Swiss humorlessness has a long and serious history.
“Define sense of humor,” he responds instantly, thus sealing the case. I ask Dieter-diplomatically, of course-if it’s true that the Swiss have no sense of humor. The Swiss have done for boredom what the French did for wine and the Germans for beer: perfected it, mass-produced it.
“Have you seen our public toilets? They are very clean.” At first, I think he’s joking but quickly rule out that possibility, since the Swiss do not joke. Who knew?” “So, now that we’ve determined you are indeed happy, what is the source of Swiss happiness?” I ask. To speak out would be considered insulting, since it assumes ignorance on the part of the other person. Susan complains that the Swiss are “culturally constipated” and “stingy with information.” Even if that information is vital, such as “your train is leaving now” or “your clothing is on fire,” the Swiss will say nothing. Her candor is constantly bumping up against the Swiss reserve. She is a woman who speaks her mind, in English and French. Amazing, I think, huffing and puffing up a flight of stairs, only the Swiss could make the Germans look sloppy. Passengers, myself included, scramble off the slightly late German train and run to catch our perfectly on-time Swiss train. My train is eighteen minutes late, causing mass consternation in Basel, the border city where I am supposed to catch the train to Geneva. It is, in other words, a very European routine. It’s a routine that involves much contemplation, moderate amounts of intoxicants, and very little actual work. In the evenings, I go to my café (I never do learn its name), where I drink warm beer, smoke little cigars, and ponder the nature of happiness. There, I sift through the research papers and the data, looking for my elusive atlas of bliss. I have breakfast at the hotel, perhaps indulge in a bit of inter course, then ride the subway to the World Database of Happiness. My days in Rotterdam fall into a pleasant routine. It raises an intriguing question: Are we, in evolutionary if not personal terms, slouching toward happiness? Happy feelings, in other words, register in the regions of the brain that have evolved most recently. Dutch sounds exactly like English spoken backward. It sounds vaguely familiar, though I can’t imagine why. I have nothing to lose.Īll around me I hear the pleasant chortle of Dutch. I decided to become a journalist.Īs the author Eric Hoffer put it, “The search for happiness is one of the chief sources of unhappiness.” That’s okay.
But how? I had no marketable skills, a stunted sense of morality, and a gloomy disposition. I desperately wanted to see the world, preferably on someone else’s dime. It resurfaced after college with renewed fury. My affliction, if that’s what it is, went into remission for many years following my aborted expedition with Drew.
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