Bumping and Grinding (My Teeth) in Zϋrich
Lost in Barcelona in search of a club in the middle of nowhere, I met two Swiss girls. They were, like us, also coming to terms with the fact that we were walking into the perfect suburb for a cult of rapists to reside. Literally no cars and no people – just large, industrial buildings screaming, “What a nice night for rape.” The only obvious thing for us to do was to sit on the sidewalk and drink a bottle of wine each… and then continue our search for the club. This turned out to be the right choice: our spidey senses kicked in and we eventually sussed out the venue, and I guess this how we became best buddies.
It wasn’t a surprise that my financial state couldn’t support a trip to Switzerland to see them, but I put my thinking cap on, and after a 20-hour adventure in a motor home with two hippie Italians and their dog, I arrived in Basel. They surprised me with a four day music festival in Zurich – #winning.
It was here I discovered my newfound love for the Swiss/German accent and why not to mix drugs. We had a fairly large group, who all seemed to love the fact that I was Australian. After downing a few beers, I moved on to skulling a pint of a vodka drink to “pick me up” before leaving to go into the festival. While walking to the festival in my now unable-to-think state, I thought a joint would be a good decision. It didn’t turn out so bad until a guy put a snϋs (pouch of tobacco) in my mouth. My head started spinning, and suddenly I decided a tac-yac (tactical yack) was in need for me to be able to even function. The tac-yac turned into a projectile vomit in the middle of a crowd (which I decided to do in my hands…delicious). After cleaning myself up, my friend – who was also in the same state – and I went back to the tent to get more drinks. I stayed outside to lay down and look at the stars (corny me comes out to play when I’m intoxicated). My friend thought I was sleeping, so she went to sleep as well. Some guys walked passed and decided I needed rescuing, so pulled me up and dragged me to the rave tent. Just what I needed… apparently. The boys were high as kites, dancing like steroid-injected footy boiz on pingaz. After dancing a bit of our intoxication away, we rubbed MDMA in our gums and were suddenly flying, pretending (and doing a great job at it) to be chickens and completely losing ourselves to the Justice DJ set.
After enough raving, I went to rehydrate. I was sipping my H20 while spotting my next target (for some reason when I’m fucked, I like to make friends by doing seedy old-school dance moves with them). A guy with crutches doing a mad shoulder dance caught my attention. We got groovy, he seduced me with his accent and I seduced him with my amazing take on big-fish-little-fish-box-box. He tempted me with a shower that had expensive shampoo and conditioner (instant girl-boner, considering I had been relying on abandoned products at hostels to feed my hair for the past three months AND hadn’t showered in the past three days due to the bathroom block being so far away and me being so hungover) and a king size bed (more appetising than using my jumper as a mattress on the cold, wet ground). I said yes and woke up my friend who had unknowingly missed out on this eventful night to tell her I’d be back whenever I got back, but don’t worry… I’ll be back. You hobos are quite familiar with this pact; you’re as free as a bird with your “no-commitment, no-responsibilities, no concept of time, morals or what you did the past week” lifestyle. So without any questions, we set off to my Swiss lover’s house.
Turns out he was a CEO for a trampoline company that improves physical health and injuries. He made me breakfast on his balcony in the morning and drove me back to the festival. We settled our fling with a, “Nice to meet you, we’ll keep in touch even though we don’t have any of each other’s details,” ending. I saw the guys who dragged me off the ground the night before and thanked them for enhancing my dance skills and the condition of my hair.