It had been ages since I last went to a concert. My nomadic lifestyle – working for a few months to then spend more months backpacking the world – rarely allowed for such expenses. My priorities were more practical: a new camera after my old one was left in the back seat of a car in Albania last year, or a working smartphone, since mine only held a three-hour charge. But when I saw that Jacob Collier, one of my absolute favorite musical artists, was performing just 88 km away as part of his world tour, I couldn’t resist buying a ticket.
This summer, I’m living and working in a small, medieval village on the edge of the Jura Mountains in northwest Switzerland. Here, even by German standards, you can earn really well. The cost of living and services are accordingly high. I was quite surprised to find that tickets for the 54-minute train ride to Zurich cost 40 Swiss Francs – 80 CHF round trip. That was more than I’d paid for the concert ticket itself. At these prices, my mind immediately raced to what I could afford on my next trip with that money: 80 Swiss Francs was almost 700 Bolivianos, three whole weeks of backpacking through Bolivia, or half a month of hitchhiking through Turkey on 4000 Lira. I’d already covered thousands of kilometers this way, so a less-than-an-hour hitchhike to Zurich shouldn’t be a problem. So, I grabbed an empty pizza box, wrote “ZÜRICH” in big letters, and headed to the nearest highway on-ramp on the day of the concert. Full of energy, with a small fanny pack holding the essentials and my trusty denim jacket making me feel like a true adventurer, I stood by the road, smiling at oncoming drivers while pointing to my homemade sign.
Three minutes later, my smile turned into a pained grimace: the sun had disappeared behind a massive, dark cloud formation. The wind, which blew my pizza box across the street, was joined by an unpleasant, cold drizzle that mercilessly whipped into my face. I didn’t believe in higher powers, but something in me saw it as a personal provocation that this particular day had to be the coldest and wettest in the last two months. But as Henry Wadsworth Longfellow once noted:
“The best thing one can do when it is raining is to let it rain.”
Just ten minutes later, I was in the car of a muscular, fully tattooed Tai Chi instructor named Dario. As it turned out, he had also traveled extensively and had competed in martial arts competitions in Portugal, Sri Lanka, Brazil, and Peru. We talked about travel, the deep emptiness that seems to engulf everyone after a long trip back in the dull everyday, and about his second home, Iran, from whose capital, Tehran, his family had to flee Israeli rocket attacks a few days earlier. “They live in constant fear, you know? But that’s become normal over there. I’ll still visit them as soon as I can.” After this intense conversation, Dario dropped me off near the Zurich city center, and we said our goodbyes.
Zurich smells of wealth. At Paradeplatz, the excessive prosperity was most evident to me. From young teenagers to older ladies, everyone seemed well-dressed and owned the latest iPhone model. The building facades were sumptuously decorated, and the Credit Suisse bank building imposingly towered over the small kiosk at the tram stop in front of it. As I crossed the Quaibrücke between Bürkliplatz and Bellevue, I mentally played “count the millionaires,” which were easy to spot based on the cars passing by. Amidst all this wealth, I felt terribly out of place in my patched Aladdin pants and worn-out running shoes.
I took the funicular train up a considerable 19% incline to the Adlisberg, reaching the “Zurich Open Air City” grounds. The view from the modern vehicle over the city and Lake Zurich was magnificent, even if you had to imagine the Alpine panorama behind the gray clouds. At 2 PM, I was still at the highway on-ramp, and now – two hours later – I was already in front of the venue with all the time in the world until the opening act began at 6:30 PM. I sat cross-legged with a small group of overly eager concertgoers in front of the closed gate and read the book I’d brought, “The Motorcycle Diaries” by Ernesto Che Guevara. Even after the gate opened and I entered the concert grounds with about fifty people, there was still plenty of time. I spent it inspecting the overpriced food and drinks from the food trucks (18 CHF for a burger – I could get a whole multi-course meal abroad for that price) and hiding from the recurring rain under a stadium roof while continuing to read my captivating book, which stirred in me a longing for my upcoming South America trip.
Next to me sat two Swiss men, a little older than me, deeply engaged in conversation about their finances. Every now and then, they would show each other figures and profits on their iPhones to avoid speaking them aloud. “So, I made my first hundred thousand at 24. You know, I still work now – and I have to say, I could even cut down my working hours – about eight hours a week. The consulting appointments bring in a lot of cash, and I don’t have to take many of them, but most of it comes from crypto; that practically runs itself, you know? Last year – just in the first quarter – look…” (He shows his companion a number in the calculator app) “…I earned that much just from that. Otherwise, I couldn’t have afforded Bali at all, but now I can pretty much travel as much as I want. The whole thing can still be totally scaled up, you understand? But if you look at the profits from…” I put on my noise-canceling headphones and continued reading my book. It was currently about predatory Western capitalists exploiting workers toiling to death in the Chuquicamata mine and enriching themselves on Peru’s natural resources while the local population starved. “What a messed-up world,” I thought.
