At the end of July we made our first trip to Switzerland. I made the 8 hour drive with Noodle, and the Attaché met us at the Zurich airport. Switzerland, famous for banks, mountains, cheese, chocolate, and watches, is also known to have strict rules, high taxes, one of the best armed militaries in all of Europe (there are firearms in the household of every able-bodied male.) Switzerland is a culture of assimilation. I’ve heard that everyone must have a Swiss flag in their home, it is mandatory that everyone wash their houses once per year–the outside–and your trash gets inspected periodically to ensure you are recycling properly. Fines are stiff for bad trash sorting, and even if you sort it right you pay by the pound to get rid of your trash. It took only 30 minutes for me to get a sense of the rigid culture. To drive on the highways, one must have a toll permit, available at most gas stations. Most countries offer 1 day, 1 week, 1 month and 1 year toll permits. Switzerland does not. Whether you drive one minute, or the entire year, the permit costs about $50. That’s not a bad deal if you’re Swiss and drive the roads all year long, but for a foreigner on a 3 day vacation, $50 is a steep toll. I chose to respect the laws of the land and buy the permit (it’s a sort of honor system). For my good Swiss behavior, I was quickly rewarded by a visit from the police. I didn’t get stopped on the highway mind you, but upon arriving at the airport I pulled into a parking spot in front of the arrival terminal to wait for the Attaché. It was a metered parking spot, but I didn’t have any Swiss Francs yet to pay the meter. Since I was in the car (in the driver seat)–”standing” not “parking”–I thought I could get away without paying to park. No way. Less than 1 minute after stopping, I had a visit from the ever diligent Swiss police who informed me that I had committed a parking violation. I told the officer I had only just arrived in Switzerland, that I didn’t have any Swiss Francs to pay the meter, it had only been 1 minute, and I had technically not parked, since I was still in the car. The officer didn’t agree with my interpretation of parking. It was his interpretation that the moment your car stops in the spot, the meter must be fed. Ridiculous, I told him. Not possible, I exclaimed. The officer was not amused. Yet he did not write me a ticket, or tell me to be on my way, instead he advised me that I was in Switzerland now, and I must follow Swiss rules. I had parked. I had not paid. I was in violation. “Got it,” I told him. “How much is the ticket?” He wasn’t interested in ticketing me. He wanted to further lecture me on the merits of Swiss laws and rules, that it’s his decision whether I get a ticket or not, and that I was in Switzerland now. “Oh, I’m in Switzerland, you say?” He didn’t think that was funny. At this point, I was begging for him to give me a ticket, so I wouldn’t have to deal with him any more. But he wouldn’t give me one. He wouldn’t let me leave. “What do you want from me?” I asked. He got nice. He explained how I should park. He suggested I go to the short term parking zone, where I can find an ATM machine, or I can pay with a credit card. He wished me well and on my way. I did not park, of course. I drove the all-too-familiar airport-loop. Each time I passed him by, harassing some poor bastard for improperly parking, I waved at him. For me it got funnier and funnier every time I drove by. He just scowled.

On the first day of the trip, I thought it would be nice if we all wore team hats so I grabbed three hats at the Appenzell Cheese Museum and dropped them in the Attaché’s shopping bag when she wasn’t looking. I was excited, I had never seen hats like these, it was like a baseball cap with no bill. The Swiss are so innovative! Let’s be Swiss! Weeee! When we got outside and I looked in the shopping bag, there was only one hat. I put my hat on and said, “Where’s yours?”

The Attaché was laughing at me. “You look ridiculous.”

“I’m Swiss,” I told her.

“It’s a baseball cap with no bill.”

“It’s innovative,” I said. “And it’s not a baseball cap.”

She plucked it off my head and studied it, sort of like she does with rocks, except I rarely carry rocks on top of my head. “It’s no baseball cap,” she agreed. “Baseball caps keep the sun out of your eyes, and this won’t. This is more like a ski hat. But this won’t keep your head warm. You got the worst of both hats.”

I took it back. “Quit touching it.”

She shook her head and stuck a piece of cheese in her mouth. “Why did think I would wear that? Why did you think I would let you put it on my dog?”

I made her sorry. If she wasn’t going to wear a hat, I was going to wear mine with the zeal of three! I kept that thing glued to my head for the rest of the trip, the only time I didn’t wear it was when she hid it from me one day. I found it hidden under our tent. She regretted that move: I never took it off again. I even slept in it.

We squeezed a lot into a short trip. We camped in northeast Switzerland in a beautiful village called Bad Ragaz. We drove the countryside making a short excursion to Lichtenstein. Outside of a 20 dollar per pound chicken breast prices in the grocery stores, and paying to throw your trash away, I found nothing else to complain about in Switzerland. Considered less dramatic than other parts of Switzerland, the landscape of the northeast was by no means an eyesore. Green hills, distant snow-capped mountains, the swift Rhine River, Lake Constance and quaint villages–these are the things that give Switzerland its great reputation. Much about the place is spectacular. The rules and the prices–they were tough to overlook, however. I’m giving this trip a rating of 4 schnitzels out of 5.

Noodle doesn’t travel with us very often, but on this trip her passport got stamped for her 6th, 7th and 8th countries: Switzerland, Lichtenstein and Germany.