I visited a friend who is now working in Zurich at a large Swiss bank and in case of an apocalypse all the financial dogs in the building can survive for 7 days in a bunker (while the rest of us die) built below the building so that after a week, they can immediately get back to banking. I also found out from my friend that the bank pays 1 franc in rent a year, 2,399 euros less than me! That’s right, get even more angry Wall Street Occupiers. He now likes to use the term ‘bat crap’ all the fucking time. He was renting a room from a Swiss artist/curator when I visited and the apartment had nice sleek art deco furniture, occasionally ruined by the juxtaposition of bad art i.e. a bronze penis, a knitted rectangular stand in the pattern of a colorful quilt, braided hair loose on the table. Everyone new who went in search of the bathroom found themselves startled by the back of a motionless dog sitting in one of the bedrooms. “Does your flatmate have a dog?” the guest would exclaim. “No, he’s an artist.”
That evening I slept in the living room looking at this view on a beautifully designed black leather sofa that folded down into the size of a single bed. The sound of passing trains gradually put me to sleep. In the middle of the night though, I awoke to a couple climaxing in the next room. I realized my friend’s flatmate had returned home and now he was heaving and panting as if he had just finished a marathon. He walked into the kitchen to get a drink of water as his girlfriend gave a sardonic laugh and asked “Are you okay?” (in German). I gradually fell back to sleep only to be awoken again a few hours later at around 5:30 am on a Saturday morning to someone emptying the dishwasher one utensil at a time, lasting for a good 20 minutes. With each clink and clank, I increasingly began to think the flatmate must be crazy, who empties the dishwasher so soon after sex. When my friend knocked on the sliding door of the living room at around 7am (we needed to leave early for our trip to Lugano) I lay awake thinking the flatmate had serious mental problems. You ask, well why didn’t you tell him to stop after the first utensil clank . . . I’m shy, so I deal with shit and get angry instead. As soon as my friend walked in, he asked how I slept. I looked at him with suspicious eyes. “Does your flatmate normally empty the dishwater at 5:30 am on a Saturday morning after wild sex ?” “No, sorry, that was me. I couldn’t sleep and it was my turn to put the dishes back.” I then went on a long tirade of how my friend was inconsiderate, insensitive, unable to place himself in someone else’s position, etc. until he was speechless with irritation in the chair opposite me in deep contemplation. We quickly made up though as we had to spend the entire day in Lugano together.
When we arrived in Lugano, the first thing that caught my attention were these red dog pooh bags.
In Lugano, we took a pedal boot to the middle of the picture below. I was putting on my sunscreen every 30 minutes and trying to direct us away from the sun. My friend wanted to try and pedal to another city called Paradiso (paradise because it gets more sun) but we never made it, it was facing the sun. At times, a girl in a bikini would zoom by in a small motor boat and my friend would try to direct us towards her only to be stopped by my admonitions of being more than 150 meters away from the shoreline.