Errant Ramblings: Mitzi Szereto’s Weblog

Teddy Tedaloo enjoys a beer in Bern

What does a bear do when he visits Switzerland for the first time? Why, pay a pilgrimage to Bern, of course!

Aside from being the country’s capital city, Bern is famous for being a longtime historical hangout for bears. In fact, bears have been kept as mascots since the 1500s (apparently in tribute to an ancestor who’d allegedly been killed by some hotshot royal). However, their digs, known as the Bärengraben, are not exactly the Bel Air Country Club. I guess they don’t call it a “pit” for nothing. Although there have been improvements over the years, it still wasn’t the kind of place I’d want my bear to live. (Plus I had my suspicions that the bears who resided there didn’t practice the same standards of hygiene as my dear Ted.)

So frankly, I was a bit concerned about taking him there, for fear he might get upset or depressed. It proved to be a moot issue, however.

Ted’s introduction to Bern consisted of my having to dash into one of those space-capsule public conveniences (it cost me a franc too!), where we were greeted by a bloodied hypodermic needle in the trash bin. I must say, this wasn’t exactly the kind of welcome I’d been expecting. And things got worse. Okay, so I found a post office (which I needed), but finding the bears was proving to be a more difficult task. I asked a nice Swiss lad if I was going in the right direction. Turned out it didn’t matter, as he informed me that the bears weren’t even at home. I was crushed. And I could tell from the muted snarls coming from inside Teddy’s backpack that he was none too chuffed about this piece of news either. Of course, it’s always best to corroborate information – especially information dispensed by strange young Swiss lads on the street, so we headed in what I assumed was the direction of the river, where I happened upon a gentleman in a business suit.

The news wasn’t good. Not only were the bears not there, but their haus was being transformed into a bear park, which wouldn’t be open until this autumn. Apparently the locals realised that chez bear wasn’t up to scratch and decided to do up their digs, kitting it out to be more homey and romantic (soft lighting, scented candles?) in order to inspire Herr and Frau Bear to make some little bears. Although excellent news for the furry residents (whose existence I began to doubt), Ted was inconsolable. We’d travelled by train from Zurich just so he could meet some distant Swiss relatives – and they weren’t even there!

What now?

Well, nothing’s worse than a bear with a sore paw, even if said sore paw is only figurative. I thought I’d cheer him up by taking him to the Parliament building. I’d heard it was worth a look, the interior in particular being of some merit. So we hiked on over, only to be stopped by the guard outside the main entrance, who informed us that the Parliamentary session was now over and no one was allowed inside for a look-see save for those on government business. We could, however, return the following Wednesday. Well, fat lot of good that did, as we’d be back home in Blighty by then.

Poor Teddy was really in a strop by this time. Bloodied syringes, a shut Parliament, and no bears; drastic measures were called for to jolly him out of his bearish mood. What’s a mother to do? Why, take a bear for a beer of course!

Off we went to the river, where I reckoned on finding a nice riverside cafe to chill out with a Swiss beer or two. Not wanting to miss a good photo op, we stopped off on a bridge to take a few piccies, only to be accosted by a curious fellow who started rambling on in German at Ted (Ted doesn’t speak German) and shaking his paw. Now I’m not quite certain who’s to blame here, me or Ted. Having spent an entire week in the land of holey cheese, I have to say that the local peculiar folk all seemed to take a shine to me, Ted or no Ted. I was beginning to worry. Why was I attracting every nutter in Switzerland – from Zurich to Luzern to Bern to Schaffhausen? I mean, what in hell was that about? Had word gone out that I liked the country so much that I was considering finding a Swiss husband just so I could stay there? I must admit, I saw a number of cute lads who appealed to me and I was sorely tempted to pack a few into my suitcase, had it been large enough to accommodate them!

Oh well, I guess I’ll have to go back with a bigger suitcase.

Odd characters and missing bears aside, luck was finally on our side. Not only did I find a nice shady table at a lovely little riverside cafe, but the beer I ordered was a bear beer (or “Bare” as it was spelled for some reason known only to the brewers) – in fact, it even had a picture of one of Ted’s relatives on the glass! Things were definitely on the up, and we spent more than an hour just chilling with our bear beers and watching the flow of the river’s pristine water on a perfect summer’s day in Switzerland.

George Stephanopoulos

What with all the Presidential fanfare going on and being back in America this past month, I guess it brought back some memories for me. You see, I too, had an interest in politics at one time. Or rather an interest in someone who was heavily involved in them. “And who might that be?” I hear you asking. Well, think short, cute and Greek, and what do you get? George Stephanopoulos!

Indeed, I quite fancied the fellow (not quite sure what’s up with me and these quirky little guys, but I always seem to go for them – or at least I do on those rare occasions when I actually go for anyone at all). In fact, I fancied George so much that I started up a regular correspondence with him, which led to my receiving a special ticket to tour the White House during the grand old days of the Clinton Administration. I was doing research for a novel I was writing – a novel which never got published or, for that matter, finished. (And no, it wasn’t my M. S. Valentine novel The Captivity of Celia!). Washington was a kinder and gentler place back then, as were those working within it – save for Hillary reportedly throwing an ashtray at Bill in the Oval Office, should you choose to believe what George wrote in his memoirs. Gosh, I wonder if I’m in his memoirs? After all, I did stop by his Adams-Morgan apartment one afternoon. (I’ll leave you to dwell on that one!)

I’m afraid my interest in politics has waned considerably since that time, as did my hankering for George. As many of you know, I moved to England, leaving behind my broken-hearted little Greek in D.C. I understand he’s never been the same since I left and fell into a deep depression. Frankly, I feel terrible about the whole thing, especially the part about him marrying someone else on the rebound. But what was I supposed to do? All that talk about having me convert to the Greek Orthodox church – yes, I realise it meant a lot to him. He’s the son of a Greek Orthodox priest, and his uncle is a Greek Orthodox priest, and I think his grandfather was one as well. Why, George studied to become one himself before following a career path to Washington. That’s a hell of a lot of priests in one family, you must admit.

Why did he have to complicate things? I didn’t ask for much, I didn’t make demands. I’d have been happy just with the dolmades and tzatziki and moussaka and diples. I wouldn’t even have minded having to go to all those Greek festivals; I can break plates and dance with the best of them! But no. He had to have it all his way. What is it with these men? Why can’t they ever listen to reason?

WHY???????????????????

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