Wrong Turn: Switzerland

Chocolate, neutrality & the price of a man’s piss.

In a few thousand years of Swiss history, two mild tour guides couldn’t recount a single incident of interest. Bordered with Germany, France and Italy, the nation of Switzerland has spent centuries sitting on several intersecting fences. A nation of wildly successful bet-hedgers, they wouldn’t even settle on a language.

The Italians and the Irish have shown that innate charm is the fastest ticket to forgiveness for not opposing the Nazis. In the absence of that option, the proud ‘Buffer state’ became the launderers of the world’s billionaires. Now that’s not going to win you any favours, besides with the most influential people on earth. As I would soon find out, in Switzerland, you need billions to do your actual laundry.

The country’s historical neutrality, or as it’s better known, multigenerational cowardice, comes from reconciling the personalities of their Italian, French and German-speaking citizens. Still, I don’t see how an Italian, a German and a Frenchman walk into a bar, and walk out Swiss?

Instead of one fallible demagogue, Switzerland has 7 elected prime ministers with representation across all parties and languages. We don’t trust a single person to judge a cage fight, but we’ll let one confident bloke decide the outcome of the free world. Just like everything else in the country, Swiss society functions with a crisp precision.

Automatic door snap open and closed, as if flung by a sulky teenage wizard. Swiss travelators move at double-speed, as do Swiss travellers. At Zurich airport, business types were flying past me, physically and, presumably, economically. The suited locals were not falling for the fragrant chicanery of the duty-free section - cutting a B-line through aisles. These guys mean business.

Sweating in the shade of each of the world’s wonders, you’ll always find a Brit bemoaning the cost of a pint. So I try and resist viewing all life experiences through the lens of my own tightness.

That said, a Swiss buffet was charging heavily-paying customers 5 Francs (≈ 5£/$/€) for the exclusive privilege of urinating into a hole. Naively, I’d only budgeted for food and a drink on the way into my body. A piss taken at this coin-operated lavatory must be the origin of the phrase*. No bladderly relief is worth 5-pissing-quid? I’d sooner pee down my leg in protest.

Outside of Switzerland, the ceiling price of my emissions was never questioned. What is the going market rate of a Swiss belch? Can we pinpoint the true worth of an Alpine guff? In a moment of clenched desperation, there is no sum I would not pay to honour the convention of a Genevan dump.

Well… everything has a price.

So, what is the most I would outlay to not-crap myself in Switzerland? Maybe, 80 Swiss Francs (≈£/$/€)? Considering the extra public shame of spoiling a litterless Bernese sidestreet, I could stretch to 90.

Now, I don’t know exactly what circumstance would push this tight arse past his and its limit. Maybe, I’m locked into a bidding war on some bog-gouging-opportunist’s front porch. Maybe, I’m weighing up the cover charge for a suede-panelled, erotic lounge, where I’ll end up the only patron using the toilets for their intended purpose.

Let’s say, I don’t cave to doorstep exploitation, I’m essentially accepting that I would ruin my trousers for the net financial benefit of 90.01 Swiss Francs. Even for a one-hit-YouTube-wonder, that’s an underwhelming Cameo fee.

Although, I did shit my pants for a samosa and a packet of chewits in the Fall of 2014 (£1.50). So, in that respect, the respect of the amount of compensation I expect in order to shit my pants, the only respect I’ve ever known, I’ve come a long way. Look at me now, mom. Look at me now.

In fact, with a 5180.67% increase, me soiling myself ranks as the second-best performing asset in recent economic history, outpaced only by Bitcoin. You suckers should have got in early. Those little snot-rags after school, though ruthless in their methods, were among the savviest investment minds of their generation.

Anyway, I’ve paid fifty pence for a tinkle, maybe a quid at a urethral push, but this; this, I could not abide. If they wouldn’t give me the piss, I would have to take it. This toilet turnstile was my Tiananmen Square. I bundled through the exit and relieved myself at a considerable profit.

From the price of an honest piss, you can extrapolate the cost of existing in Zurich. City living is so expensive tram-loads of grocery migrants cross the German border for their weekly shop.

If you have more money than sense, Switzerland is worth visiting - which, I do, but largely because I am so lacking in sense.

With its pastel skies and lively waterways, Zurich has the vibe of Amsterdam, without the weed, prostitutes, or vibes. Fortunately, none of those things agree with me. Collectively, I can’t imagine anything worse.

Most of the country’s flavour is unwrappable. The velveteen chocolate was so satisfying that, for the first time in a life of chocoholism, one piece was actually enough. Normally, a single square sets of a dopamine chain reaction: one square, then another, before I know it, I’m tethered up on a Cacao plantation giving out choco-dusted tittyfucks for the husks of unprocessed beans.

The city of Zurich has a wintry charm, if not a distinct personality. Remember, I’ve always said, the personality of a city is reflected in the charisma of its crackheads, I have always said that.

With their high-functioning society and pristine streets, I didn’t see a single whilin’ dopefiend, so, what does that tell you?

*The British phrase “taking the piss”

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Times I Shat My Pants 7: The Price of Shame

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