Everytime the Swissair Maitre de Cabin came on the P.A. system, I giggled like the 4 year old behind me. "Guten Morgen, und ich danke Ihnen für den Flug mit der Swissair..."
I just haven't been around accents for a while, and pardon my laughter, but Swiss German is just straight out of an SNL skit. Delirious from a seven hour sleepless flight, I couldn't help but laugh again at the "Rundfahrten" sign as I exited the first flight and entered the land of the layover.
My mother rolls her eyes - the first of all too many eye rolls to come over the weeklong trip to Istanbul.
Switzerland is a very nice place. Or, so I can tell from the Flughafen Zurich's modern wood and steel aesthetic. And those stunning white-capped peaks that seem to taunt you as you ascend to the clouds.
I just do love the word 'flughafen,' and I'm glad I'll be stopping by there on my way home.
Hiccuping from the vegetarian meal served five hours prior (read: rice and vegetables with an acidic lingering in the trachea; unpleasant), I bounced through another round of too-friendly security checks, chugging that forgotten bottle of water, and embarrassingly thanking the too-helpful attendants in my native tongue, not their's.
I spent a moment being jealous of the bropack rolling twenty deep on their way to Dublin to celebrate my birthday, erm, St. Patrick's Day. I spent a second contemplating what some German girls ten feet from me might be chattering about.
How interesting it was that we're crossing paths loosely and will probably never see each other again.
And just like that, we boarded the next Airbus, surrounded by more crying babies and too many offers of coffee or tea from the overly-friendly Swiss flight attendants to one jetlagging New Yorker.
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