A funny thing happens at the Swiss border: it starts raining and doesn’t stop.

On my way from Como, Italy to Interlaken, Switzerland, I was treated to some of the most spectacular scenery so far on the trip. Lakes, mountains, valleys and the works. About 20 minutes after crossing the Swiss border (on train two of four for the day), the skies opened up. For four days I would see a total of five minutes of dry weather.

Interlaken in the rain

I realize this rain stuff happens all the time, but you really notice it on the road. Plus, the whole reason for going to Interlaken was to do some hiking, which would have been difficult in the rain. Not to mention that the clouds were so thick you couldn’t even see Mt. Jungfrau, parked thousands of meters above me. The city was pretty cool — a little like Jackson Hole, Wyoming — and the hostel was a quirky dive.

On the way there I ran into some guy from the Florence stretch of my trip and a girl from the memorable Eiffel Tower night way back in Paris. It’s ridiculous how small the backpacking circuit is, but I have probably said that a few dozen times already.

I was staying at the Funny Farm in Interlaken, known more for its noise pollution than any semblance of cleanliness. The smell of our room ranged from dirty socks to a smokehouse, aided by the presence of eight travelers and lots of damp clothing. The hostel had more bars than I can count on one hand, each open at different times, each with their own gimmick, and the hostel down the road, the more noteworthy Balmer’s Herberge, had a similar deal.

Regardless of the rain, I am glad I made the stop in Interlaken. The types of people you meet in Interlaken are very similar, I can imagine, to the types hanging out in Amsterdam. One of my roommates was a glass dildo saleswoman, another a rural Midwesterner who ended up cheating on her husband with an Aussie extreme sports guide. I guess this is why rural Midwesterners leave the rural Midwest.

The second night was especially memorable, as I tried my best to flirt with the beautiful blonde Swiss bartendress named Nadya. She wasn’t buying any of it, even when I helped clear glasses and bottles from the tables with her. When I ran into her later in the nightclub downstairs, she was sporting the obligatory colorful Eurotrash backpack, possibly containing a bottle of wine, 400 condoms and a cat. As she fell into Dieter’s arms — I’m guessing that was his name — I wobbled outside, stumbled through the rain and called it a night.

Thursday I blew past the rain (or so I was hoping) to Zürich, Switzerland’s commercial hub. My hostel, Martahaus, feels more like a hotel: each single dorm bed is tucked away with its own curtain. There is a down comforter on my bed, leading me to wonder what the exchange rate is in this country, as I am only paying 30 dollars to sleep here. Switzerland, folks, is not cheap.

Zürich in the rain

After settling, I spent about three hours exploring the city, doing my best to avoid the trams barreling down the street and the mass of pedestrians. There are two Starbucks stores here but they are prohibitively expensive and not worth the novelty.

Yesterday I met another lone traveler at the hostel and we decided to go out for an exploratory beer, which somehow (as always) turned into a ridiculous night of consumption. We ventured down the street to Irish Pub No. 1, Oliver Twist’s. At Twist’s we met a few real Irish folks: one guy my age who works in Zürich, the other his charming friend Fiona, who works in Vienna as a promotions rep for Jameson Whiskey. We ended up hanging out with them (and some random French girl) for several hours, stealing tram rides across Zürich in an attempt to find all the hotspots listed in the local “Party News” circular.

After a few botched attempts at finding neat clubs, we wandered into what was probably a private lounge for the Swiss banking elite. We were the only folks there under the age of 50 and were were also hilariously underdressed. After gobbling down some free snacks and smoking a cheap cigar, we left before they had a chance to make us nervous.

So clean, you could eat off the street!

At Irish Pub No. 2, Lady Hamilton’s, I departed from my usual character and became absorbed in anthropological study, trying to uncover some of the ubiquitous human elements that make the Irish pub so unique. First, there is a fairly loud crowd, mostly speaking English — even in Switzerland, where they could have chosen from three official languages before they even needed a drop of English.

Second, there is usually a big group somewhere: that table or those hooligans. Last night it was a crowd of American college students (Southern hicks, my guess), dancing in the middle of the room. Present were: the obligatory football player making out with the unavoidable fat girl (hands in skirt, even); the super-hottie grinding with the short dork; and off by himself somewhere, the philosopher, trying to figure out what on earth was going on.

And who can ever forget the Asian dude perpetually doing the Chicken Dance in the middle of an empty barroom?

The night wound down with a Swiss guy (originally from Mexico) offering me a job at the Latin-themed bar he hopes to open in Zürich next year, but only after I promised him I wasn’t voting for George Bush.

Then today I woke up at 1 p.m. Ha!

I needed it though, as I am feeling a bit under the weather. I spent the afternoon at the Zürich art museum, checking out Picassos and trying to step into the cultured world. I have decided to stop being such a bum; this is my first step. I also picked up a book at the English language bookstore: Reefer Madness by Eric Schlosser, author of Fast Food Nation. I need something to do on the train the next few weeks, so I now have some non-fiction to keep me company.