The Swiss Life

So I’ve arrived, yay me. This whole emigration thing is all a bit ambivalent for me. On the one hand I’m screaming ‘Wohoo’ in my head, I’m am free, I am living the the romantic dream, my job is my art, my art is my writing (if you can call it that) I am kept now about start my new life in a new country. How amazing? Then my other duality takes over, I’m jobless, I’ve yet to secure a single interview, my German is still very basic, oh woe is me.

Calm it down GBM, it will come, it will come.

After what seemed like the wettest week in Irish history and the possibility of a weekend of 25 degrees in Zurich I can’t say I was too sad to leave my beautiful green isle. Yes Ireland I won’t miss the weather, your complete lack of summer over the last 5 years has pushed me to this state of abandonment. You left me no other choice. I will not miss your constant drenching. That said you will always be my shire for you shelter and house the majority of the people in this wee life o' mine that I love the most. I’ll give you that, I’ll give you that. Fare thee well mine shire, I will always love thee but it’s time for this new Swiss way of life. Given I’ve just arrived I can not really detail yet what Swiss life entails.

Calm it down GBM, it will come, it will come.

GBM

My own Private Flatpack Nightmare made Public

So Husband has departed for pastures Swiss and I’m left here in Dublin to pick up the relocation pieces. Nothing I can’t handle or at least that’s what I thought.......

The relocation company arrived this week and the build up to this day brought out in me what can only be described as stress induced alopecia, either that or I was tearing clumps of my hair out in my sleep. It’s not that I am completely useless and can’t do things by myself, it’s just that Husband and I have created this intricate partnership and it's hard to adjust to this new found level of independance. We usually bounce ideas off each other and make sure the other is doing the right thing. One thing we’ve never done separately is navigate the intricate flatpack labyrinth of IKEA. What was usually a therapeutic shopping Mecca filled with warm feelings of self satisfaction was about to become a giant sandstorm of despair and failure.

Timing was of the upmost importance to my success. With the movers coming to take everything we own to Zurich, I had been preparing myself for my inevitable minimal existence. I convinced myself I could live like Moby but I would need a bed to get through my final months before becoming an expat. With the movers coming on the Thursday my plan was simple:

IKEA on Wednesday
Purchase bed
Next day delivery
Movers take furniture Thursday morning
Bed arrives Thursday afternoon
Build bed
Rest

What could possibly go wrong?

I had pre-chosen the exact bed I wanted online before I had even arrived on that faithful day. The 'Brimes', 140x200 with 'Sultan Harestua' sprung mattress. I had my printed shopping list in hand showing me exactly where each component of my potential purchase would be located in the storeroom. Piece of piss.

When there and after scoffing my usual staple of meatballs and Diam cake, I bee-lined to the store room.

Sidebar I must admit I’ll miss the slight onset of giggles caused when a North-Side Dubliner working in the IKEA restaurant utters the immortal line

“D’ya wan lingonberry jam with dat?”

upon the request of the 15 meatballs main dish. Totally worth the 25 mile trek outside the city centre alone for the experience.

I bounced around the storeroom with my trolley and trusty map of ingredients to make the perfect Brimes bed. One huge lashing of Sultan Harestua mattress found on aisle 29, location 31 , a dollop of Brimes bed base made ready for me at the collection point, 2 tablespoons of the Skorva mid-beam on aisle 29, location 06 and a pinch of the Sultan Luróy slats found on aisle 31, location 9. Convinced I was the IKEA seasoned pro by this stage I strutted through the checkout credit card out with a smug look of self satisfaction on my face. My plan was coming together and nothing could foil me now. Why I was letting myself stress out so much over this?

Moving day came along with 2 chipper Northern Irish laddies hell bent on boxing everything we own into a freight bound for Zurich. The morning flew by with relative ease. I kept back only enough clothes to get me through the next 2 months in Dublin. The only slight panic arose when I incorrectly thought my passport had been boxed off into the crate only for it to turn up in the bottom of my wardrobe.

