The Swiss Army

The Andes are lame to the Swiss.

Swiss are everywhere.  Though the population of that landlocked Alpine nation is only half the size of Buenos Aires', the young Swiss---flush with the wealth of their banking economy---are establishing themselves throughout the world.  Andrew, the Australian roommate in CasaBB, gave his report on the Swiss after a few beers last week, telling us that in any city he's been---Cairo, Sydney, Buenos Aires, wherever---there are always young Swiss travelers buying rounds in the bars.  Strong currency, high wages, political neutrality, and the cabin fever of living in a tiny country bordered on all sides by historical bullies all conspire to push these Swiss into the exotic cities of the world, where they are always welcome.

Last night, J. and I tagged along with Ben to a birthday party for one of his Swiss classmates from some Spanish language institute here.  Leia (I imagine Star Wars is popular in the Hoth-like Alps), the birthday girl, clacked down three floors on a twisting marble staircase to let us into the building, a former hostel.  She was a pale girl in a short blue dress, not the rounded Aryan blonde I'd come to expect from stereotypes.  Dishwater hair, a bony frame.  She welcomed us with the European kiss on the cheek and asked first, "Do you speak English?  There are so many languages up there."

The apartment, on the top floor, was an inverted Caminito.  Each room was painted a different bright color, all the way up to its tall white ceiling.  The hallway was mosaic tile.  Art hung on the rainbow walls: close-up photos of fruit, dark photographs of rooms, a painting of a woman's silhouette in red and green.  On the floor in the hallway, a mysterious painting of a man watched the party with its cut-out eye.  The whole place smelled like Leia's sister's gray cat, who is known to offer gifts of dry leaves and twigs at the foot of the sister's bed.  In a thin nook barely big enough to fit it, a spiral staircase coiled up into higher rooms, and the atrium, blocked to my shoulder with a concrete wall, breathed in the city through two high clerestory windows barred with wrought iron.  Marijuana swayed in a pot beside common houseplants.

There were only three languages.  Most of the guests were Swiss, new to Buenos Aires and learning their first trills of Spanish in the institute Ben attends.  They spoke German to each other, English to us.  One pretty Swiss with dark hair and a full gray dress spoke only Spanish.  A few glasses of the fruit-and-chardonnay punch had convinced her it was a good time to practice.  The Swiss I talked to planned trips around Argentina, as soon as they knew the language.  A couple of weeks was all they needed in the capital city.  I was envious.  To these Swiss, everything seemed easy.  They have money in the bank, and even the most expensive meals or trips seem like cut-rate bargains compared to their high-priced country.  A quick flight south to Patagonia, north to Iguazu Falls---it's as easy as that.  I have been here for almost four months, with no possibility of seeing those things.

Envy is a common emotion for me now.  I was envious of the beautiful bohemian apartment Leia's sister had.  I want to live in my own place, line the walls with art, throw parties with Bomba Estereo bumping through bass-heavy speakers.  I'm envious of Jess's freelance writing gigs, the money she has coming into her bank account.  I'm envious of all those bastards back stateside who have their lives figured out, partially, though I am not at all envious of those yoked with kids or office jobs.  It's ridiculous.  All this envy should make you puke.  Sunshine and mid-day bottles of wine and all the time in the world to read and write: how many of you are envious of that?  Answer: all of you.  Even the Swiss.