The opening singer, Wallis Bird, took the microphone, and it was as if her cutting guitar riffs, expressive voice, and undeniable Irish charm broke through the cloud cover. The rain gave way, and I couldn’t help but dance to the galloping rhythm and nostalgic lyrics of “To My Bones.” The atmosphere was still a bit subdued, partly due to the unusual cold and wetness, but the crowd slowly came alive. When Jacob Collier took the stage, at least most of them were wide awake again. An indescribable euphoria took hold of me. Everything I had ever seen or heard from Jacob Collier was so incredibly unique, creative, and fantastic. Now I was experiencing him live, just a few meters in front of me; an electrifying musical spectacle like I had never seen before. I couldn’t stop smiling and singing or laughing at his humorous interjections the entire time. The audience sang along eagerly and harmonized in more or less melodious choruses, while Jacob conducted the crowd, making us instruments of his symphony. Funk, groove, and jazz flowed together with modern synthesizer and pop sounds, creating a sound collage that words simply cannot describe. It was simply incredible.
“If you follow the news nowadays, it seems like the world’s gone mad. I believe this world needs way less cool people and a lot more warm people.”
Shortly after 10:30 PM, the concert was over. Still imbued with the lingering euphoria, I slowly had to figure out how to get home. After a brief ponder, my plan was set: intercept the departing cars in the parking lot and ask drivers if they were heading toward Bern or Biel and if they had a spare seat. Unfortunately, my bold endeavor was unsuccessful. Many people were open to the idea but either had no space left or were going in the wrong direction. After 11 PM, I resignedly took a shuttle bus into the city and decided to try again there on a road leading to the highway. This turned out to be a fateful mistake in hindsight. Zurich wasn’t just wealthy and splendid; it was also impeccably clean. Usually, it’s a boost to quality of life to live in such an orderly city, but at that moment, I was desperately searching for a single piece of cardboard on the roadside and in parking lots around my chosen hitchhiking spot – and simply couldn’t find anything. Resigned to my fate, I settled for a measly piece of styrofoam on which I wrote “BERN, BIEL” as large as possible.
I could have set up a flashing LED sign or danced my destination in eurythmy letters; it wouldn’t have changed the fact that I was strolling across deserted intersections like Cillian Murphy in “28 Days Later,” and the city was absolutely empty. It was already midnight. Any reasonable person, seeing me between an industrial area and construction sites, wouldn’t have stopped to inquire if I’d like a ride, but would have pressed the gas pedal with extra vigor. My baggy hippie pants were now adorned with coffee stains I’d acquired while waiting at the concert venue, and with my glazed eyes, I must have looked like a drug addict who had wet himself. My initial enthusiasm turned into displeasure as I slowly realized, looking at the public transport app, that the next train home wouldn’t leave this city until 6:30 AM the next morning. A night in Zurich lay ahead. I had no accommodation and had to leave for work at 8 AM. These were, admittedly, sobering prospects.
At 1 AM, after an hour’s walk, I arrived at the main train station. In the sales tunnels full of shops, lockers, and snack stands (all closed, of course), I decided to spend the night on a bench. All in all, it could have been worse, I thought. At least here I was protected from the elements and could get straight on the train the next morning. I made myself as comfortable as possible on a somewhat hidden, clean bench and put my cap over my face to shield myself from the bright ceiling light. The surface was hard, but I could get used to it, and fatigue overwhelmed me.
“Grüezi,” a rough voice boomed right next to me. I startled, my cap falling to the ground, revealing the bewildered eyes of a security guard in a neon yellow vest. “The station is closing now, you have to get out of here now and find another spot, right.” “Right?” I thought, half-asleep. “Is that a question? Can I still negotiate with this man?” But I quickly realized this wasn’t a question, but an instruction, and that the Swiss dialect sometimes added an “…oder” (…right) at the end of sentences where in German that would imply a follow-up question. Gone was my makeshift sleeping arrangement. “The station opens again after four.” A glance at my watch revealed I’d only dozed off for a mere five minutes. I had to leave the station building; there was nothing else for it.
