My train from Brussels arrived after dark at the Zurich train station where I could get a bite to eat at one of the few stores that were still open. I had the name of my hotel and found a city map. A light mist in the air as I walked along the Limmat River carrying my backpack, crossed the street stepping over the trolley rails running down the middle and entered onto a cobble stone walkway in a seemingly dingy section of the city which appeared to be a hotel district. At several hotels, a young woman stood at the front door to welcome new guests. I was reminded of the restaurants and shops that one might encounter while traveling with a waiter or shop worker at the front door bidding any passerby to enter and sample their wares.
I had been to Switzerland before in 1967.
I was attending Seattle Pacific College and working two jobs in order to support my new family. One job was at a lumber yard working from 3 - 6 and the other was at UPS from 7 - 10pm. My second job was to check-in the UPS drivers, collect their package payments and tabulate the evenings packages delivered and payments received. A couple months into the job, a young man named Jorg with a Germanic accent started work at one of the desks. In our conversations I learned that he had just arrived from Switzerland, had never been on his own and recently rented an apartment but didn't know what cooking and eating wares he would need nor where to purchase them. That weekend we helped him get started in his new apartment and we remained friends even after I left Seattle Pacific for Portland to finish my schooling at Portland State College. He was very thankful for the assistance as were his parents, from whom I received several nice letters including an invitation to work for his father in Switzerland.
After graduation, we sold everything and departed. When we arrived at the Zurich airport, I wasn't carrying a backpack, but a 1.5 year old baby girl and was on my way to a
new living and working experience in a town called Balgach located near the Lake of Constance on the Swiss/Austrian border. We would be living on the forth floor in three rooms of Jorg's family home.
My new job was to operate a large, two level stitching machine making embroidered handkerchiefs. There were five machines on the floor level and another five were 4 feet off the floor accessed by a platform. The embroidery pattern was determined by a programmed scroll (similar to a player piano) located at the end of this two level machine. My job was to be in the plant at 6am in order to oil the machines, start work at 730am, take a 1 hour lunch from 12 - 1pm, work until 5pm then help clean the plant after the other helper's left. I was in the plant 5.5 days a week walking down the floor then up the platform and back again in front of the stitching machine watching for needle errors or a broken thread. I would put a small piece of tape on the cloth to indicate the needle errors for the stitcher to fix later and, if the tread broke, I would thread the needle while the machine was stitching. My co-workers were Italian women. The plant supervisors were Austrian men. With no knowledge of Swiss, Italian or Austrian, I was to learn the tasks involved with this job and stay vigilant to my handkerchief stitching machine throughout the day. It was, also, my "duty" to make absolutely certain that my wife did not speak or spend any time with the Italian men who hung around in the town cafes. Such a situation would be an insult to our host family.
My (former) wife's job was to clean a room in our small upstairs apartment each day, shop for any groceries in town, care for our daughter and clean all the rooms on the weekend. Sometimes, she stopped for coffee in one of the town cafes. Once a week, the shower in the middle of the basement, surrounded by a hanging curtain, could be used, but only on Saturday nights.
At the end of five months, I was exhausted from remaining vigilant to my handkerchief stitching machine, struggling to communicate in Swiss, Italian, Austrian and German, helping care for a 1.5 year old daughter, facing the repeated criticism from the Swiss family for whom I worked and lived and, also, trying to find time to enjoy living in Switzerland. The week between Christmas and New Years, we packed our bags and, dressed in our warm winter clothes, departed......for India.
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My new job was to operate a large, two level stitching machine making embroidered handkerchiefs. There were five machines on the floor level and another five were 4 feet off the floor accessed by a platform. The embroidery pattern was determined by a programmed scroll (similar to a player piano) located at the end of this two level machine. My job was to be in the plant at 6am in order to oil the machines, start work at 730am, take a 1 hour lunch from 12 - 1pm, work until 5pm then help clean the plant after the other helper's left. I was in the plant 5.5 days a week walking down the floor then up the platform and back again in front of the stitching machine watching for needle errors or a broken thread. I would put a small piece of tape on the cloth to indicate the needle errors for the stitcher to fix later and, if the tread broke, I would thread the needle while the machine was stitching. My co-workers were Italian women. The plant supervisors were Austrian men. With no knowledge of Swiss, Italian or Austrian, I was to learn the tasks involved with this job and stay vigilant to my handkerchief stitching machine throughout the day. It was, also, my "duty" to make absolutely certain that my wife did not speak or spend any time with the Italian men who hung around in the town cafes. Such a situation would be an insult to our host family.
My (former) wife's job was to clean a room in our small upstairs apartment each day, shop for any groceries in town, care for our daughter and clean all the rooms on the weekend. Sometimes, she stopped for coffee in one of the town cafes. Once a week, the shower in the middle of the basement, surrounded by a hanging curtain, could be used, but only on Saturday nights.
At the end of five months, I was exhausted from remaining vigilant to my handkerchief stitching machine, struggling to communicate in Swiss, Italian, Austrian and German, helping care for a 1.5 year old daughter, facing the repeated criticism from the Swiss family for whom I worked and lived and, also, trying to find time to enjoy living in Switzerland. The week between Christmas and New Years, we packed our bags and, dressed in our warm winter clothes, departed......for India.
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| Eiger from Chalet Tournelle - Grindelwald (2012) |
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There are no foreign lands. It is the traveler only who is foreign.
Robert Louis Stevenson
