VLM-247: Don’t pity the poor immigrant, who tramples through the mud

Despite the words of his Bobness, don’t pity this poor immigrant — even if I do trample through the mud here and there.

Any discombobulation I’ve felt since arriving, nearly four years ago, has largely evaporated — if it existed at all — but it’s a subject I reflect on from time to time. The disorientation of the immigrant is built with big, obvious blocks: new job, social circle, language. Then there’s the currency and driving on the wrong side of the road and that lake outside the  window. But the small things make an impact too, like being trusted to get on trains and buses without having your ticket checked, and guiltily noticing that your Swiss colleagues clean their teeth after lunch.

Most of the differences are quaint, at worst, but one or two are nothing less than barbaric cultural outrages. For instance, apart from Zweifel’s magnificent mustard crisps, in Switzerland you are hard-pressed to find these delicacies in flavours that are not plain or paprika. (Paprika crisps? How can this be?)

Another oddity is public holidays, which are so deeply embedded in one’s culture that a change of scene, with the old familiar dates being swapped for someone else’s, seems genuinely weird and unsettling. Mind you, a double helping of enforced time off in August is not something to place on the negative side of the migration balance sheet. Even better when the Kanton you work in is on holiday but the one you live in is not, meaning you can stroll the streets of your town without a care in the world, munching mustard crisps, while your scowling neighbours slink off to work.

Today is one of those days, and I find myself  in the magnificent position of having no deeds to do, no promises to keep. Well, apart from one pretty massive one, namely to dispatch, very belatedly, my annual tax return. Peering through my glass-half-full at the dark grey sky, I’m glad of the shove it offers to get me out of the apartment on such a damp and dreary day.

And so, late in the afternoon, with just 20 minutes or so before the post office shuts, I put on my plodding togs and leave. The rain starts up again as soon as I’m round the corner, giving my downhill step a helpful additional spring.

The lady in the post office looks aghast at the huge envelope I’ve chosen for my few documents. I try explaining it was the only one I had, and she tries explaining it will cost me two extra francs for being over-sized (the envelope, that is, not me). She then raises two further things — an eyebrow and a roll of sellotape. Ah, good thinking. I must have used at least two francs worth of the stuff to origami the voluminous envelope into the lower price bracket, which doubles my satisfaction.

First task over, I’m off down the steps to the lakeside path, and away. By now it’s raining heavily, but it doesn’t matter. I brandish the runner’s climatic indifference to any passing plasticated person, and cheerfully splosh onwards through the path puddles with the choppy grey lake to my left. Past the posh restaurant that someone said Roger Federer goes to; past the Meilen ferry jetty; past the water polo place through the doors of which, terrible screams can sometimes be heard on winter nights; past the neat little grassy spots with their damp empty benches with dead people’s names on. Past all that until I reach the crossing that takes me over the railway tracks near the bottom of the steep hill that I’m going to have to become friendly with — despite our previous difficulties.

So far, this has been a simple 2:1 run-walk. More of a fat-burning workout than a run. Can I continue it up the hill? The two minutes of near-vertical ‘running’ are painful, and the minute of walk-totter recovery makes no impression. A few seconds into the second attempted run, I know the game’s up, and I have to walk again — but it’s all okay. It’s one of the privileges of pre-training training. Whatever I may call it, all I’m really doing here is research. I’m recording the baselines and starting a log from which to move when the serious stuff starts. Or the less unserious stuff. I’m building something to offer protection, I tell myself, not testing it to destruction.

The total outing, not counting my discussion with the lady in the post office, was 51 minutes. Good enough. Back in my apartment, out of the storm, I can feel that pleasing post-plod glow begin to take hold. Peering out over the lake, waiting for the sweat to subside before climbing into the shower, I reflect that whatever the country or the environment you run in, this is one sensation that never seems to change.