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News / Life / Travel

A first and then last in Switzerland

Five-star hotel lives up to hype, before flight on new plane

By Alan Behr, Tribune News Service
Published: March 13, 2016, 5:55am
3 Photos
Swiss vineyards seen on the train from Geneva.
Swiss vineyards seen on the train from Geneva. (Photos by Alan Behr/Tribune Media Services) Photo Gallery

As do many others, I have savored my travel firsts: There was the first time I saw the Eiffel Tower (when I was 16). I could never forget my first foreign romance (scant hours after first seeing the Eiffel Tower — “vive la France”).

Some firsts were unintentional. (I was surrounded by distinguished Korean business associates in Seoul when I first tried traditional, spicy kimchi — an acquired taste for which preparation is advised.) Some firsts can be hard to explain. (Why did I go out of my way, in Germany, to ride in a train pulled by a steam locomotive or to fly, in California, in a hot air balloon? I had always wanted to — that’s why.)

I was reminded of the personal nature of some travel firsts as the train pulled into the main train station in Zurich after a week of skiing in Courchevel, France, and I began unloading the family’s suitcases. Over the years, we had stayed in every five-star hotel in and around Zurich save one. We had enjoyed the Baur au Lac, Eden au Lac, The Dolder Grand and the Widder — but not the Park Hyatt, which, at not yet 12 years of age, is quite the youngest of the premier hotels of the city. We were to complete my personal Zurich hotel checklist at last.

We were weary from a long trip, made longer by an impromptu rail strike in France. Expectations had recovered once, in Geneva, we returned to the excellent care of the Swiss Federal Railways (which gets my vote for the world’s best), but a new yet all too familiar hurdle now awaited: We rolled a freight car’s worth of luggage toward the taxi stand. As before, our nine (yes, nine) bags of all sizes contained our 6-year-old son’s toys and books, my stone-heavy professional photo gear, all the usual ski paraphernalia, the 20 percent of her packed wardrobe that my wife told me she had worn during the week and the 80 percent she claimed not to have touched. Getting our caravan the short distance to the Park Hyatt took two taxis. This time, everything got into the cabs. But not out.

On arrival, we were shown to a newly and tastefully redecorated suite, our son’s bed already brought in and ready for him. The Bang & Olufsen stereo was soon playing contemporary hits. Our son taught himself to work the electronic toilet in the master bathroom — from the heated seat to the fountain of water that, “cleans your butt!” as he accurately put it. He claimed he would not let us exit until we had experienced our own sprays of technological sanitation, but we persuaded him to join us in the fitness room and perhaps next the spa. When, however, he found out that the hotel did not have a swimming pool, negating my hasty speculation that it probably did, he declared it a one-star property.

His mind quickly changed at dinnertime at parkhuus, the main restaurant. The chef prepared exactly what our son wanted (plain spaghetti — no sauce or butter — grilled chicken and peas). An old and dear friend from the Zurich area joined us. A fire blazed from the nimbly handled grill in the open kitchen just beyond. My wife and I enjoyed bison steak paired with a smooth and balanced Merlot from the Italian-speaking Canton of Ticino, to the south.

It was all quite lovely until my wife asked me to bring down the tote bag with our son’s toys and books. I checked the suite and, on conducting a roll call to which only eight pieces of luggage answered, I realized that a grave error had been made. Back in the lobby, I charged straight to the concierge. In all likelihood, it had been left in the taxi I had ridden but the others had not, and Daddy was sailing straight into hot water if those toys and books were not found.

Fortunately, we were at a Swiss five-star hotel. Somehow, within one hour, after telephone calls to the train station and the taxi service, a young hotel staffer was able to come to our table with a smile on her face. Then she pulled from behind her back the missing bag. I thanked her, gave her reward money to pass along to the good Samaritan taxi driver who had driven the bag over on his own time — and ordered a copious Swiss chocolate dessert in celebration.

Our “last” among the fine hotels of Zurich now having been accomplished, we set out the next afternoon for a first: we were to fly aboard the inaugural trans-Atlantic passenger flight of Swiss International’s new Boeing 777-300ER flagship. Unlike the case of our last, our first took no special planning: the “Triple Seven” just happened to be what our son’s absolute favorite airline (he continues to shout “Swiss!” at any airport where he sees the Swiss cross on an airplane tail) had chosen for flight LX14 back to JFK that Sunday afternoon. We found out about what a special event it was to be when we came to the gate to hear live jazz being played and to enjoy Champagne and sandwiches offered as if for a VIP gathering.

The aircraft having been picked up at the factory outside Seattle only three weeks before, it had that freshly delivered smell of a new car. Recessed above the thankfully large overhead bins were parallel rows of soothing lavender lights. The seats, covered in taupe fabric, were particularly comfortable. I decided to be the first U.S.-bound passenger to use the port mid-fuselage interior restroom — being careful to leave it Swiss clean for the next occupant. According to the video we were shown, somewhere ahead of us, first- and business-class passengers were lounging in indolent luxury, those in first having the ability to raise partition walls to create private cabins for themselves, there to watch 32-inch personal televisions, the largest in commercial aviation. Business class offered seats that reclined fully into beds. Our son’s favorite treat in coach was, as always, the Moevenpick ice cream served near the end of the flight.

When the plane landed, the passengers applauded long and hard, as if at Carnegie Hall. We even got goodie bags on leaving the plane — gifts as if we had been to a birthday party, which, when I think about it, we had indeed done, in a way. Now, how to figure out paying for business class next time.

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