They're here too. They're everywhere. It's almost like they're everywhere I am. And I surely can't have anything to do with it.
Let me give you an example. I went to an English language bookstore to find a guide to Zurich. Now, I acknowledge that there is a certain level of jerkyness that is endowed me merely by virtue of the country from which I come. Canada. Ha ha. Just kidding. Anyway, this is my cross to bare, for in return I reap the rewards of that fair country (which shall remain anonymous), namely fifty-two different types of flavored Cheetos and the right to say "Hella" and have it be mostly embarrassing, but also a little bit cool. I'm also knocked down a few notches by the fact that my German is limited to 'spielplatz' and 'schniede' and no, I don't know if those are spelled right but I know where the first ones are and I can help you with the second as long as you say please. Add in the fact that I sometimes use a backpack (I'm just trying to get my back-support on, you know?) and that I sometimes wear Keens, and that I sometimes wear both at the same time, and I'm pretty low down on the totem pole on the streets of international and refined Zurich. I know this though, and I let everyone else know that I know this by spending most of my time looking sheepishly at the ground, and the rest of my time eating chocolate and yogurt.
So, back to my example. I went in with Ashley in the stroller to look for a book. I noticed that there was an upper and a lower floor to the bookstore, which appeared to be accessible only by stairs. I noted this with some disappointment, but recovered quickly. I then saw an elderly lady and a mother with her young daughter getting into an elevator right next to the counter. I probably would've though it was an office or storeroom if I hadn't seen it functioning in its more vertically-inclined role, and on closer inspection saw that it was not marked at all, and that even the buttons were silver and unmarked. I decided, given the mysterious and standoffish nature of this elevator, to just double-check with the store patron before pressing the wrong button and potentially unleashing the highly punctual and Victorinox-armed guard dogs. She had spoken in English to the woman before me, so without preamble I asked:
Me: Excuse me, is this elevator available for customer use?
Jerk: (Look of disbelief and mild disgust) Yes, if you press the button.
M: Oh, Ok. (I felt the need to qualify my question as it was met with such disdain) I thought that maybe it was just for employees.
J: (Another pause, as if contemplating my idiocy, and then a patronizing look at an little chuckle) Oh, hu hu. No, no.
And as she turned, she was introduced to the business end of my ninja chop. I know, I know. I didn't really, even though Ashley would've made an excellent Ninjetti. Instead, Ashley and I got into the elevator, our moral high ground indisputable. But I will tell you this for free, we were not happy.
Most unfortunately, our first attempt to go to the top floor from the bottom did not go as planned. We got back in the elevator and I pressed what I estimated to be the correct button, again without the aid of relevant signage. The doors opened, I paused, and realized we had gone back to the same floor. I pressed the other button, and as the doors were closing realized that we had in fact gone to the right floor and that we were now headed to the ground-level floor, captained of course by the chief Jerk herself. The elevator smoothly (Everything in Switzerland happens smoothly. Even crunchy peanut butter. What a contradiction.) came to a halt and the doors opened as I pounded the button to go back up again while looking wide-eyed with panic, willing our benevolent bookstore dictator not to look over and see us standing like idiots who can't operate an elevator. She didn't. And so we didn't look like that. People who can't use an elevator. Because we can.
Let me give you an example. I went to an English language bookstore to find a guide to Zurich. Now, I acknowledge that there is a certain level of jerkyness that is endowed me merely by virtue of the country from which I come. Canada. Ha ha. Just kidding. Anyway, this is my cross to bare, for in return I reap the rewards of that fair country (which shall remain anonymous), namely fifty-two different types of flavored Cheetos and the right to say "Hella" and have it be mostly embarrassing, but also a little bit cool. I'm also knocked down a few notches by the fact that my German is limited to 'spielplatz' and 'schniede' and no, I don't know if those are spelled right but I know where the first ones are and I can help you with the second as long as you say please. Add in the fact that I sometimes use a backpack (I'm just trying to get my back-support on, you know?) and that I sometimes wear Keens, and that I sometimes wear both at the same time, and I'm pretty low down on the totem pole on the streets of international and refined Zurich. I know this though, and I let everyone else know that I know this by spending most of my time looking sheepishly at the ground, and the rest of my time eating chocolate and yogurt.
So, back to my example. I went in with Ashley in the stroller to look for a book. I noticed that there was an upper and a lower floor to the bookstore, which appeared to be accessible only by stairs. I noted this with some disappointment, but recovered quickly. I then saw an elderly lady and a mother with her young daughter getting into an elevator right next to the counter. I probably would've though it was an office or storeroom if I hadn't seen it functioning in its more vertically-inclined role, and on closer inspection saw that it was not marked at all, and that even the buttons were silver and unmarked. I decided, given the mysterious and standoffish nature of this elevator, to just double-check with the store patron before pressing the wrong button and potentially unleashing the highly punctual and Victorinox-armed guard dogs. She had spoken in English to the woman before me, so without preamble I asked:
Me: Excuse me, is this elevator available for customer use?
Jerk: (Look of disbelief and mild disgust) Yes, if you press the button.
M: Oh, Ok. (I felt the need to qualify my question as it was met with such disdain) I thought that maybe it was just for employees.
J: (Another pause, as if contemplating my idiocy, and then a patronizing look at an little chuckle) Oh, hu hu. No, no.
And as she turned, she was introduced to the business end of my ninja chop. I know, I know. I didn't really, even though Ashley would've made an excellent Ninjetti. Instead, Ashley and I got into the elevator, our moral high ground indisputable. But I will tell you this for free, we were not happy.
Most unfortunately, our first attempt to go to the top floor from the bottom did not go as planned. We got back in the elevator and I pressed what I estimated to be the correct button, again without the aid of relevant signage. The doors opened, I paused, and realized we had gone back to the same floor. I pressed the other button, and as the doors were closing realized that we had in fact gone to the right floor and that we were now headed to the ground-level floor, captained of course by the chief Jerk herself. The elevator smoothly (Everything in Switzerland happens smoothly. Even crunchy peanut butter. What a contradiction.) came to a halt and the doors opened as I pounded the button to go back up again while looking wide-eyed with panic, willing our benevolent bookstore dictator not to look over and see us standing like idiots who can't operate an elevator. She didn't. And so we didn't look like that. People who can't use an elevator. Because we can.
Love,
Alex
Next time instruct your Ninjetti to engage in some on demand projectile vomiting. An excellent tool for those who need to be taught a lesson. BTW, the photo is top notch (the Kangaroos say that in Australia).
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