Cold turkey ahead

My confident prediction, that the move to Switzerland would produce more blog posts, hasn’t yet materialised.  The truth is, there’s been a mass of stuff to talk about, but I’m still feeling too darned pleased with myself, and there’s a limit to the amount of smarm one can reasonably slart across the blogosphere.

But.

But allowing a trip to New York to pass without mention seems a bit too much like self-denial.

A Swiss myth (and there are plenty) is that the trains run on time. Some do. Many don’t. Which explains why I legged it for the wrong train, and found myself stranded on an empty suburban station, early on a Sunday morning, with no immediate prospect of making it to the next suburb, never mind New York. With no trains due before I was supposed to be filing through the departure gate and onto the plane, I treated myself to a frisson of panic, before nervously heading for the tram stop I’d spied in the distance.  I reached it at precisely the same moment as the tram. It boasted “Flughafen” as its destination, and I was joyous.

It seems like a long time since I’ve flown business class. Too long. This was my thought as I drained that first glass of Champagne while behind me, my erstwhile brethren in economy were squealing like stuck pigs as they were rammed into their grubby stalls. After the fizz, I moved onto a nice Alsace Riesling until the food arrived, when I switched to a Californian Pinot Noir. A glance at the American Airlines website tells me that this could have been the fruit of a producer called Davis Bynum. I’ll take their word for it. I can’t remember what the hell it was. I was feeling too…. elated by that point.

Too elated to risk the Graham’s vintage port. Too elated to be able to make head or tail of Inception. A fine movie, I’m sure of it, but drifting in and out of consciousness for the first half hour isn’t the best preparation for the long road ahead. Ironically, the film is pretty much all about drifting in and out of consciousness, but to watch in such a state cuts no  Kermodian mustard whatsoever.

So I gave up, and went for Up In The Air, the George Clooney Rom-Com with a dangerously serrated edge. Verdict? Superb in-flight entertainment, especially as everyone around me was too drunk to notice me sobbing wimpily into my luxury cotton napkin. A damn good film, and highly recommended.

At JFK, we took a cab for the long ride to Jersey City, a place I confess I didn’t truly know existed. Sure, I’d heard of it, but had no idea that it is essentially an extension of New York City, just across the Hudson. Seems like it’s come on a lot in the last ten years.

A couple of hours later, I sit, Bloody Mary in hand, admiring the view of the Manhattan skyline from the glass-walled bar of the Hyatt. Say what you like about the Yanks: they understand the art of the Bloody Mary. I don’t care that you sometimes need a machete to cut through the foliage separating one’s lips from the fiery nectar, I love the pride a bar takes in creating its own ‘signature’ version. And I like it when they ask with that cheekily raised eyebrow: “Do you, er, take it… spicy sir?”

Damn right I do.

Another hour on, in darkness, with the rain bucketing, 7even-style, we make our way to a colleague’s apartment-warming party. I can feel myself starting to crumble. It might be only 9pm here, with the night just crawling out of bed, but my body thinks it’s three in the morning. I stay awake by spending time chatting on Vincent’s blustery balcony, which offers another stupendous view of an incandescent Manhattan. It was a small do, but thoroughly jovial, with a gloriously Woody Allenesque tinge.

By my fuzzy reckoning, I think this was my 12th visit to the US, and the old country seems to get more dog-eared as the years go on — or am I just getting increasingly fussily middle-aged? Perhaps it’s the time of year. Maybe those icy Atlantic winds, funneling down the Hudson, gave it an even more desperate edge than normal?

Workwise, it was a good trip. Inconveniently sometimes, I don’t talk about work here for reasons that are, I hope, obvious. But it’s an interesting business to be in, and I’m enjoying it so much. In New York, just as in the Swiss office, most people seem to be from somewhere else. I love this. It is, by a long way, the most multinational, multicultural work environment I’ve ever known. In Switzerland, I think we have 34 nationalities spread through the 200 staff, with a couple of dozen strays passing through at any one time. It’s a constantly evolving, sushi-style turntable of people and nationalities and perspectives.

New York was a similar minestrone. The people were, as always in the States, thoroughly marvellous. (And how they would enjoy someone with an English accent saying that.) But it has a different energy running through it. More table-bangingly dynamic; more fast-talking; twitchier and more exciting. But despite that, or perhaps because of that, it didn’t seem quite such a happy vessel as the good ship Switzerland. Just my jet-lagged perception: I suspect it’s because they’re closer to the sharp end of the business. The 1980s-style office doesn’t help, nor the aforementioned razor winds – some of them of the economic variety.

On my last day there, I dashed to the local mall on the tram-like Light Rail. My supermarket-sweep-style Christmas shopping was executed in JC Penney in the space of 20 minutes. Men know how to shop. On the return journey, I found myself sitting next to a very fat, squirming youth, plugged into his iPod, and oblivious to everything else. Clearly, no one has ever mentioned to him that it’s not a good idea to sing along to your favourite music while you have headphones on. There was some brain-dead rapper on the other end of the wire, and as the track reached its crescendo, my quivering neighbour began shouting excitedly: “Gonna fuck you up, gonna kill yer maw…gonna fuck you up, gonna kill yer maw…”. As his squirming and barking grew more rhythmic and aggressive, I felt, let’s say, decreasingly comfortable, and was bloody glad when my stop appeared.

It was a melancholy end to the trip, but strangely memorable.

As always, I returned from the US feeling ill. Too much comfort food, too many late nights. The weekend that followed was a blur of fitful sleep and misjudged hangover cures. By Sunday evening, having spent much of the afternoon trying to squash my stomach into the jeans that fitted perfectly nicely a few weeks ago, I was facing up to the reality that it really must be time.

Time for running? Not quite. Time, at least, to start thinking about it. Planning. Changing my mindset.

I’ve been in Zurich for nearly two months now, and managed  two brief jogs — no more than about 3 miles each, plus a long saunter in the woods. And that’s it. And even those paltry exertions were all confined to the first three weeks here. After that, I discovered some of the excellent local cheeses, and bargain Italian wines, and that was that.

Today I start a two week break from Switzerland. Hard to see a UK Christmas being the ideal time to launch a health drive, but on my return, yes. We’ll be living a more settled life in a new town, just 15 or 20 minutes drive from work. I’ll have the time and opportunity to hunt down the spinning classes I’ve seen advertised there. At the end of our road, there are beautiful woodland trails to explore. At the bottom of town we have the lake, and the paths that run alongside it. And there are some new activities to discover. I fancy having a go at cross-country skiing. We won’t be living in the heart of winter sports country, but there are places to ski and yomp through the snow within about 30 minutes drive. It could be the answer to my need for a low-impact high-energy activity — and in a ravishingly pure environment. Why would I not want to do it?

In the meantime, I have two weeks to get throbbing with some preparatory gym cardio in the UK, to get through the cold turkey of Swiss cheese deprivation, and to, er, just get through the cold turkey and salad. Beer will have to be supped, it’s true, but here’s to a transitional fortnight, ready for the good intentions and new experiences awaiting us in Horgen, and in the New Year.

It’s been a good year for me. I managed to shake off a dismal job that was leading me nowhere, and have ended up immersed, at last, in a role that will challenge but not overwhelm me, in a company I like, surrounded by dozens of delightful new friends, and all taking place in the gorgeous, and uber-civilised Switzerland (“the police state with a smiley face”, as someone described it recently).

But all that said, it’s also been the unhealthiest, least active year in the nine years of Running Commentary. That has to change — and it will.

That’s it, but while I’m at it, let me wish everyone reading this a Bloody Mary Christmas, and a low-calorie, sweaty New Year.

See you on the other side.