And how rapidly the unfamiliar becomes almost normal. We probably won’t feel in reach of true settledness until we move into our permanent apartment in Horgen in January, but nevertheless, despite being here in Zurich for only 10 days, already we seem to have found, or created for ourselves, a surprisingly comfortable groove.
That said, we are leading quite different lives from each other. I’m working; M isn’t. Every day I get to travel 35 kilometres beyond the city, and spend my day 2,600 feet (800 metres) above sea level, in a modern office in a small town at the far end of the long and winding Lake Zurich. High above the lake, surrounded by green hills and distant mountains, it’s easy to forget about the city. By contrast, M burns much of her time in and around the shops of Oerlikon, the bustling Zurich suburb in which we’re stationed for a few weeks. I think I get the better deal, though she seems happy enough.
The first week was something of a daze, devoted mainly to acclimatising to the new job. This second week has largely been spent hoovering up the administrative tasks we should have dealt with last week. This morning for instance, I finally made it along to the Kreisburo to register my presence, and to formally apply for my work permit. Mindful of the stories I’d heard about the many possible grounds for sending the frustrated applicant back onto the street in pursuit of some missing document, I brought with me a briefcase full of paperwork, and my most nauseatingly unctuous and servile demeanour. I presented it all to a surprisingly human official in an office above the Coop supermarket in Hofwiesenstrasse. A couple of forms later, he took away my passport, birth certificate, work contract, effusive letter from my HR manager, accommodation contract, and two appalling photographs (“Don’t smile in them, or they’ll be rejected”), photocopied everything, and returned all but the photos. He issued me with a temporary ID and a Willkommen pack, then grinned, shook my hand vigorously, and in his imperfect, staccato English, uttered: “Good luck to Switzerland”. It was a tiny, but telling slip of the tongue that pretty much reflects my own attitude.
I retrieved my dignity from the rubbish bin at the front door, and reinstalled it, before setting off for the next engagement with bureaucracy. After a pleasant half hour of people-watching and Kindle-reading in the cool sunshine by the station, M finally appeared, and we ambled round the corner together to Credit Suisse, to open our bank account. More form-filling and document photocopying, though not quite as stressful as the previous meeting. We left with a large folder of never-to-be-read pamphlets, and a couple of smart, silver Credit Suisse pens.
I must thank Nigel, formerly of this parish, for the advice about the Migros language classes. Migros dominates the country. At first, the Swiss visitor assumes that it’s just a supermarket. Then you notice Migros Bank, Migros travel agents, electronics shops, Migros Fitness Centres, golf courses, foreign exchange… and Migros Klubschule: their adult education facilities. On the 4th floor of the office block above the Migros supermarket in Oerlikon, we were astonished to find a busy college, dispensing a range of evening classes. After a brief interview, I was enrolled on a German Beginners course, starting in 2 weeks.
It may well be a fool’s errand. I’ll be spending Wednesday and Friday evenings, for 10 or 11 weeks, wrestling with a language that they don’t really even speak here. Much more common is Swiss-German, a dialect so loose and inconsistent that even residents of adjoining kantons can struggle to communicate with each other. It’s the stickiest of wickets, but what the hell?
At the last moment, M sensibly switched from a German course to something called Glass Fusion. I’m sticking with the ConFusion.
Guardedly, I issue this bulletin of sports news: the run last Saturday was quite successful. I took it exceedingly carefully. Just two stately miles around the rather dull local residential areas to test-drive the new Brooks Adrenalines, and my left calf. No twinges to report. This weekend I’ll try extending the session by another mile or two, and hope that the troublesome limb holds up.
I had an email from Rio de Janeiro and @Sweder this evening, raising the subject of our annual jaunt to Almeria at the end of January. It’s presenting me with a problem. From Zurich, there are no direct flights, and the cheapest trip I can find is £240. More research needed, and possibly a tough decision. In the meantime, I’ll aim to slowly work my way up to some semblance of race fitness. Like my German classes, it might be a futile campaign. But I’ll have to try, because like my German classes again, if I don’t succeed, I’ll struggle to communicate with the outside world.
