Tuesday was a busy day for work, a second day of training for Protel support staff. They are an interesting group with very diverse backgrounds. Two Germans (who drive across the border every day), a French (also crosses the border each day) and a Romanian (the only Swiss resident, by virtue of a previous marriage to a Swiss national).

I had Lunch with Joachim, who has a masters degree in Physics but "has never been on an airplane". A German, he offered an opinion: "Germans know how to work, but don't know how to live. Italians know how to live, but not how to work..."

Joachim said he goes to Italy occasionally by train. The first time he went was with his family, in 1977. "The year of Supertramp," he says.

What is it with Supertramp? It had not escaped my notice that old Supertramp songs were a staple of hotel lobbies and department stores.

In the evening I returned to my hotel, very tired, and fell asleep on the bed at 7:00. At 9:00 I woke up hungry, splashed some water on my face and went for a walk. I complained mildly to the innkeeper about the smoke that drifted into my non-smoking room from the bar. He apologized and closed the hallway door.

I found a restaurant in a smaller, more traditional hotel in the center of Frick. I ordered a carafe of local wine (quite good, with a fruity taste like semillon) and a dish described as Riz Cashbian, which turned out to be an interesting mix of rice, curry, various fruits and a huge dallop of whipped butter. I built a rice dike around the quickly melting butter and enjoyed the rest of the plate. The young waitress (who coincidentally looked to be ethnic Indian or Pakistani) brought me a small stainless pot with a brass handle. I lifted the lid to find inside a breaded and fried piece of fish, which when I bit into it turned out to be a banana.

The dining room was a bit smoky (as are all Swiss restaurants, it seems) but I spent an hour or more sipping the wine and watching the room. At one point a very pregnant guest with a heavy Liverpool accent tried to order a second bowl of ice cream to take up to her room. The cook was confused (he didn't speak much English) and the English-speaking waitress did not seem to comprehend her odd phrasing: "Is it frozen, then? Last one was meltin' and all..."

The woman's thuggish-looking husband was trying to use sign language, holding his hands in front of his stomach while stating the obvious: "She's like, got a baby in there, right?"

On Wednesday morning I woke to find snow falling and the ground covered. The innkeeper again drove me to the Protel office, passing cars and hitting 120KPH on the straights (he did not choose the nearby highway, but instead prefered to use the smaller secondary roads) while chunks of snow blew from the front of the van and obscured the view out the windshield.

I had already checked out of the hotel; there were no rooms available Wednesday evening and I wanted to stay closer to Zurich anyway. At noon I had lunch with Iris at a place called Pinte in Sisseln. After lunch I took a short walk alone through the town. There was a public sauna and swimming pool, and through the steamy windows I saw old men with large stomachs sitting around a pool, and a few young children splashing. It started to snow again. The water of the Rhine moved surprisingly fast, and the pools and back-eddies of the river seemed to boil in the mist.

Iris invited me to her apartment for dinner. "I hope that is not too personal?" she asked. Her apartment (shared with her long- time companion Thomas, who was currently working on a project in Luxembourg) was on the top floor of an old building, in the center of a small city on the Rhine. The town (Laufenburg) is actually two towns of the same name, one on the Swiss side of the river and one on the German side. In the short walk from the parking garage to her apartment I could sense that this was a town with a long history -- the streets were narrow and twisting, some cobbled with stones. It was very quiet.

The apartment was very warm, cozy, with exposed (and ancient-looking) beams and small windows. The ceiling followed the steep roof-line up, giving an airy feeling. A loft above the small kitchen had a fireplace and comfortable seating, and two small windows. It was easy to imagine this as a quiet place to sit and write, and in fact that is what Iris does with much of her spare time.

Iris cooked pork cutlets with a light lemon gravy, and we drank wine and tea. I was interested in her trip with Thomas to South America in 1995-1996, and we spent an hour or more going through hundreds of photos in three large albums. There was a travel journal also, but of course I couldn't read it (some sections were easy to follow, though... easy enough to understand the humor, if not the details of the situations).

At one point there was a gap in the photos and, in their place, a cartoon-like drawing of a masked man with a shotgun in one hand and a pistol in the other. In cartoon letters the masked man was saying, "Es Serioso!". Iris had already shown me the list of what this bandit and his accomplices stole. The camera and lenses, some money and less important items. But mainly their self-confidence, and their trust in the judgement of others. She made a point that rings true with me: no matter what you hear about a place, you are only hearing the experience of someone else. It will not be your experience, good or bad.

That's an important idea, I think... each of us goes to a place, at some time, and experiences some set of events that creates our image of that place and time. But those few experiences are only a few out of an unlimited number of possible events (whether significant or trivial) and our response to the events we are presented with may say more about us as individuals that about the places the events occur.

I once read an essay by a restaurant reviewer who said: "I'll write an unflattering review if there are obvious problems that have obvious solutions. But I won't write a review at all if I become physically ill after eating the food... that wouldn't be fair to the restaurant or the readers."

