| Snoozerland |
| The Travel Snob encounters his most vicious foe yet: Lucerne |
The Travel Snob is a good person at heart. So what if he lied about the
mini-bar. They didn’t ask, he didn’t tell. And OK, he may have ordered “The Devil
Wears Prada” as an in-room movie and expensed it as research (consider it
practice for the day I get to tell my assistant to “find me that piece of paper I had
in my hand yesterday,” but without the stylish snowflake bob).
But as much as The Travel Snob is coated with sugary marshmallow
goodness, and he is, there are occasions that test even his patience, and this is
someone who sat through “High School Musical II” in its entirety. Chief among
them are stupid people, hotel rooms without Wi-Fi, and concierge floors that
don't serve Lucky Charms for breakfast.
So yes, we’ve established I am a kind, gentle soul, and it takes a lot to get
under my skin.
Enter Switzerland. The whole country. Alright, alright, not the whole country,
just half of it.
First, some background: I wanted to go to Switzerland. But not just go, I
wanted to swish and sway (or in my case, stumble) down the Alps with reckless
abandon, wearing full ski regalia, including Armani snow goggles and Chanel
après-ski boots, which I’d glad go into bankruptcy for if I can ever find a size 12.
By day, I’d take the slopes in St. Moritz with Chris Everett and whatever husband
she’s up to these days. Then at night, I’d join Heidi, Günter and Svetlana at the
fireplace for Hot Toddies, sharing laughs while comparing the color of our Amex
cards. Naturally, I win, because in this particular delusion (there are many) my
Amex is the black Centurion card, which trumps all, and no, Amex is not paying
me to say that. Quite the opposite, I think they’re suing me.
Oh, and while we’re on the topic of delusions, make what you will out of
THIS one: I’m rubbing the feet of Condoleezza Rice in a Diddy-fied Escalade as
her motorcade makes its way through midtown Manhattan. I’d share more, but
the State Department Order of Protection prevents me sharing anything else,
except to say girlfriend has some mad toes, yo.
So anyway, that is Switzerland … in my dreams (the part about me and
Condi's feet? Strictly for the therapist). Most of it was nowhere near as
glamorous, picture-esque or friendly during my trip, which was put together with
all the fanfare of a visit by Dick Cheney. I had hoped time would heal wounds,
and after a few months or 10 I’d romanticize the whole experience, but no. It
pretty much blew. There was no snow, no skiing, no Hot Toddies (the drink and
the waiter), and Heidi and Günter, if they were around, wouldn’t give me the time
of day.
It started off well enough. After a pleasurable experience aboard American
Airlines’ new business class suite, my partner in crime Leona and I arrived in
Zurich, then hopped a train to our first destination Lucerne, which is where the
trouble began.
First, a caveat: if you enjoy those flapper flashbacks on “Cold Case" … are
deathly afraid of “the Facebook” … believe DMX is the bike you bought your kids
for Christmas … or enjoy a leisurely 4:30 p.m. dinner at The Sizzler, well then,
Lucerne is for you.
If none of those apply, run. Run far. Run like you’ve never run before.
Because Lucerne is on the German side, and that pretty much sucks. It’s cold,
bleary and the people wouldn’t know a good time if it came up and started
clogging in front of them. After all, they’re German, the very definition of
discipline. Those qualities may help you come watch-making time or starting
wars but it does little for the nightlife.
Our first stop was the Palace Lucerne, the town’s only five star hotel, as if
The Travel Snob would stay anywhere else, duh. I’d come to learn later that
Brangelina brought their broth there right after us, which was surprising because
this isn’t exactly a swinging, bring your-culturally-sensitive-family-to-chill kind of
environment. Though the property is gorgeous and rooms spacious and
tastefully decorated, the overall ambiance is … mature. Every morning at
breakfast I expected some Gestapo to hit me over the head with a night stick for
crunching my Honig Pops too loud (they didn’t have Lucky Charms either, big
losers). There was no grand lobby, no foppish bell-hop and the in-room TVs
received one American channel -- CNN International, which on a scale of 1 to 10
rates a 300 on the TV suckitude meter.
