Greetings from Switzerland

I am Switzerland, pretending to enjoy a cup of coffee and looking out the window of this little shop. Outside, there is nothing but hills and skies, making it obvious why skiing is understandably one of the main attractions here.

If you are accustomed to North American coffee, I strongly encourage that when overseas, you always request “American coffee” or “Nescafe”, and never ever ask for “coffee”. All over the world but North America, “coffee” means espresso, or some variation thereof.

Since leaving Canada, the one thing I have been craving immensely, is a cup of good North American coffee and some cream…something else no one here has, and so you will have to make do with milk. At the moment, I am seated next to my final attempt at “coffee”, and it is only now that I realize the distinction between “coffee” and what I would consider the Holy Grail at the moment: The North American Cup of Jo.

On the flight over, I managed to get some sleep even though I am deathly ill. Quite honestly, the possibility of deep sleep at any seated angle is unlikely. Worse still, I was sandwiched between two amazons; Amazon 1, the female in front of me, was aged well past 45, wore Harry Potter glasses and was listening to wanker music and spazzing out to rhythms I hate for the duration of the trip. Amazon 2, the man seated behind me was so tall that his feet were actually in front of my own.

Needless to say, the trip itself wasn’t a total bust. Amazon 1’s mother, Amazoner, became faint and had to be laid out the length of the airplane, in order to catch her breath. There was a German doctor yelling at her; Am certain this made her feel warm and fuzzy and looking forward to quick recovery.

Bye from Dubai

While at the airport, stood in line and watched as a Texan argued with the travel agent, and declared that something or other “…[was] bullshit!”. My immediate reaction was to think: “Typical American! So rude, and so unnecessarily mean to the poor counter boy.”

When it was my turn, I approached the counter with my one piece of luggage, riddled with all of the goodies I couldn’t help but purchase (they followed me around, what could I do?) .

I placed my luggage on the weight machine and was met by looks of both disbelief and disapproval, as the woman behind the counter declared: “This is illegal. You are not allowed to have one piece of luggage that is over 32 kg. Yours is 43 kg. Illegal.”

To which I responded: “What do you mean: Illegal?”
And she scowled: “You need to break this up and put it in another bag.”
And I was all: “But I don’t have another bag.”
And she just, like: “Buy one.”
So I tried to be nice: “Pardon me?”
Until she yelled: “BUY ONE. Or you don’t get on the plane.”
And I said: “That’s bullshit!” Before grabbing my 43 kg of consumer goods and walking away to buy another god damn bag.

May Allah bless the Texan in us all.