Welcome toZurich, home of excellent trams, unexpected performance art and boiling cheese
I went on my first press trip in a decade. It was a blast
I was in Zurich at the weekend. It felt strange to be a person on a chic European city break. A bit like walking in my 20-year-old fancy shoes: possible, kind of, when the muscle memory kicked in. A bit wobbly.
But soon I was all, hi, hi, sorry I haven’t answered your email, I was Lake Zurich on a sauna boat.
Sadly I have not won the lottery or become an international arms trader who needs the services of a Swiss banker. I was on a press trip.
For those untainted by journalism, press trips are the source of often gushy pieces in the travel sections of newspapers and magazines. They pay for skint journalists to pretend to live the weekend break life then enthuse about it in print.
This was a group trip: four of us enjoying the Christmas markets of Zurich on Switzerland Tourism’s shilling. (Actually their Swiss franc, currently worth 89p. Not that I had much need of a currency converter.) They want the world to know about Zurich’s Christmas markets and other wintery activities. I wanted a weekend in a lovely hotel eating boiling cheese. Deal.
To this end we travelled by Zurich’s astounding public transport around every rug-lined chalet in the canton. We were a features lady from the FT, a golfing granny crime reporter from Cork who had to break off lunch to file on a suspicious death, a BBC online sub with a side hustle in travel writing. And me. Plus a babysitter from Switzerland Tourism who herded us onto trams, reminded us the museums are closed on Mondays and picked up the tab.
My own mother did not do such an excellent job. All that was missing were the tiny boxes of raisins and cartons of juice.
Once at a market we were free to wander at our own pace, meaning we didn’t have to make polite conversation about the biscuit cutters or audaciously priced gingerbread hearts. To a press trip veteran like myself, this was a huge relief. No one wants to be driven around Manilla in a minibus, hungover and sleep deprived, to look at the turn down service in another five star skyscraper while an anxious functionary explains how the aircon works.
In Zurich, as long as we were at the appointed meeting place to head to the next delightful restaurant, alles gut.
Press trips involve a lot of meals. Elaborate hotel breakfasts (ours had a special gadget for decapitating boiled eggs), luxe lunches, boozy dinners, top-ups of gluhwein and hot chocolate in between. Swiss cuisine is not for the carb averse or the lactose intolerant. Or, in fact, the vegan.
Ham appears in many places, not all of them expected. I ordered barley soup, picturing the austere Scotch broths of my childhood. What arrived was a basin of cream studded with speck, potato and diced carrot. I could have counted the grains of barley without needing my toes.
Fondue was, as expected, a pan of bubbling lactic matter made heady with various forms of booze. Apparently every chef has their own mixture of cheeses and favoured proportions of wine to kirsch. Fondue rivalry is real. I had hoped for a carrot or radish for dipping but instead there were miniature veal schnitzels. Or potatoes, or bread.
Towards the end of the meal, as the gloop popped and bubbled more vigorously, a thick crust formed on the bottom of the pan. This is, apparently, the grandmother. I managed to spear a good chunk of granny, meaning I’m pretty much Swiss now.
Sausages are something of a national obsession. Not a meal went by but I thought of a friend who is of the firm belief that a lady always feels better with a sausage inside her.
On some press trips the meals are so gargantuan that there’s little to do apart from eat. Not here. We were offered ice skating, as appealing to me as a date with Andrew Tate. Also the chance to jump in Lake Zurich in a Santa hat for charity. Our big hearted babysitter and the BBC dude actually did this. Go them - I sensed a free afternoon and trammed it towards culture.
Kunsthaus Zurich is two buildings, one on either side of its own tram stop. The OG has the pale and austere grandeur that the Swiss do so well while the new extension, by British starchitect David Chipperfield, is a cleverly crenellated white box.
To my immense joy, this white box contained the Marina Abramovic retrospective that I failed to see in London. No, a charming assistant told me at the desk, I did not need to book. I could see it right this minute.
Did I gawp at the videos, drape myself over the copper wall stand and commune with the crystals? Then hammer the gift shop? You had better believe it.
There was even time to run across the road and see the small gallery dedicated to the history of Dada - which originated in Zurich - and exit via the Cy Twomblys.
All of this was made possible by the charming museum staff who pointed out when I was using the map of the wrong building and advised me on the best route to the Giacomettis. The Kunsthaus not only has a grand collection of his sculptures, they have work by the extended family including his post-Impressionist painter father.
I left feeling like I had won a watch, a strangely appropriate feeling for a city obsessed with punctuality and spenny timepieces.
Sadly my own travel planning is not as efficient as Zurich’s masterful ZVV. I missed my direct flight back to Scotland. But all was not lost, this freed up time to go to Migros, the huge supermarket in the airport.
My plan to snack healthily on vegetables dipped in soft Alpine goats cheese was, sadly, foiled by Swiss customs. After a three-way debate between sternly uniformed staff, this obviously benign tub of herby goodness was classified as a liquid and therefore not suitable to pass through security. It was duly binned.
Luckily I had bought plenty of paprika crisps and chocolate as “gifts”. So that went well.
The whole Zurich experience was a reminder that the me who did this kind of thing regularly had a lot of fun. She knew where to refill her water bottle in the airport and had a bag of Euros in her dressing table drawer. There’s some life in her yet. I plan to unleash her on some other cities very soon.
I want to know more about the golfing granny crime reporter from Cork.
I did snort with laughter! Sounds like a blast!