Zurich and the Zoo

Clearly the product of a country
that knows how to enjoy itself... 

Zurich might seem an odd place for a holiday. Efficiency and high prices seldom make for the best jaunts. But when an old bandcamp friend, Maestro-in-Training (MiT), moved out there, a visit was planned. And this is how I found myself in the wilds of urban Zurich last weekend with Pegson in tow.

MiT's encyclopaedic knowledge of Zurich was such that, if the conducting thing goes to pot, a fallback guided tour career awaits.

After local architecture, interesting geographical features and places of worship had been covered, we took a tram to the zoo. There are only four topics of conversation possible at any zoo. As follows:

1. Levels of liveliness of favoured beasts. Subtitled: 'Is it dead?'

2. Enclosure size. A certain space meets layman understanding of what is  appropriate for [large-ish animal] to live in. All others declared cruel.

3. Security of dangerous beast enclosures. Subtitled: 'That tiger could absolutely get out of there if it tried'. (Taking into account moats, electric wiring etc.)

4. Physical similarity of beasts to mutual friends. (This should really be at 1. My oft-remarked facial similarity to a monkey makes zoo trips endlessly hilarious. I love it, obviously.)

Passing the Chimp Enclosure for the fourth time that day, I finally dragged Pegson and MiT into another enclosure - the Seal House. They were still chortling about the monkey thing when a seal slid down the window and lay on its back on the tank floor not moving. At that moment a parent carrying its child pushed in front of us to get a closer look at the cute seals.

For Reference: A live seal

Fearful that seal death would scar the child for life, we knew we should intervene. 

'Right.' [whispered]

'So…'

'Is it dead?'

The seal just lay there. On its back. Not moving.

'Did we just see a seal … die?' I ventured. 

Roaming meant googling 'how do seals sleep?' was out. The silence of death came upon the Seal House. Even the neighbouring months-old child had started to stare.

Other seals slipped by: their cheerful swimming highlighting more and more the stationary dead-ness of our floored friend. 

'Let's hit the gorillas!' Pegson said, gratefully seizing the opportunity for more monkey-based gags.

Nothing to be done. We scuttled past the forlorn seal-loving crowd. The Dead Seal opened one eye. He waggled a fin. Relief broke across the city.

The Bog Controller

For those here in anticipation of an update on the BOF and Pretty Neighbour saga, do not fret. There have been developments. But until they can be revealed in full, please distract yourself with today's trip to the pictures:

My ambient cellist friend Pegson (for details of former adventures see here) is a media darling, so evenings spent with him always seem to contain people who introduce themselves as being 'in the arts'. What can this mean? They seem sure it is impressive. Connected to something that occasionally produces 'art'. I digress.

For this week's jaunt, we (Pal, Pegson and I) ambled to the launch of a worthy new venture which was celebrated with the screening of a very non-worthy (though hilarious) new film.

Afterwards, there was a drinks thing on. Pegson and Pal said 'no let's not, it'll be dry,' but I, attired in BOF's cloak of belligerence, argued that we really should go rather than dashing in for the free film and sodding off. It was at a members club somewhere about. It was packed. Also it was for charity so there was no free booze. The signs should have been obvious.

In we went - Pegson and Pal mumbling aggressively to one another behind me. Secretly I was also keen because the club was near and I was bursting for the loo.

'You can't go up here.'

This I announced before negotiating the crowds to the most likely area for a loo-venue. There, by a flight of stairs, stood a tall surly waiter-ish man dressed in black.

'Excuse me, where would I find the loo?' I asked him, politely.

Chap: 'You can't go up here.'

KitC: 'That's fine, I just want to go to the loo.'

Chap: 'Up here is members only.'

KitC: 'OK great. Where's the bathroom please?'

Chap (getting hostile): Look. You can't go up here, it's for members.'

KitC (desperate now): I don't want to! I just want to find a loo!

Chap: Well you can't, you...

Happily, at this point, another similarly attired gent arrived, looking surly too, but slightly more helpful.

KitC (relieved): Oh hi. Excuse me, where's the loo?

Chap 2: ¿Que? [OK, that's made up. But it was something similarly blank. He continued:] I only just start work here.

At last, I found the lavatory. Unisex. Isn't that everyone's favourite loo genre? It lends itself so well to the inevitable moment when that man in the queue before you decides that your loo is the loo for him. In this case the chap after me was so emphatic in his belief that my locked loo was in fact free, that he managed to push the door open, while I was in there in flagrante.

I returned to Pal and Pegson. 'That's it. We've got to leave. Now.'

The gits (delighted at being proven right) insisted we stay. Lesson learned.

When Kate in the Countryside went to meet the Goths

Yeah. Bit like this.
With less sex

A friend of mine invited me to his gig the other day at an alternative music festival in Camden. So far, so unlikely. He performs experimental cello music to people with names like Sky and Heather, often in dingy basements. Occasionally he attends dinners and says belligerent things to very important, somewhat elderly people in the classical music industry. They love it. With his media-ish glasses and youth, he's exactly the old folks' idea of what an engaged young musician should be.

But this was something else entirely. Instructed to arrive after lunch, a pal of Pegson's (I've not been very inventive here) and I made it for 5ish, and found our way to the venue's central chamber where Pegson would be performing. There, dim lights, silent glassy-eyed individuals and distant drumbeat from upstairs meant the place felt oddly like a library under attack.

Girls in holey bodystockings stood behind men in adolescently daubed t-shirts sprawled out across the floor while grown women bobbed enthusiastically, eyes closed, tapping their bottles of sparkling water. Yet more glared pointedly about as they danced, to check that the rest of us were really enjoying it enough.

'Stoat-on-Trent'.
In case you missed it

Pal and I exchanged uneasy looks (might we be ousted for not being truly alternative?), made some cursory attempts at interpretative dance and then resigned ourselves to the fact that we stuck out as much as two stoats in a supermarket. I was wearing purple leggings for God's sake. When Pegson said quirky festival attire, I thought he meant Glasto. Not Marilyn Manson tribute.

Round the next corner was Man in Leather Waistcoat. I began to fear that sullen hostility might turn to open warfare when Pal pointed excitedly at the chap to attract my attention. But happily Pal was soon distracted by a small man in full bondage gear, hanging out with a girl with more piercings than face.

It was the terrifyingly attired that seemed to find Pegson's set the most moving. They mobbed him afterwards to wring his hand and hail him a mystical man of music. As for Pal and I, we were richly rewarded for our attempts to blend in by Pegson. He treated us to a share in his artists pass twenty quid meal voucher, before nicking us some free beer from the green room after we were shrilly ejected from the space ('This is for ARTISTS!').

Once safely home in Pimlico I regaled BOF with an account of more brushes with the law, goths, ardent music fans and piercings than I'd ever encountered in my life. I'd forgotten what a cool kid young BOF used to be: he looked only mildly bemused as he humoured my wide-eyed tales. They don't have alternative music in Oundle. Or goths. A Londoner I still am not.