With light wallets and limited expectations, a veteran crew leaves the snowy climes of North America for rail-borne ramblings during a Swiss dry spell. While roaming the Alps, they discover Swiss hospitality, local secrets and a touch of David Hasselhoff.
Words Nate Deschenes
There’s a pair of girls high on what I presume to be solvents—or stripping agents, perhaps. They are sucking on lollipops and one of them is drooling something neon out the side of her mouth. Not far away, there is a German skinhead who staked out the front row early, dead f--king serious. He’s throwing elbows toward anyone who approaches his sacred space. This isn’t his first rodeo. There are roughly 500 spectators crammed into a smoky basement venue expecting the best, but I’m hoping for the worst. One man is about to deliver.
The horns start over the sound system; some classical victory piece we’ve all heard before, but can’t name. Substandard acts have long used this tactic to warm up a crowd with varying degrees of success. I’m not sure if it’s working. As subtle red light begins to shine on an ill-fitting sequined jacket/pant combo, the crowd senses something magical. With his back turned, legs spread, fist raised and head down (you know the look), the man known as “the Hoff” reigns proud on the makeshift stage, alone. It’s a tense moment, for sure...
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