When we get into Zurich it's raining. Awesome. We had given Mike the address of the Sara, our host for a couple days in that city of quiet, neutral elegance. She gave us the number of the bus to take from the station as well, but wouldn't you know it, as soon as we get off we're lost as a bat, without a map, and Grant's phone's out of batteries. We run about and around in the drizzling rain, and Scooby's saying, "Ruh, roh Shaggy," in my head. Finally, we duck into a little boutique on a corner selling kiddie toys, and the kind lady inside gives us directions in broken English and finger-pointing. It's almost noon when we get there, and there he is. Mike Killam. Sitting ever so casually at the cafe on the ground floor, looking out over a with an empty cup of coffee like Monsieur Valentine (I came in listening to a Spoon). He's been there since around eight he says, and we're a sight for sore eyes. We hug it out as to be excepted and necessary, and go around the corner down an alley and smoke a spliff with some the Czech weed from Prague. Mike, the gentleman that he is, had went ahead and bought a sixer of some cheap Swiss canned beer. And we just chilled like old time in that corner between between the wall and the alleyway, all lined up, the four of us. Talking about where we'd been and what we'd done, and the States, Santa Cruz. Mike had moved into the Western house with BB and Boom right before we'd left (the King Street house's lease was up). And we filled each other in. But this is now. We're in Zurich, bitches. Max and I are broke, but the table with the map on it hasa fourth leg now. And we're all stoked, and ready to rage. Maybe a nap first though, everyone's head's all fucked from traveling and different time zones and luggin' all this luggage around.
Sara, our host meets us in due time and leads us up five flights of stairs to her flat, and we thank her graciously and pass out. on folding mattress pads in the living room. Get up in a couple hours to get booze. We're drinking with Sara and trying to figure what to make of the night. She tells us the Red Light District's not far. Well, there's nothing else really happening on the Wednesday night, and, hell, we may be poor, but at least we're drunk. Zurich's red light's a different feel than Amsterdam's, definitely, still's bathed in red from the street lights and all the neon, just different, maybe it's the lack of those canals I now always firmly associate with prostitution at it's most decadent, but hey, it's a Wednesday night so who knows. The girls in the windows are... eh, and the windows that are open are few and far between. But there's these girls hanging outside the bars, decent lookers, with a predator's eye though, and when we walk by, one of them strokes Grant's chest. And it's all we can do to just hold in our laughter until we're well on down the sidewalk. But these bar's are everywhere, and every now and again we'd see some bar-fox walk out and into the nearest hotel with some drunk stud of a man in tow. Incredible. There's always time to stop and appreciate that. Especially since I'm stoned, drunk, and broke, and there's no danger of going for it.