No sooner had I stepped out into the cloud-covered night than a cold wind whipped around my ears again. A week earlier, my family had visited, and we’d escaped the heat by cooling off in the refreshing Aare River. Now I longed for sunshine and the temperatures that had previously given me sweaty nights in my attic room. It was 10 °C (50 °F) outside; at least ten degrees Celsius less than I liked. I was drowsy, and despite the cold, my eyes kept closing. I had to settle down somewhere, but where? Staggering across the station square, I spotted a few homeless people wrapped in blankets on a long bench in front of the National Museum, and given my situation, it didn’t seem wrong to join them. I tried out sleeping positions as if I were trying to discover a new Pilates pose, but without success. It remained cold and uncomfortable, and as soon as I stayed in one position for more than ten minutes, the cold crept into my bones, and I shivered all over. It was no use; I had to keep moving, despite the paralyzing fatigue.
The pedestrian zone and shopping mile became the stage of a drama where I was the protagonist and fatigue and cold were my merciless adversaries. I ambled along the empty streets as if I were on a shopping spree, only the stores were all closed, and I had no interest in buying anything. Sometimes I spotted something interesting that briefly woke me up. Once, a small hedgehog ran right in front of me across the street through a puddle on the roadside, into some protective bushes. Another time, I passed a small park and briefly considered sleeping on one of the few benches there until I noticed that a man and a woman were having sex on the bench next to it, and I really didn’t want to disturb them. Apart from a few people who seemed to be in much more difficult life circumstances than I was, I met no one. Eventually, I settled down in front of the covered entrance of a luxury fashion store. The floor was covered with a doormat that looked reasonably clean and wasn’t as icy as the street. I couldn’t walk anymore; I was so tired. Again, I tried to fall asleep, but no matter how I turned – squatting, with my legs pulled up, with my face buried between my legs, lying down, leaning against the shop windows full of Gucci handbags… It was too cold and too uncomfortable, my joints ached, and my morale had hit a new low. It was amazing how quickly all self-esteem was stripped away once you were forced to spend a night on the street. The day belonged to the beautiful and the rich; the night was reserved for the miserable and the bums.
Finally, it was 4 AM, and an improvement in my situation was in sight. The station was opening again. I headed back to my new favorite bench. After a couple agonizing hours out on the cold ground, I looked at the bench in front of me like a warm bed. My newfound joy didn’t last long. After a few minutes, this time two security guards in yellow vests stomped over. “Grüezi, wake up. This isn’t a sleeping place, buddy, right.” This was the peak of my frustration. “Grüezi, you can kiss my “füdle” (Swiss German for “ass”), right?” I thought, but I just sat up and gave an acknowledging “Hmm.” Laurel and Hardy in safety vests and weapon belts trudged on, waking another sleeping fellow two benches away, as if he had endangered the security of the entire station in his dreams. I bought a Red Bull from a Selecta vending machine and a butter pretzel from a bakery that had just opened (I could have bought three days’ worth of food in Chile for that price). Then I continued reading “The Motorcycle Diaries,” which had previously served as a pathetic pillow on the doormat and now looked a bit battered.
After what felt like an eternity, it was time: Daylight streamed through the glass dome of the station, and my train was waiting on its track. After buying a ticket for 40 francs, I happily sank into a padded seat and took a deep breath. On my travels, I had experienced several nights where I couldn’t find a place to sleep and ended up settling in some park. But there, I always had a large backpack with a sleeping bag, sleeping pad, and tent, which offered me protection and warmth. This was a whole different level. On the train ride through the fields, past mountain landscapes and idyllic villages, I replayed the last 17 hours in my mind: from the rainy highway on-ramp, my driver Dario, the fantastic concert, and the less-than-great aftermath of my recklessness. I looked at the clock. I would have to leave for work in an hour, but the mere thought of spending nine hours there after this night made me laugh. In my state, I would show up and fall asleep helplessly in the employee office within the first hour. So, I sent a text message explaining that I had a terribly upset stomach and couldn’t come to work today. That was at least easier to explain.
Arriving at my stop, my landlady met me on her way to work. “Good morning. Up so early? Coming from the night shift?” she asked me, full of surprise. “No, no,” I replied; “from the concert. I’m going to sleep now.” She laughed, and I wondered what scenario she was picturing in her head. That I had partied all night in a club or spent the night with an acquaintance from the concert, perhaps. That would have been much preferable to the reality. At home, I trudged into the hot shower and threw all my clothes into the laundry. This time, the bed was a real bed, and truly soft and warm, and it filled me with all the joy in the world to have a hot shower, a cozy bed, and a roof over my head. I fell asleep with my thoughts of all the people who didn’t have this privilege, and I dreamed of a new, more beautiful world without Gucci handbags and bankers.
JEREMY UDE 