The Lugano Experience

For those of you rejoining after a time (which also includes me), fair warning that this is the second post for the day… You can read the previous post here.

And a special shout out to Tricia, a very good childhood friend (we “went together” in the sixth grade).  Thanks for getting me off my butt to write again

October was about as whirlwind as September.  But instead of being the visitor, I became the visited (which sounds like a Sci-Fi horror flick).  My two sisters, Dierdre and Cindy, and one brother-in-law, Dave (poor Lenny had to stay home to watch the mastiff, two cats … err four cats and mom), descended on poor Europe like a loud … very loud swarm of locusts.  (Smooches Cin)

One of the fun things about living in a foreign country is finally getting visitors so you can see the surreal weirdness through their eyes.  Nothing highlighted this more than a fun little adventure on the second day of their trip:

FUNICOLARE RIDE

A funicolare (Foo - Nick - Oh - LAWR - AY) is basically a train car that is connected on a cable with another train car.  One train car goes down a hill while the other one comes up.  These cars are made for those of us who get tired of having a Sherpa trapse about as you navigate 6000 feet of elevation drop in order to go to downtown Lugano.  And besides, strapping on those spiked ice boots is cumbersome at best.

Aneeeewaaaays…. On the day after the gangs arrival, I decided to drag them to downtown Lugano (it really is pretty cool), to show them the lay of the land and give them the feeling that they actually are in Europe.  Being the second day, they were still pretty tired, suffering from jet lag and basically feeling pretty “wonky.” 

We hop on the funicolare (think one tiny little train car capable of holding 30 people when they really smash in).  There are 4 seats available - the rest is standing room.  Since they are all pretty tuckered out (and there aren’t any others riding) the gang grabs the seats. With a sense of foreboding, I remained standing (the spidey senses somehow were tingling, as it were).

And not more than 20 seconds waiting, the spidey senses proved correct.  An older woman (60s) walked into the car and Dave, being the gentleman that he is, got up to offer her his seat.  Nothing comic about that, right?

Well, not exactly.  Poor Dave’s back and legs were hurting, and coupled with the jet lag, he looked about 20 years older than the woman whom he was giving up his seat.  The “oh-sweet-baby-Jesus-what’s-this-hot-poker-in-my-butt” grimace was absolutely priceless.  Especially for us Americans who like to laugh at our friends and relatives discomfort.  So, this sparked my sisters who start laughing.  And if you know Cindy, her laughing is not a chuckle - it is a guffaw… amplified by a pair of bellows that would make any opera singer proud.

Now, little Swiss Miss looks at Cindy quizzically and says something in rapid-fire Italian that sounded to us like “Blaroni undini figlioni blaroni” (sort of what your dog hears when you are talking to him). I politely tell Swiss Miss that we don’t speak Italian, and she (with an all-too-knowing look) asks if we speak English.  I (kicking myself now for not lying to her that we are Russian) tell her yes…  To which she responds in English:

“Why are you laughing?”

Now this was not a kind-hearted, Please-fill-me-in-on-the-joke-I need-a-good-chuckle kind of response. This was a hold-on-tight-you-are-about-to-feel-my-Swiss-Miss-boot-up-your-fat-American-ass kind of response.

Well, we all sat there like little does in the headlights of the oncoming Peterbilt.  I mean, we just are not ready for such a straight forward challenge.  She repeats her question since all she had gotten was a dumbfounded trio of looks to which my older sister, Cindy, normally full of California verve, squeaks.

“He was funny?”

Ok, so this is NOT the response that Swiss Miss is looking for.  She burns into my sisters skull with her laser beam eyes for what seems like an eternity.  Cindy is practically peeing at this point and the rest of us are staring collectively at a very shiny spot on the floor.  Other passengers are even sensing the cataclysm to come and are shuffling away from hapless Americans.  In the space of about 40 seconds a 65 yr old Swiss hippie (she had on some shaman necklace thing and moccasins) had completely sucked the life out of the car… with a look. 

So now she has us, and she knows it, and she is going to proceed to tell us what we have done wrong.  “This is not funny.  He is being a gentleman.  There is nothing funny about this.”  More laser beams, and a LOT more uncomfort.

Dierdre takes the smart road and blends into the corner.  We’re talking a friggin cameleon.  No, Cheshire cat.  Because all I see is her big, shit-eatin grin (I always wondered about that term, by the way… how are poop eating and grinning somehow linked to each other).   Not sure what her inner dialogue was saying, but I am sure it was somewhere between disbelief and “I can’t wait to see where this goes.”  

Now, Dave decides to lighten the situation with levity.  He responds, sarcastically, “Yea, I was being a gentleman.” 

Of course, the woman doesn’t get Dave’s sarcasm, and his comment only fuels her indignation and therefore, the laser beams. And all Cindy can get out is “No, we just got jet lag because we are planes from America.”  Or something like that.

Dierdre gives a quick, little beaker squeek and then the cheshire grin changes to a checker pattern and disappears into the seat.

At this point I don’t know whether to laugh or to cry or to jump out onto the tracks of the funicolare.  I do know that if we make it through the ride without dying of embarrassment, or without Cindy recovering her composure and diving into Swiss Miss, Dave may end up with a spoon in his eye (or somewhere less comfortable).

And somewhere on the 60 second ride from the top of the hill to the bottom, I think I blacked out, because I am not entirely sure how the situation recovered, but we somehow pacify Swiss Miss and let her know that we did not have any malice and are just being silly, jovial (and stupid, I am sure she thought) Americans.  Once we got off the funicolare, she patted Dave and thanked him again (loudly) for being such a gentleman.

My sisters watch, mouths agape, to which I could only say, “Welcome to Switzerland.”