The Swiss Underpants
Living My Dream in Switzerland – A True Travel Tale by Ann Lombardi


After an exhausting tour through Europe, I couldn’t wait to reach Switzerland, the perfect  refuge for my travel-weary
bones.  My return flight home from Zurich was two weeks away, and visions of tranquil pastures, alpine lakes, and
creamy chocolates danced in my head.  How could I pass up the tempting "Ferien Auf Dem Bauernhof" (Farm
Vacation) program advertised in the tourist office brochures?  I was sure it would be a cross-cultural eye-opener for
this city-slicker, housework-challenged American.  So, I plopped down a finder’s fee, scooped up the address of my
host farm family, and hopped a train to the country for my taste of rural life.


Rolf and Ruth Sprunger welcomed me into their 400-year-old farm house, nestled high in the hills of a tiny village.  
And the old farm?  It was the place of my dreams: contented dairy cows with huge hand-painted bells, and a
menagerie of horses, pigs, hens, goats, and a half dozen dogs and cats.  I loved the bountiful cherry and apple
trees, organic veggie gardens, and the best homemade hazelnut carrot cake this side of the Atlantic.


The dark, worn wooden floors with secrets of centuries creaked musically throughout the house.  A heavenly aroma
of freshly baked wholegrain bread floated room-to-room from the wood-burning kitchen oven.  I was in my element,
and honestly didn't miss any of my usual creature comforts, like central heating or upstairs toilets.  For those brisk
nights, I already had mastered the art of starting the fire in my very own bedroom furnace and warming up the nifty
mini-pillows filled with cherry pits, which kept my feet toasty under the fluffy goose down quilt.  What an idyllic way of
life, I thought, as I drifted off to sleep.  


Well, let’s say it was almost perfect, except for one thing.  The meticulous Sprungers had  the strange habit of
ironing anything made of fabric, including every piece of clothing worn by their army of children…14 of the rascals, to
be exact.  Who ever heard of pressing denim work coveralls, or heaven help us, bed linens!?  Now this was going
way overboard with that Martha Stewart thing.  Naturally one of my daily chores was to tackle those dreadful piles of
pressing.  To my credit, I never once complained, reminding myself that hard work builds character.


One afternoon on a particularly gorgeous day, I plotted to finish my ironing duties in record time.  No numb hands
and fingers for me today!  Nor was I about to stay cooped up indoors with such beautiful weather beckoning me out
to nature.  Half-way through my ironing at the bottom of one pile, I spotted three pairs of the fanciest men's
underpants I had ever laid eyes on.  They were those skimpy, low-cut Euro ones made of nylon net, the kind no red-
blooded American male I know would ever be caught dead wearing.  I immediately guessed the fancy briefs had
been inside that festively wrapped birthday package a giggling Frau Sprunger had presented her hubby just a few
days before.  Of course I realized instinctively these underpants were not to be ironed.  


Carefully folding all three pairs in the precise Swiss manner I had been taught (in thirds, with the fronts facing up), I
carefully laid them aside on the ironing board while I continued to plug away.  Suddenly the family Saint Bernard
bolted in out of nowhere.  I was too stunned to react to what followed…I froze in horror as a dense mushroom cloud
of stinky smoke grew bigger by the second.  Mein Gott! I had knocked over the scalding iron!! It had hit the prized
skivvies dead center. My first impulse was to run.


Regaining my composure, I managed to unplug the hissing iron, grab a kitchen spatula, and frantically scrape the
iron’s underside.  It was hopeless.  A sticky glob of melted, charred nylon was plastered all over the bottom. And
worse, the underpants were ruined, hopelessly welded together at what used to be the crotches.  I decided then and
there not  to say a word to the Sprungers; that is, not until I had bought both a new iron and underwear.  
Miraculously, I did find the perfect replacements.  Somehow I just never got around to fessing up to Herr and Frau
Sprunger.  Why spoil a relaxing vacation?  


The last day of my stay, I received a surprise farewell present from Mr. and Mrs. Sprunger.  It was a lovely Swiss
travel scrapbook with a handwritten note inscribed "To our favorite American visitor."  Touched by their generosity, I
peeked inside the album.  On the very first page were a sketched smiley-faced iron...and a neatly-glued chunk of
Herr Sprunger's fried underpants.


If You Go:  www.myswitzerland.com (Switzerland Tourism)
www.bauernhof-ferien.ch/englisch/index.html  (Swiss Farm Vacations)
www.swiss.com (Swiss Airlines)

Written by:  Ann V. Lombardi                                       
e-mail:          thetripchicks@mindspring.com
phone:          770-454-7205 or 404-320-3033



Ann Lombardi is a travel writer, veteran tour escort and travel consultant, and former E.S.L. teacher with a knack for (mis)adventure.
Her travel stories have appeared in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, The Risks of Sunbathing Topless (Seal Press), The Thong Also
Rises (Travelers’ Tale), Columbia County Magazine, and Cultural Exploring. Among her fondest exploits are crashing into a snowdrift
on a runaway Lapp reindeer sled, being rescued from a phone booth during an alpine blizzard, finishing dead last in the Berlin
Marathon, swimming in a volcanic thermal crack with a naked Icelandic man, hitching a ride on an Amish horse and buggy, touring
Moscow with a black marketer, and getting tear-gassed in curlers outside a Seoul hair salon.  She and her business partner Wendy
Swartzell co-hosted “The Trip Chicks Travel Show” on Talk Radio WMET 1160 in Washington, D.C.  Ann now hosts "Travel Talk:
Escapes" heard Mondays on 1620 AM in the Atlanta area. They hang their backpacks in Atlanta, Georgia, and their website is
TheTripChicks.com.     
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