Postcard from Zürich

March 2022

People do say hello in Switzerland. It’s a relief, though a hard tackle on my preconceptions. Actually, to be precise, the people in Zürich greet with a Grüzi. I’ve learned this word in a matter of minutes since climbing off my tram and wandering through the plush villas along the slopes of the Zürcherberg.

There’s a point where the houses stop, though you’re no distance at all from the centre. Instead, a ploughed field greets you. It’s lined with paths where your chances of a Grüzi from a stroller or a dog-walker are pretty good. Just around the corner from that is the zoo. Also, on the daringly-named FIFA-Straße, the premises from which the world’s favourite sport is governed.

Your first thought is of the questionable moments in its history. Sepp Blatter and his self-serving. This is a clandestine place, where murmured secrets in corridors can buy you World Cup hosting priveleges. One remembers the worst things. You come prepared to press your nose against the fence in curious dread, like the kids in the snake section up the road. The sign saying you can push on the turnstile and access the grounds comes as a shock.

It's like a Japanese garden inside. Hardly a soul, apart from those tending the paths and bushes. But the building, a long rectangular cube – there’s a proper word for that, isn’t there? – wears a cloak. Is it supposed to keep the sun away from its glass outer shell? Can those inside see out?

Around the back, you come to the football fields. Artificial grass, but lush. The white painted lines gleam bright. The usual corporate partners adorn the hoardings. (I can’t remember any of them now, but I know they were the usual ones. The brand loyalty they’ve built with me must work on a subconscious only.) But nobody has booked a kickabout on the grounds this afternoon. The fluttering of the member nations’ flags is the only sound.

There must be almost 200 of them, lined up side by side between the pitch and the forest. They’re in alphabetical order. Poor Zimbabwe. And what about the man who’ll have to rearrange them when a new country joins? Or leaves. Will there be a Ukraine in a few weeks?

Down the hill towards town, the back gate to the City-Oase (since 1891, claims its logo) is open. There’s a playground immediately after the entrance. Mothers with their kids watch the single, unkempt male in his 40s with suspicion.

What is this place? It has a fence around it, but nobody charges you to come in. There’s an air of abandonment and nostalgia about the first buildings you come to. It’s like a forgotten farmyard. But one with changing rooms. Framed photographs and paintings line a lengthy verandah away to the right. Anybody could nick them. But this is Switzerland, eh?

A shortcut through the oasis reveals a sauna complex, restaurant and Schrebergärten.  Nobody seems to care where you wander. Everything seems dated but functional. They built things to last in 1891. Can we start doing that again, please?

Down, down, down, towards the lake. Through more peaceful, poshful suburbs. There’s no traffic worthy of the name, even though it ought to be rush hour. How can one city have so many villas? How many of these mansions are still home to just one family? And what is it with Switzerland and pairs of teenage girls sitting on sidewalks?

On the shores of the Zürichsee itself, spoilt swans bicker over crumbs as the sunset streams across the water and the benches fill to capacity. The aggression is unbecoming. The bullies charge those too daring, snapping at their wagging tails. Then they unfurl their wings at the shoulder, and it’s impossible not to think of that movie. Finally they drift off en masse, towards the river mouth, where battle will surely resume in pastures new.

Later, after a brief dinner – Aperol Spritz costs €12 a pop – a walk up Bahnhofstraße to catch a tram. Coco, Tommy and Georgio are closed. The Ferraris could still come if they wanted, but Wednesday nights clearly aren’t the time. A shabby woman, sitting on the pavement with her back on Versace’s window display and a can of alcohol in her hand, has attracted two police officers. Her protests threaten to escalate, but they never quite get there. Instead, the situation turns peaceful, and at one point the group even enjoys a joke.

I hope I’m dead by the time Switzerland breaks.