Fortunately, we planned to spend as much time outside the hotel as
possible, and started our first day with a walking tour of Lucerne by a woman we
would come to dub “Tour Guide on the Take.” Granted, there’s not much to
show in this sleepy little town but she needn’t pack our itinerary with staged
visits, like to the candy store whose sole claim to fame is a flimsy chocolate
fountain you can order off QVC, or the jewelry shop advertising a $1 million
watch that was suspiciously nowhere to be seen, including my pockets which
would normally be the first place to look. Finally there was the upscale clothing
boutique whose manager got upset when we didn’t buy $300 scarves. The
Travel Snob is known to live extravagantly and has a talent rider that would put
J. Lo to shame (no plastic molding … ever!) but how anyone got the impression
we were there to spend is as great a mystery as me not being a billionaire
already. Let’s just say Tour Guide must’ve been scoring serious lettuce to
support some kind of fetish, though judging by the stumps on her feet it had
nothing to do with shoes.
Suddenly, my dream of singing of raindrops, roses and kittens’ whiskers
with the von Trapps seemed as non-existent as the snow that I had hoped but
didn't find.
After a few hours we ditched the “Sham Wow” of escorts and attempted to
experience the downtown ourselves. Problem was, everything closed by noon
despite it being Saturday (see “clogging, people who wouldn’t know a good time
if it came up to them and started to”). We searched in vain for something to see,
buy, experience but alas no. Lucerne went beddy bye and we were the
crust between its eyes. Sure, there were pretty buildings, a charmingly burned-
out bridge and lots of old statues and stuff but that's about it. We ended the
night with a delicious dinner at Jasper, our hotel’s in house restaurant.
Apparently it’s one of the best joints in town although that doesn’t take much
(one can be the best in Lucerne by virtue of simply being "open" at night).
The second day is what inspires cursing, head spinning and green vomit.
Kind of like how Kramer had seizures when hearing Mary Hart’s voice but with a
smidge more nausea. We awoke the next day to find more cold and rain and the
news that nothing was open. Nothing -- the whole town shuts down on Sunday,
leaving us stranded in the hotel with little to do. I imagine the townsfolk use this
time to do whatever one does to cope with such tedium, whether it be eating
chocolate, doing drugs, killing yourself or surrendering to invading countries. We
eventually found ourselves in the hotel’s lobby, begging its resident lounge lizard
to add Britney to his entertainment repertoire if he wasn’t too busy between
cigarettes.
Fortunately, an evening of first class entertainment awaited us, despite the
weather. There was still the symphony! The Travel Snob is nothing if not a over
indulged socialite, and this night would be the culmination of many weeks of
planning, e-mailing and reading credit card numbers over the phone to
Germans, who I’m sure charged the whole excursion to that nice Wilkerson family
from Omaha. “Sucks to be them” was yet to be determined at this point.
But I’m an optimist, and put on my recently purchased Brioni tuxedo believing a
night of soul-wrenching Mozart awaited us. And besides, it’s not like either of us
were named Wilkerson or lived in Omaha, reason enough to go on living.
Wrong again. We instead found ourselves completely over-dressed for “the
symphony” at some high school auditorium where the Lucerne Wildcats
Marching Band delighted the cheering crowd with Sinatra covers. The only thing
missing were High School hotties Zac Efron and Vanessa Hugdens singing about
the Fatherland (and considering the genesis of that production, not far off the
mark). Meanwhile, The Travel Snob sat stewing in his impossibly expensive
tuxedo, not at all happy to be mistaken for the valet.
What got me through the next night and prevented me from slitting my
wrists was the visualization of defecting to France or Italy, even the Sudan would
have done at this point. Leona and I skipped town the next morning and boarded
the very first train to Lausanne, which is still in Switzerland but on the French
side. Like Lucerne Lausanne is pretty – right off Lake Geneva with sweeping
views of the Alps, picture-esque cobble-stoned streets and old churches– but
unlike the former people actually seem to enjoy the city and the stores (Hermes!)
stay open past lunch. They don’t boast burned bridges as their claim to fame
and the tour guides are not shamelessly skirting RICO charges.
