I think of Switzerland as a triumfeminate, each woman distinctly different, devastatingly lovely, and irresistibly enticing, leading visitors to leave a piece of their hearts in this place that is just as country as it is cosmopolitan, as analytical as it is artistic.
She is German: tight blouse and long, fitted skirt slit to the hip, a pair of knee-high patent leather heeled boots beneath. Hair slicked into a waist-length ponytail; a smoky cat-eye beneath stylish spectacles, adjusted with arched eyebrow, thumb and forefinger. Her expensive perfume is floral yet metallic, her smirk aloof. The morning after your encounter, your ribs are sore; your underwear inside out, ripped, and dangling from the doorknob. You taste pennies licking ‘round your swollen lip, one eye purple and squinting. You limp to the shower and when the water hits you, you gasp sharply as you turn to find raw stripes, shoulder to waist, chafing on your wrists. You chuckle lightly to yourself as the mirror steams, drawing the curtain to a close, drain water stained a pale pink…
She is France, a coquettish maiden in white clam diggers and a pink oxford rolled to the elbows, a strand of the teeniest pearls known to oysterkind, delicate sandals with perfect pink toes, 2.7 shades lighter than her blouse. She is IMPOSSIBLY beautiful in the most wholesome of ways. Her skin smells of soap and butter, and she runs a finger down the collar of your shirt to get your attention; a smooth, perfect knuckle dragging along clavicle, setting your pulse to pounding, a dazzling smile when she meets your eyes. She walks too closely, and her pinky grazes your forearm once every three strides, and when she abruptly stops, you screech to a halt, contorting your lumbering person into a cocoon shape, hoping to avoid crashing into her perfection; she never moves, just waits for the impact, a naughty lip pursed when you’ve somehow missed…again. You walk her to the door, hoping for an invitation to the secret garden, but she kisses you twice—once on each cheek—then retires to the recesses of her dollhouse cottage, alone.
And she is Italy. She smells like skin and sleep and breath and HOME. She cradles your heart in her hands like a baby bird, whispering little sweetie-things while gingerly caressing, cooing, smoothing. Clad in yoga pants because she KNOWS she looks amazing, swimming in your favorite threadbare rock or team tee. She argues with you from the kitchen, stomping bare foot and slamming the spoon on the side of the pot in emphasis, splatters herself—and your SHIRT—in the process. Instantly distracted, she duck lips and buries her chin in her neck while she assesses the damage with a sheepish giggle, scooping the tomato pulp with a slender crescent nail, slurping it from fingertip to return to her rebuttal. She wraps arm around your waist in public, but when other backs are turned, ninja slides a tiny hand to cup a buttock then feigns shock and offense when you start from the squeeze.
At night, while I sleep, these women hold council to report reactions and choose a victor from the day’s efforts. Tomorrow they will start the contest again, curious to see who will win the heart of this American man traveling through their realm. It’s me versus them, and there are ONLY winners after the sun sets.