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.