Once my new found friends had departed with everything I owned in the back of their large truck (luckily by that stage we had established a certain degree of trust with each other) I got stuck into erecting my flat-packed catcher of Z's. I'd never built any flat-pack this big before, let alone one that had 5 different flat-packed sections. I was rocking this bed, I was the bed master, everything going so amazingly, that was until I went to open the mid-beam flat-pack only be greeted with some slatted bed base for a single bed. What the what?

I grabbed the receipt for my purchases only to see I had actually bought the Sultan Lodingen instead of the Skorva mid-beam. I franticly retraced the steps in my mind-tunnel to find out where it all went wrong.

Cut to me standing at aisle 29, location 6. About to reach for the mid-beam only to get distracted by a female IKEA employee who closely resembled a moose wearing fake tan and giant hooped earrings (I shit you not). I made a mental note that the IKEA uniform clearly is not flattering on anyone other than gangly males and reached for the flatpack on 26, 12 directly above the mid-beam.

I believe I invented a new explietitive at this very moment or at the very least joined five together to create a new super-curse, The ‘Travelling Wilburys’ of cussing if you will. Without thinking I dialled my sister and luck would have it she was in Dublin still and free to take me back out the dreaded yellow and blue fortress of Swede. A quick in and out mission. I knew where the fucker was now and I was not going to screw this up again. It was probably the quickest trip in the history of IKEA. That's how the bastards suck you in, trapped in their one way system of design and affordability.

Back in the apartment I fashioned the penultimate part to my bed base, mid-beam me up Scotty. I began put the final pieces in place, bed nearly made and I would still have time to cook my dinner. I unrolled the bed slats and could almost hear the brass band playing a triumphant song of success in my head when it be came apparent that I was missing a Sultan Luróy. You were supposed to buy 2 of the God forsaken things. I collapsed into a sea of cardboard and frustration a yelled the worst curse I could think of.

GBM: 'PHIL COLLINS!'

With IKEA now closed for the evening and the sudden realisation I would have to sleep on a mattress for the night (ah this took me back to my crack den days), I turned to Husband on Skype to admit my failings. Luckily Husband knew better that to hit a man when he had reached the lowest pit of despair. I had pretty much decided to give up on the bed until the next week as I was due to make my way to Zurich for a visit the following day. Husband bolstered me up and convinced me to take one last stab at it. Race to IKEA first thing in the morning and get the final puzzle piece to literally put this mother to bed. It was exactly what I needed to hear.

So in the end after 3 days, 3 trips to IKEA, 2 servings of Swedish meatballs, 1 tearful breakdown, I finally had a place to rest my weary head at night.

Shame spiral narrowly averted.

GBM

Zurich and I'm Poor

One of my worries with the whole relocation thing is the quite large possibility that I will be moving over the Zurich sans employment and furthermore sans cash monies. Husband has assured me what's his is mine but the idea of total dependence is not sitting very comfortably with me and I can't help feel like I will be penniless. Zurich has recently officially become the most expensive city in the World, cost of living wise and whilst I am trying to find employment, I seem to be at a disadvantage as I only speak English. Me no speaky the German sehr gút (but I am learning). Part of the reason I decided to Blog in the first place was because of this, I thought it would give me something to do should I remain stuck in an unemployment limbo. I won't deny that the idea of being kept or a man of leisure is not appealing for a while but in the long run it just isn't maintainable. Thing is I am a bit of a stickler. I like bargains, good deals on restaurants, entertainment, clothes etc and Zurich brings out the worst of my inner stickler traits. In my 3 short visits so far I have yet to buy one luxury item, this is unheard of for me when I am on holiday. Travelling to another country usually has me spending compulsively in various stores, vintage coats, latest gadgets, graphic novels and shoes for Husband but my stickler won't even entertain the idea in Zurich. It's like I've a tiny accountant in my head going:

Tiny Accountant: ‘Why would you buy those shoes when you can get them cheaper at home? Why would you pay 40CHF for jeans in H+M when you can get them for €20 at home.’