We set up camp at the Beau Rivage Palace, a 150-year old resort that has
hosted everyone from Coco Chanel (her dog is buried on its grounds) to Gary
Cooper. It truly is the crème of the crop: people from Paris come here to
vacation. If this were Hollywood, and I were a rail-bumping, phone-throwing, last
season Prada-wearing sycophant at CAA but secretly negotiating my package at
William Morris, I’d pitch it as “the Breakers meets The Hotel Plaza Athénée, with
a side of George V,” then ask for points on the backend and an indemnity policy
against the Weinstein brothers. My room had a fireplace, giant whirlpool Jacuzzi
and a bed in which I didn’t fall between the cracks in the middle of the night.
Finally we made it back to Zurich for our departure, and let me just say that
town has nothing to be cocky about, either. It’s Lucerne with a superiority
complex. We had a day left and spent it searching for a café that didn’t reek of
cigarettes. Finally, after walking the streets in bone-chilling rain our boredom
took hold and we embarked on our most craven stunt yet: opening a Swiss bank
account with $100, way below the $500,000 needed to even be considered. We
entered a local Credit Suisse branch fully intending to see this stunt through,
with hopes of exiting with at least a box of chocolates, maybe an Espresso maker
if we were lucky. Our ruse – that of Abercrombie & Finch wearing jet-setters–
worked well enough to get us past the front door and into a very Bourne Identity-
like conference room with chocolates, sodas and an ominous phone placed
strategically in the middle of the table, as if I were Daniel Craig negotiating GPS
coordinates for a SIM card drop off, two things that sound all super-spy but I
have no idea which mean. After a few minutes of waiting the phone rang, and a
mystery man on the other end gave me the German equivalent of “talk to the
hand,” except he was a lot less animated than anyone I ever remember from the
Ricki Lake show. I guess that was the Swiss way of saying get the hell out of
here, which we did.
Gladly.
mini-bar. They didn’t ask, he didn’t tell. And OK, he may have ordered “The Devil
Wears Prada” as an in-room movie and expensed it as research (consider it
practice for the day I get to tell my assistant to “find me that piece of paper I had
in my hand yesterday,” but without the stylish snowflake bob).
But as much as The Travel Snob is coated with sugary marshmallow
goodness, and he is, there are occasions that test even his patience, and this is
someone who sat through “High School Musical II” in its entirety. Chief among
them are stupid people, hotel rooms without Wi-Fi, and concierge floors that
don't serve Lucky Charms for breakfast.
So yes, we’ve established I am a kind, gentle soul, and it takes a lot to get
under my skin.
Enter Switzerland. The whole country. Alright, alright, not the whole country,
just half of it.
First, some background: I wanted to go to Switzerland. But not just go, I
wanted to swish and sway (or in my case, stumble) down the Alps with reckless
abandon, wearing full ski regalia, including Armani snow goggles and Chanel
après-ski boots, which I’d glad go into bankruptcy for if I can ever find a size 12.
By day, I’d take the slopes in St. Moritz with Chris Everett and whatever husband
she’s up to these days. Then at night, I’d join Heidi, Günter and Svetlana at the
fireplace for Hot Toddies, sharing laughs while comparing the color of our Amex
cards. Naturally, I win, because in this particular delusion (there are many) my
Amex is the black Centurion card, which trumps all, and no, Amex is not paying
me to say that. Quite the opposite, I think they’re suing me.
Oh, and while we’re on the topic of delusions, make what you will out of
THIS one: I’m rubbing the feet of Condoleezza Rice in a Diddy-fied Escalade as
her motorcade makes its way through midtown Manhattan. I’d share more, but
the State Department Order of Protection prevents me sharing anything else,
except to say girlfriend has some mad toes, yo.
