Zurich to Luzern

August 8-9

Our second full day in Zurich we went back to the old town to explore the other bank of the River Limmat. We had only touched it the day before, when we went to the Grossmunster, the Great Cathedral.

The day started auspiciously enough. I had tipped the waiter at the hotel on Tuesday morning, so when breakfast came on Wednesday the portions were bigger. I hadn’t expected that.

When we left the tram we remembered Sprungli closes early and went for the macarons first. We bought 16 in a small box. The box came from a refrigerated case, and a label advised in three languages that the contents should be eaten immediately. 

We sat on a sidewalk bench and complied.

There were champagne macarons, chocolate, vanilla, raspberry, and other flavors we’re not sure of. We sat in the dappled shade under the trees to watch the occasional trams, infrequent automobiles, and many people walking up and down. The bright northern tip of Lake Zurich lay at the end of the road.

We went through the macarons and walked to the lake to burn off some of the sugar. We didn’t spend too much time there. The tree cover ran out and left us very hot in the sun. 

The Burkliplatz, as the section is called, had small buildings selling snacks and tickets for boat rides. A bronze of Ganymede and the Eagle was a big photo op for tourists. The hotels on the lakeshore had a definite Gilded Age feel.

After a few minutes, though, we had to retreat to some shade, which we found in a park across the highway. We also found one of the city’s many drinking fountains and took sips from it.

The River Limmat meets the lake at the Burkliplatz. The current seems to flow out of the lake.

And it is all so very clean. You can see the river bottom through the water. People swim in the Limmat.

The only bits of debris floating on the surface are fallen leaves and swan feathers. They move north, away from the lake.

We had climbed the day before to a park called Lindenhof. It’s on the highest point inside the old city of Zurich. It had been the site of fortresses from Roman times until Zurich became a free city in the Holy Roman Empire. 

The burgers passed a law forbidding the establishment of fortifications on the hilltop. They knew that whoever held the hill also commanded the city.

It is now named for the linden trees that grow there. It offers terrific views of the old city and even glimpses of the Alps. You see the tips of them, like an extra low bank of clouds, behind the towers of the Great Cathedral.

It is remarkable how much the city, especially along the Limmat, resembles Amsterdam, but with mountains. The houses don’t lean so much, but many facades and roof peaks, the colors and scale, resemble the old Dutch houses along the canals.

Marijuana is not only tolerated but is legal in Switzerland. It’s sold openly in shops throughout the old city. I understand that in the Netherlands it is tolerated but not legalized, though I’m not sure of the legal nuances of that.

Cigarette smoking is more tolerated here. People smoke at tables outside restaurants and also in the large central enclosure of the Hauptbahnhof.

In contrast, I remember Larry rolling a joint mixing hash and tobacco at a bar in Amsterdam. He left a pack of Camels on the table as he worked.

When the waitress brought us our beer, she said, “Please remove your cigarettes from the table, sir.” But go ahead rolling that joint.

We crossed the river on the Cathedral Bridge, and made our way through more of those wonderful medieval streets, past buildings put up before Columbus stumbled on the Americas.

We passed one building that had a more modern history. Cafe Voltaire was an experimental theater that lasted from mid-February to Mid-June 1916. Among other distinctions, it is considered the birthplace of the Dada art movement, the almost anarchic reaction to the social conventions that led to World War I. 

Performers at the cabaret included the founders of the Dada movement, Tristan Tzara and Jean Arp. The cabaret also exhibited works by experimental artists including Wassily Kandinksy, Max Ernst, and Paul Klee.

Quite an accomplishment for only four months.

It was reopened for a few years in the last decade, but the occupation was illegal. It has lately been opened again by a foundation of some kind and still carries on the tradition of radical art. 

It was closed when we went by, but we could see inside. There were posters covered with obscene phrases, clearly just for the mischief of it.

Joanna said she had a taste for bratwurst. It was surprisingly hard to find in a German-speaking city. 

There was plenty of schnitzel and spaetzli. We looked at the menus of quite a few halles and hofs before we found it, at the Rheinfelder Bierhalle on Biderdorfstrasse.

First we went a little farther to have a vegetable course at a nearby Chinese restaurant. There were none on the beer hall’s menu, and we were craving something green. We had some Napa cabbage cooked with garlic. Very tasty and refreshing.

The waitress spoke Cantonese. She was born in Vietnam to Cantonese parents.

The Rheinfelder offered pork sausage (schweinsbratwurst) with hash browns, Rosti in German. I had veal sausage (kalbsbratwurst) with pommes frites. I had a couple of light lagers, possibly Pilsner style, that were all right. Not a lot of flavor but a hell of a lot better than Bud.

I couldn’t tell a lot of difference between the pork and veal versions of bratwurst. The pork may have been a bit more savory, but I’m not sure.

The sausages looked a foot long. They came gray with a little browning. They were good, but I would’ve liked to try them scorched a little more.  

We worked our way back to the Paradeplatz and then to the hotel.

Thursday morning was checkout. Noon, actually.

I had booked us for a train to Luzern leaving at 2:35 (14:35 in Euro reckoning) so we killed some time at the hotel. Then we took a cab to the main train station.

The driver took a slightly roundabout route. At one point, I thought he was crossing the river and asked where he was taking us. 

Turns out, it was a bridge over the railroad tracks and he was taking a faster route. We got there in good time at a reasonable fare, so he wasn’t soaking us.

I had bought our tickets online and printed them at the hotel. They were in German, and when I finally figured out how to read them, I noticed that there was no time of departure on the tickets.

I went to the information kiosk to make sure all was in order. The lady there said we had general tickets and could board any train to Luzern. That was new to me. When I’ve bought rail tickets in Europe before, they were for reserved seats on specific trains.

So Joanna and I boarded the 12:35 for Luzern.

We ate a couple of nondescript sandwiches at the station when we arrived and got directions to the hotel from the Tourist Information Office. It was less than a half kilometer, so we walked it, wheeling our bags.

The route took us along the river past an ancient bridge, more than 600 years old, and a tower just as old. Also past palatial hotels and a 400-year-old church founded by Jesuits during the Counter-Reformation.

Everything went well until we came to a long cobblestone stretch that resisted the bags’ wheels. 

The map showed us going to the end of Bahnhofstrasse to Klosterstrasse, where the hotel is. We came to the end of Bahnhofstrasse, but there was no Klosterstrasse.

I walked down the new street and it was only one block long. I came back and walked up and down the cross street. Still no luck.

I asked a lady coming out of a parking garage. It took a few seconds before she remembered the way. 

We were to take the one-block alley to the end and then we’d see our street. We did that and it worked fine. In fact, we could see the sign for our hotel, the Rothaus.

We took a break at the hotel during a heavy rain. It eventually let up and we went out to look for a place to have dinner.

We found quite a few, but some were priced ridiculously high and others didn’t have any dishes we wanted. We wound up at Restaurant Toscana practically across the street on Rutligasse.

Joanna had spaghetti with pesto. I had pizza Margherita—served Italian style, unsliced—along with a few glasses of a mild, but still flavorful Chianti.

Then I was ready to sleep the sleep of the just fed.

And so good night to all. Stay well. And don’t forget: Honor thy Dada.

Harry