And so on and so forth, yada yada yada. Problem is, I've grown to trust my Tiny Accountant wholeheartedly. By listening to him where it matters like weekly food shopping in ALDI on the cheap meant I could splash out on the things that I really loved like trips to Italy, music gigs and eating out in great restaurants. Dublin is by no means a cheap city to live in, in fact at one stage the cost of living was outrageous but it's all about how you play the system. There are cheaper café's, shops (hell a whole street dedicated to discount stores on Talbot Street) where you could go when you were on a budget. I'm struggling to find these cheaper alternatives in Zurich. When I mention this to any of the residents I usually get a response along the lines of its all relative and when you have a Swiss salary it will not matter as they are quite robust. That may be, tiny expat community I've only just met but I don't have a Swiss salary. I will have Husbands spare credit card that I am terrified of using. Maybe I'm wrong about all this, readers (if I have any) if you any of you out there are Zuricans and know how to work the system let me know. Tips please!

I mean just the other day I went to a hipstery café out in Kreis 5, the type of place the blogtard and creative community go to tap away on their Macbook Pro's (guilty as charged), I ordered a bowl of soup and a cappuccino. Dublin equivalent this would of set me back about €8 -€10. Here I paid CHF18.30 works out as about €15, granted they were both delicious but why the mark up guys? Can we just assume for a second that everyone here isn't loaded (I think I can hear boundless Zuricans laughing at the very suggestion in the distance), how do you even get tourists to visit this place, backpackers destination it is not, affordability wise. I fared no better in the local MacDonalds or Burger King, given the universally lacking standard and quality of the food I assumed the cost would not differ country to country. How wrong was I? 15CHF (€12) for a medium burger meal in Burger King, Dublin price bout €8 max. If I hadn't stumbled upon Bretzal street vendors during my time in Zurich I actually think my Tiny Accountant would have had an embolism (CHF6-7 for a cheese and salami filled Bretzel and a taste heaven in your month).

I don't know what I'll do, cut coupons, shop in Goodwill, is there even a Goodwill in equivalent in Zurich? Maybe education is the key? Add some more strings to the bow and get the language down. I could fund this by being a stripper at night with a heart of gold. Or maybe not as I don't think I have the pecs for that job.

Whatever happens I know it's all part of the adventure :-)

GBM

Greetings and Salutations

Where to start?

I'm a 20 something redheaded Irish boy currently residing in Dublin, who's about to leave it all behind; job, apartment, childhood friends, and relocate to a new country with Husband.

Husband’s promotion and relocation package sees us reposition ourselves to the Financial Services capital of Switzerland otherwise known as Zurich or as I like to call it the city that likes to empty my wallet.

The city is so money and it doesn't even know it! No but in all seriousness it does seem like an amazing place to set up shop even if my inner stickler would rather tear my hair out than pay 5 Francs (about €4.00) for a small bottle of sparkling water.


Husband assures me his new earnings will be sufficient to support us both should I not secure work over there straight away, he will be the daddy to my need for sugar, which to be honest is a very strange situation for me to be in. I've always worked; ever since I've left college so this new found level of almost parental dependence will come as a bit of a shock to the senses. It might never happen, I might even get a job before I follow him over, you never know but I am at a slight disadvantage considering my grasp of the German language leaves a lot to be desired. According to something called the European Framework I'm at level A1A, sounds great huh but think the opposite of your Leaving Cert. I think this puts me at the grading equivalent of signing my name.

The move has me absolutely terrified and exhilarated to varying degrees (I have the emotional stability of a child at Disneyland who has lost his parents).

Overall my desire to dive into the swimming pool of new adventure and experience won over my practical need for stability (giving up a job in this economy, blah blah blah). Oh yes and the other big factor in my decision making would be the that crazy little thing called love, which I will now speak no more of out of fear of making you all barf and the risk of enlarging Husbands already inflated ego to the point that his giant 'Jake Gyllenhall' head can no longer fit through the doorframe.

So I'm diving in; in to the high cost of living, to being an expat, to the land of chocolate, to learning a new language, to Lido bars, to snowboarding, to a renters market, to more money than sense, to possible joblessness and subsequent poverty, to being a house husband, to being a kept man and to finally tasting fondue.

So I guess I'm asking you to come along for the ride, I'll try to make it funny and interesting but no guarantees. I can however guarantee that I will always be a big goofy ginger Irish 'man-boy' regardless of where I call home.

Ta ta for now

GBM