World’s worst plane flight from Chicago to Zurich had me crunched in like a sardine with no leg room, no way to sleep and a flight wherein I had to sleep because come the next day I would be dragging all of my over-packed luggage down La Croisette looking around like a bumbling tourist. “Where is the place where you get the thingys?” And then dragging my too-heavy luggage up the street to find the place where I’ll be staying.
The Zurich airport, and the Swiss in general, are quiet people. It’s a quiet and well-mannered culture, I’m finding. Or perhaps I am just imagining it. It’s always strange to be in Europe with the oddly pronged outlets and the toilettes, all that smell curiously of the sea, even if the sea is miles away.
I’m already blinded by lack of sleep and am hoping the next three hours and subsequent flight to Nice go decently.
I spend way too much thinking about me.
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You’re not imagining it. It’s a tightly run ship, clean and well in order. Just look at the difference between the train station on the Italian border, then go just over the border to the Swiss. Clean, swept clean. No tattered flag or musty seats. Lake Lucerne is like glass.