So anyway, that is Switzerland … in my dreams (the part about me and
Condi's feet? Strictly for the therapist). Most of it was nowhere near as
glamorous, picture-esque or friendly during my trip, which was put together with
all the fanfare of a visit by Dick Cheney. I had hoped time would heal wounds,
and after a few months or 10 I’d romanticize the whole experience, but no. It
pretty much blew. There was no snow, no skiing, no Hot Toddies (the drink and
the waiter), and Heidi and Günter, if they were around, wouldn’t give me the time
of day.
It started off well enough. After a pleasurable experience aboard American
Airlines’ new business class suite, my partner in crime Leona and I arrived in
Zurich, then hopped a train to our first destination Lucerne, which is where the
trouble began.
First, a caveat: if you enjoy those flapper flashbacks on “Cold Case" … are
deathly afraid of “the Facebook” … believe DMX is the bike you bought your kids
for Christmas … or enjoy a leisurely 4:30 p.m. dinner at The Sizzler, well then,
Lucerne is for you.
If none of those apply, run. Run far. Run like you’ve never run before.
Because Lucerne is on the German side, and that pretty much sucks. It’s cold,
bleary and the people wouldn’t know a good time if it came up and started
clogging in front of them. After all, they’re German, the very definition of
discipline. Those qualities may help you come watch-making time or starting
wars but it does little for the nightlife.
Our first stop was the Palace Lucerne, the town’s only five star hotel, as if
The Travel Snob would stay anywhere else, duh. I’d come to learn later that
Brangelina brought their broth there right after us, which was surprising because
this isn’t exactly a swinging, bring your-culturally-sensitive-family-to-chill kind of
environment. Though the property is gorgeous and rooms spacious and
tastefully decorated, the overall ambiance is … mature. Every morning at
breakfast I expected some Gestapo to hit me over the head with a night stick for
crunching my Honig Pops too loud (they didn’t have Lucky Charms either, big
losers). There was no grand lobby, no foppish bell-hop and the in-room TVs
received one American channel -- CNN International, which on a scale of 1 to 10
rates a 300 on the TV suckitude meter.
Fortunately, we planned to spend as much time outside the hotel as
possible, and started our first day with a walking tour of Lucerne by a woman we
would come to dub “Tour Guide on the Take.” Granted, there’s not much to
show in this sleepy little town but she needn’t pack our itinerary with staged
visits, like to the candy store whose sole claim to fame is a flimsy chocolate
fountain you can order off QVC, or the jewelry shop advertising a $1 million
watch that was suspiciously nowhere to be seen, including my pockets which
would normally be the first place to look. Finally there was the upscale clothing
boutique whose manager got upset when we didn’t buy $300 scarves. The
Travel Snob is known to live extravagantly and has a talent rider that would put
J. Lo to shame (no plastic molding … ever!) but how anyone got the impression
we were there to spend is as great a mystery as me not being a billionaire
already. Let’s just say Tour Guide must’ve been scoring serious lettuce to
support some kind of fetish, though judging by the stumps on her feet it had
nothing to do with shoes.
Suddenly, my dream of singing of raindrops, roses and kittens’ whiskers
with the von Trapps seemed as non-existent as the snow that I had hoped but
didn't find.
After a few hours we ditched the “Sham Wow” of escorts and attempted to
experience the downtown ourselves. Problem was, everything closed by noon
despite it being Saturday (see “clogging, people who wouldn’t know a good time
if it came up to them and started to”). We searched in vain for something to see,
buy, experience but alas no. Lucerne went beddy bye and we were the
crust between its eyes. Sure, there were pretty buildings, a charmingly burned-
out bridge and lots of old statues and stuff but that's about it. We ended the
night with a delicious dinner at Jasper, our hotel’s in house restaurant.
Apparently it’s one of the best joints in town although that doesn’t take much
(one can be the best in Lucerne by virtue of simply being "open" at night).
The second day is what inspires cursing, head spinning and green vomit.