"After that," said Iris, "We learned to trust our own judgement, and not trust the judgement of others". The road they had taken that day had given her and Thomas a bad feeling, she said, but their Mexican friends had assured them there was no problem.

"It took a long time to get past that," she said, "but it was good it happened in Mexico and not further south." In the year that followed they traveled through Guatamala, Panama, Columbia, Peru, Ecuador... all by road, in an unreliable Volkswagen van, with no more problems.

The trip impressed me. We talked about travelers, and about tourists. The conversation turned naturally to the Japanese. Unlike most, Iris understood what I said about Japanese -- that they are not the caricatures that we in the West tend to see. Yes, she had seen the busloads of Japanese tourists rushing from one tourist site to another, spending no time except that required to snap a photograph, in front of the Matterhorn, in front of a Swiss cow... but she had also traveled enough to see her own people -- the Europeans -- roaming through the Americas and elsewhere in rude gangs.

It was near 10 PM when I suggested leaving. Iris had offered to drive me to my hotel near Zurich (nearly an hour's drive away) where I would stay for two nights. Quite rudely I fell asleep in the car (a week on the continent and I was still jet-lagged). The snow was falling more earnestly and I worried a bit about her drive home, but the roads seemed fine. We found the hotel (in Bulach, a short distance from Zurich airport) easily enough. I was in bed and asleep (in a surprisingly nice room, and not expensive) by midnight.

In the morning I went to the free breakfast downstairs. The buffet was excellent: fresh crusty bread, meats and cheeses of all sorts, yogurt and fruits, whole grain cereals, orange juice and good fresh coffee. I sat in a corner facing the room.

For a time there was only one other guest in the room. Directly facing me, one table away, an attractive Japanese woman of about thirty sat alone and lingered over her food while reading an English-language magazine. Our eyes meet by chance once, then she quickly turned to look out the window. I took the hint and we took turns looking at our food, or out the window, or at our respective reading material (I had brought a Switzerland map). When I left she was still there. I thought idly about her after leaving, wondering why she was eating alone in an obscure hotel well out of downtown Zurich. Then I thought about my own comments about stereotyping travelers, particularly Japanese travelers, and decided I was just falling into the same trap. I wished after leaving that I had said something to her, even "good morning".

With the day free and (finally) a good night of sleep, I decided to take the local train into Zurich to see the city. The rain had stopped and it looked like clearing so I left my rain jacket behind and instead wore a sweater and tweed jacket -- for some reason prefered to look less like an under-dressed American ("upscale slobwear", as Zippy the Pinhead describes it) and more like a local, though it was not actually clear to me what a local in Zurich would wear on a cold weekday.

After a brief period of confusion in the Bulach train station I had my Zurich return ticket and a high confidence that I had the right platform. The train headed south, past the airport (flughafen). I noticed a bright red/orange Boeing climbing away from the runway. Emblazened on the side of the aircraft was a golden logo: McDonald's.

Soon enough I was disembarking at the Zurich main station (a classic early-century station with high ceilings over acres of tracks and platforms, and old workhorse diesel and electric engines pulling green or orange coaches).

I spent an hour and a half in Zurich, exploring small shops (I bought a copy of Mark Twain's 'A Tramp In Europe' in an English language bookshop), having coffee and poking around inside the halls of Zurich University.

Zurich seemed a pleasant city, but wet snow had started to fall again, the weather made it difficult to view the city, and walking seemed to be troublesome, with few covered walkways. I sat and thumbed through a travel guide in a bookstore and suddenly decided that Bern was the place to be on a day like this. The trip to Bern from Zurich was just over an hour by rail, so I went back to the station and bought a return ticket, second class. (I accidentally sat in first class, and was asked to move by a conductor...)

On the train I started reading Mark Twain. The book was brilliantly funny, a terrific parody of today's travel-adventure books, even though it was written over a hundred years ago. For someone who has overdosed on Paul Theroux and his ilk, 'A Tramp in Europe' is just the right form of literary methadone.

Bern was a wonderful little city. Even in the falling snow (thicker here, and building fast), I had no trouble exploring under the overhanging facades of centuries-old buildings. Bern's old town (bounded on three sides by a bend in the river) is a maze of twisty streets, hidden passages and stairways. I did some shopping, took some pictures and had an early dinner at an Italian restaurant. It was a completely enjoyable afternoon and evening. At 7:30 I board the train back to Zurich, and fell asleep with my arms and head draped over the small table in front of my seat. I was on the last car of the train, which was virtually devoid of passengars.

The train would occasionally emit a rather mournful whistle. In between dozing and looking out the window, and reading Twain, thoughts of the Japanese woman at breakfast kept sneaking in. Where was she from, and what was she doing there?

At Zurich I wandered aimlessly around the station, not sure if I should go up the stairs and into the city again. I tried one set of stairs that led to nowhere (just a bus stop and too much snow) then decided I was too tired and boarded the train back to Bulach. Before going to bed (I was still tired but restless and a bit hungry) I walked across the street from the hotel and into a small British-style pub (Mr. Pickwick's) for a beer and a small bite to eat.

