perfect travel companion. That is why I strongly resolved-with all the vigor of the Jet d’Eau (the 476 ft fountain bursting out of Lake Geneva)- to get her back!
Even with our newly polished panache and my determination the outlook was bleak. We ambled across the Pont des Bergues- a walking bridge across Lake Geneva to the Old Town: the less austere, more picturesque part of Geneva. Along the bridge just about where it veers towards the Ile Rousseau where a formidable statue of the Genevan Philosopher, Rousseau stands, a well-dressed guy about our age stopped us and began asking us questions in French. Picking up on the befuddled expressions, he promptly switched to English, and asked us what we were up to that night. In a gesture that serves as a microcosm for the monotonous, unexciting travelers we had become, we brushed him off saying we had to meet friends. We atypically weren’t seeking adventure. Fate had thrown us a bone, and we decided to be picky eaters. We used to leap at chances to party with the locals! This withdrawnness had to end!
I sat in the balmy evening imbibing a vodka Red Bull at a desolate outdoor bar, and detested the lack of vibrancy around me. The charm of the meandering streets was lost on me. Where was everyone? I was ready to put an end to my accidental exile! It was then Amy said: “On nights like tonight I’m so glad I have a boyfriend.”
I seriously entertained the though of digging out my giant-sized, triangular Toblerone bar and clocking her on the head with in. Reading my reaction we both admitted that this night, and more imperatively- this trip, had to be salvaged. It was then fate, patient as ever, gave us another sign in the form of 15 Swiss guys rancorously flooding past our bar.
“Let’s see where they’re going!” I jumped up, and pushed Amy, a universally beautiful blond, to the front of the pack. She may have had a boyfriend, but after our day of moping (and the last pissed-off glare I shot her way) she astutely picked up my desperate vibe to transform the situation. Instead of the tethered friend generating tragic I-miss-my boyfriend energy, my gregarious, fun-loving friend was back convincing these guys that they absolutely had to take us out them tonight!
We had one of those nights a tourist group was incapable of organizing no matter how much you paid. We danced all night in an underground, cave-like nightclub to pulsating French Trip-Hop. Our new friends kept us in stitches buying round after round of colorful cocktails without asking us to pay for a thing. They seemed to know everyone in the entire club. It was like one big house party sans the cheap booze and basement decor. What really topped off the whole night is when the guy we met on the Pont des Bergues randomly showed up and gave all of our new friends massive, brotherly hugs. Amy and I sheepishly smiled at him, and offered a shrug. He let it go in that delightful “ce la vie” manner the Genevans surely adopted from the French, and joined in the flowering festivities.
At an obscene hour of the morning we said goodbye to our 15 new Swiss best friends, and left the club. We played hopscotch along the lakeside promenade to avoid getting our high heels stuck in between the cobblestones. We jovially bounced along with the bobbing yachts in the moon-kissed water. Instinctively knowing that the brilliant night had been the successful catalyst to burst us out of our mediocrity, I turned to Amy and lightheartedly retorted, “On nights like tonight I’m so glad I don’t have a boyfriend.”
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Switzerland robbed me blind. Unlike upfront countries like the Netherlands who housed their thievery in shady looking men lurking about the train station, Switzerland ripped me off by casually charging US $8 for a lonely piece of cheese (albeit a savory slice of fresh Alpine Gruyere). By maintaining a steep exchange rate on the Swiss Frank while all of the surrounding countries are dominated by the near-equal Euro, Switzerland can be exorbitantly expensive for a backpacker.
Needless to say my travel companion, Amy and I were choking our already tightly pulled purse strings. Worries about our restrictive budget amplified in Geneva where money appeared to be a non-issue for everyone else. I guess all the money saved in taxes from Swiss bank accounts go towards brightly colored Ferraris and horology. The scenic, cosmopolitan city is immaculate and efficient- two traits that seem only imaginary to its lower Mediterranean neighbor, Italy.
Despite the ash-blue Jura Mountains reflecting ethereally into Lac Leman (Lake Geneva), team morale was down. Amy and I were languid and weary; the mid-August heat hanging on us like a drunken friend who refused to just go to bed. Over a sweating crock of velvety, yet pricy fondue, I silently established that fiscal worries were just a front for what was really wrong.
Amy and I had traipsed around Europe together before, and we had never allowed something as trifling as what we carted in our wallets get us down. We were a dynamic team- tried and tested. We perpetually had this infectious, extroverted spirit that steered us towards remarkable people. After each adventure we’d return home with elaborate tales as souvenirs to disclose to our friends. We were a Swiss clock- efficiently playing off of each other’s strengths (I was the navigator, Amy the researcher), and blasé enough to allow for the unplanned (O.K. maybe we were more like the slightly less proper Cuckoo clock).
The dynamic between us was distorted. There was only one thing that could be responsible for skewing our usually parallel mindset. Something was unspeakably erroneous: Amy had a boyfriend! Am I being overdramatic to conclusively assume that this was the problem? Not at all. When you’re only traveling with one other person moods- weather they be positive or negative- are fluid and contagious. Her lack of energy to put herself out there had gotten to me, and I was now just as guilty of harboring a reclusive attitude.