Kind of like how Kramer had seizures when hearing Mary Hart’s voice but with a
smidge more nausea. We awoke the next day to find more cold and rain and the
news that nothing was open. Nothing -- the whole town shuts down on Sunday,
leaving us stranded in the hotel with little to do. I imagine the townsfolk use this
time to do whatever one does to cope with such tedium, whether it be eating
chocolate, doing drugs, killing yourself or surrendering to invading countries. We
eventually found ourselves in the hotel’s lobby, begging its resident lounge lizard
to add Britney to his entertainment repertoire if he wasn’t too busy between
cigarettes.
Fortunately, an evening of first class entertainment awaited us, despite the
weather. There was still the symphony! The Travel Snob is nothing if not a over
indulged socialite, and this night would be the culmination of many weeks of
planning, e-mailing and reading credit card numbers over the phone to
Germans, who I’m sure charged the whole excursion to that nice Wilkerson family
from Omaha. “Sucks to be them” was yet to be determined at this point.
But I’m an optimist, and put on my recently purchased Brioni tuxedo believing a
night of soul-wrenching Mozart awaited us. And besides, it’s not like either of us
were named Wilkerson or lived in Omaha, reason enough to go on living.
Wrong again. We instead found ourselves completely over-dressed for “the
symphony” at some high school auditorium where the Lucerne Wildcats
Marching Band delighted the cheering crowd with Sinatra covers. The only thing
missing were High School hotties Zac Efron and Vanessa Hugdens singing about
the Fatherland (and considering the genesis of that production, not far off the
mark). Meanwhile, The Travel Snob sat stewing in his impossibly expensive
tuxedo, not at all happy to be mistaken for the valet.
What got me through the next night and prevented me from slitting my
wrists was the visualization of defecting to France or Italy, even the Sudan would
have done at this point. Leona and I skipped town the next morning and boarded
the very first train to Lausanne, which is still in Switzerland but on the French
side. Like Lucerne Lausanne is pretty – right off Lake Geneva with sweeping
views of the Alps, picture-esque cobble-stoned streets and old churches– but
unlike the former people actually seem to enjoy the city and the stores (Hermes!)
stay open past lunch. They don’t boast burned bridges as their claim to fame
and the tour guides are not shamelessly skirting RICO charges.
We set up camp at the Beau Rivage Palace, a 150-year old resort that has
hosted everyone from Coco Chanel (her dog is buried on its grounds) to Gary
Cooper. It truly is the crème of the crop: people from Paris come here to
vacation. If this were Hollywood, and I were a rail-bumping, phone-throwing, last
season Prada-wearing sycophant at CAA but secretly negotiating my package at
William Morris, I’d pitch it as “the Breakers meets The Hotel Plaza Athénée, with
a side of George V,” then ask for points on the backend and an indemnity policy
against the Weinstein brothers. My room had a fireplace, giant whirlpool Jacuzzi
and a bed in which I didn’t fall between the cracks in the middle of the night.
Finally we made it back to Zurich for our departure, and let me just say that
town has nothing to be cocky about, either. It’s Lucerne with a superiority
complex. We had a day left and spent it searching for a café that didn’t reek of
cigarettes. Finally, after walking the streets in bone-chilling rain our boredom
took hold and we embarked on our most craven stunt yet: opening a Swiss bank
account with $100, way below the $500,000 needed to even be considered. We
entered a local Credit Suisse branch fully intending to see this stunt through,
with hopes of exiting with at least a box of chocolates, maybe an Espresso maker
if we were lucky. Our ruse – that of Abercrombie & Finch wearing jet-setters–
worked well enough to get us past the front door and into a very Bourne Identity-
like conference room with chocolates, sodas and an ominous phone placed
strategically in the middle of the table, as if I were Daniel Craig negotiating GPS
coordinates for a SIM card drop off, two things that sound all super-spy but I
have no idea which mean. After a few minutes of waiting the phone rang, and a
mystery man on the other end gave me the German equivalent of “talk to the
hand,” except he was a lot less animated than anyone I ever remember from the
Ricki Lake show. I guess that was the Swiss way of saying get the hell out of
here, which we did.
Gladly.
| Click HERE for a visual tour of this God-awful country! |