I ordered a pint of British ale and something that was advertised as "Parisette Fromage", which turned out to be a squishy french roll with grated cheese and butter baked on top. In a country filled with outstanding breads and cheeses I found this very amusing, and very true to the English character of the bar. By means of large gulps of beer I was able to eat the entire thing.

Over in an opposite corner of the bar a group of men sat around a high table. They were all dressed in Swiss self-defense force uniforms. You see these uniforms often in Switzerland: every able-bodied man is required to put in his time each year, beginning with a 17-week training mission at age twenty. (Official neutrality does not mean official pacifism: Switzerland is a well-defended county, and there are highly-regulated but highly effective weapons hidden away in most Swiss homes.)

Back in my room, unable to sleep for an hour, I flipped again through the channels. Again, bad American movies and sitcoms dubbed in German, absurd soft-core porn and apparently dull talk shows. And one comedy show featuring a Swiss host who had directly copied the mannerisms and staging (even the desk and skyline) of David Letterman.

In the morning I woke very early, 5:00, and couldn't seem to get back to sleep. At six I went out for a walk in the dark, and spied on shopkeepers setting out their meats, vegetables, breads and flowers. A dog saw me and ran at my ankles, barking loudly. For a moment I thought he would bite, but he stopped short.

At seven I went back to the hotel and to the breakfast buffet. I was the first to arrive and I brought my Japanese notes to study. I sat at the same table in the corner. My flight to Seattle was at 11:30 and I had nothing else to do, so I decided to sit and study while enjoying half a loaf (or more) of fresh bread and as much orange juice as I could drink, and coffee, and fruits and yogurt...

I had been there about fifteen minutes when an American couple arrived, he in white shirt and tie, she in a loud sweater. Soon after that, the Japanese woman from the previous morning arrived and sat at the same table, in the same chair, directly facing me.

Guests came and went, but she and I both stayed, avoiding conversation and looking out the window. I had my class notes, but she had brought nothing to read. She spent a lot of time looking at the tablecloth and I wondered what was on her mind.

After we were both there for nearly an hour she finally got up to leave, and I decided to leave as well. Outside the room she was standing in the hall, looking out a window at the snow-covered street below. I said something trivial in Japanese (I think it was "are you Japanese?"). She turned in surprise and answered in English, then tilted her head to one side and asked, "How do you speak Japanese?"

I showed her my class notes, and told her also that my wife is Japanese.

What followed, over the course of the next two hours, was the construction of a friendship that was quick and sincere. She described the reason for her trip to Zurich (rather personal -- but she needed to talk and I was starved for conversation). We shared a taxi to the airport (she had a flight to Hong Kong to visit a friend before returning to Yokohama) and we sat in an airport cafe for an hour drinking water and tea, just chatting.

I asked for her opinions, to compare to my own observations about Japan, Europe and America.

M: "I have a school friend who was four years in a famous university, but when she got a job in a Japanese company all she was told to do was make copies. And serve tea... She married a man from the company, now she doesn't work. But I think she's happy. She told me she wanted to work for that company so she could meet a husband."

I told her about other women I know (friends of my wife, mostly) who are in various degrees of comfortable unhappiness. It seems a common story (and certainly not unique to Japan).

M: "For me, all I want is a man who is honest, who doesn't complain, who doesn't smoke... He can be short, fat or bald..."

I ran my fingers through my thinning hair and said, "be careful there..."

M: (misunderstanding) "Maybe not all three..."

I told her about my wife's previous marriage, and offer a few opinions about American men in Japan ("Avoid anyone looking for a Japanese wife...")

M: "There is a friend I have, in England. We've traded letters and emails for years. Now he tells me he's getting a divorce."

I didn't offer an opinion, but this sounded like a familiar story. A man gets confused about his marriage, latches onto some fantasy, then risks everything, hoping...

I changed the subject, and told her it's too bad she couldn't have gone to Bern with me rather than being stuck wandering through Zurich alone. But I also told her that probably would have been a mistake. She said she doesn't like traveling alone. I said I was like that before, but now I try to write.

At one point I noticed a woman, about my age, sitting a few tables away. The woman had been watching us with some interest, and I noticed she had a writing pad and a pen. The pad was half filled with small script, unreadable from my distance. But it struck me that she was another roaming voyeur, constructing elaborate stories from a few small episodes and her own subjective experience. It seemed that M and I had become characters in someone else's travel narrative. It was a strange feeling.

We left the cafe, parting at the British Airways gate, and I boarded the flight for London and home.

On the upper deck of the 747 I settled back and read more Mark Twain:

"...Seventy or eighty years ago Napolean was the only man in Europe who could really be called a traveler; he was the only man who had devoted his attention to it and taken a powerful interest in it; he was the only man who had traveled extensively; but now everybody goes everywhere; and Switzerland, and many other regions which were unvisited and unknown remoteness a hundred years ago, are in our days a buzzing hive of restless strangers..."

"As I write now, many months later, I perceive that each of us, by observing and noting and inquiring, diligently and day by day, had managed to lay in a most varied and opulent stock of misinformation...