We needed a brilliant night out to emerge from this slump. Because we didn’t have the kind of funds required to properly live it up in Geneva, we decided to do the next best thing: dress like we could. It was early enough in our journey where we still had clean clothes, and were willing to put in the effort to fix our hair and put on makeup. That evening we’d resolved to morph into “champagne backpackers.”
Ah, the champagne backpacker. Every traveler has encounters these esthetically indulgent creatures often in the obvious, must-hit cities like Rome, London, or Paris. Although often female, the rare male champagne backpacker can be spotted by the gleam in his illuminatingly, gelled quaff, or his sharply starched, trendy button-up shirt. Females can be found packing straightening irons, or tooling around cobblestone streets with wheelie luggage instead of backpacks. Contrary to their finely tuned appearances, they are still patrons of hostels and other fiscally un-intimidating backpacker joints- thus their acquired oxymoronic name.
On the topic of the champagne backpacker, one must be sure not confuse the term with the habitually opposite “backpacker snob.” The backpacker snob is often found in remote, off-the-beaten-trail locations frequently characterized by daunting environmental conditions like the Kalahari Desert, Tibooburra, or the island of Khai Nok. Regardless of your personal past, the backpacking snob has always traveled longer than you, farther than you, and has been without food longer than you. To the backpacker snob even brushing your hair is over-indulgent. If you tell them a story about meeting a bunch a Portuguese students who let you crash on their floor, he’ll turn around and show you the tattoo the Maori people of New Zealand gave him during tribal incitation.
Despite varying habits, open-mindedness is the advised mentality in dealing with all schools of backpacking- after all, the common thread is that we are all travelers, and we’re here to learn from each other. Having encountered creatures of these habits, I had seen first hand the rarity in finding a perfect travel companion. That is why I strongly resolved-with all the vigor of the Jet d’Eau (the 476 ft fountain bursting out of Lake Geneva)- to get her back!
Even with our newly polished panache and my determination the outlook was bleak. We ambled across the Pont des Bergues- a walking bridge across Lake Geneva to the Old Town: the less austere, more picturesque part of Geneva. Along the bridge just about where it veers towards the Ile Rousseau where a formidable statue of the Genevan Philosopher, Rousseau stands, a well-dressed guy about our age stopped us and began asking us questions in French. Picking up on the befuddled expressions, he promptly switched to English, and asked us what we were up to that night. In a gesture that serves as a microcosm for the monotonous, unexciting travelers we had become, we brushed him off saying we had to meet friends. We atypically weren’t seeking adventure. Fate had thrown us a bone, and we decided to be picky eaters. We used to leap at chances to party with the locals! This withdrawnness had to end!
I sat in the balmy evening imbibing a vodka Red Bull at a desolate outdoor bar, and detested the lack of vibrancy around me. The charm of the meandering streets was lost on me. Where was everyone? I was ready to put an end to my accidental exile! It was then Amy said: “On nights like tonight I’m so glad I have a boyfriend.”
I seriously entertained the though of digging out my giant-sized, triangular Toblerone bar and clocking her on the head with in. Reading my reaction we both admitted that this night, and more imperatively- this trip, had to be salvaged. It was then fate, patient as ever, gave us another sign in the form of 15 Swiss guys rancorously flooding past our bar.
“Let’s see where they’re going!” I jumped up, and pushed Amy, a universally beautiful blond, to the front of the pack. She may have had a boyfriend, but after our day of moping (and the last pissed-off glare I shot her way) she astutely picked up my desperate vibe to transform the situation. Instead of the tethered friend generating tragic I-miss-my boyfriend energy, my gregarious, fun-loving friend was back convincing these guys that they absolutely had to take us out them tonight!
We had one of those nights a tourist group was incapable of organizing no matter how much you paid. We danced all night in an underground, cave-like nightclub to pulsating French Trip-Hop. Our new friends kept us in stitches buying round after round of colorful cocktails without asking us to pay for a thing. They seemed to know everyone in the entire club. It was like one big house party sans the cheap booze and basement decor. What really topped off the whole night is when the guy we met on the Pont des Bergues randomly showed up and gave all of our new friends massive, brotherly hugs. Amy and I sheepishly smiled at him, and offered a shrug. He let it go in that delightful “ce la vie” manner the Genevans surely adopted from the French, and joined in the flowering festivities.
At an obscene hour of the morning we said goodbye to our 15 new Swiss best friends, and left the club. We played hopscotch along the lakeside promenade to avoid getting our high heels stuck in between the cobblestones. We jovially bounced along with the bobbing yachts in the moon-kissed water. Instinctively knowing that the brilliant night had been the successful catalyst to burst us out of our mediocrity, I turned to Amy and lightheartedly retorted, “On nights like tonight I’m so glad I don’t have a boyfriend.”
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