I Remember You, I Think
I got to travel to Liechtenstein once for work. I was tasked with an exciting errand— visit a bank to look at documents that could only be viewed in person.
Back then, Liechtenstein was a bona fide tax haven. A place for crazy rich people everywhere to hide money and do other complicated, nefarious business things. My trip related to the beginning of a scandal that toppled the then-existing banking system in the country— a former employee sold records to various government authorities, including the IRS, that led to criminal charges, fines upon fines, and ultimately the end of the historic “haven” status. Our client was truly innocent, but his last name was intriguing so given to the IRS by the bank’s former employee as a teaser of the data for sale. Both the client and the bank were confused as to how the IRS knew of the accounts, so I was sent— just an available body in a business suit with an ink pen and legal pad— to review records and take notes.
Despite the money under its control and the beautiful setting at the base of the castle, I remember the bank as a two-story, flimsy new building. No security guards, no basement with safe deposit boxes filled with cash and passports, no beautiful old windows for Jason Bourne to jump from, just plain conference tables in small rooms with grey wall-to-wall carpeting. All of that money, all of the pain and joy felt from schemes and crimes and payoffs, existing via mere computer entries.
This is all just background of course. The point of any story we share here is the hotel. My visit to the bank was scheduled for first thing Wednesday morning, so I flew from New York to Zurich on Monday night, arrived Tuesday morning and took the train to Liechtenstein. The hotel was directly across a pedestrian street from the bank itself. Also just a couple of stories, also of the same construction. “Flimsy” isn’t really fair— it did not feel dangerous or cheap, just temporary like a movie set. Mere facades, once entered filled with walls made of heavy cardboard. I probably checked in and slept, but I do not really remember the front desk or a bar or common area. My memory is only of the room itself and the breakfast.
This was not a hotel for the clients of the bank. I assume those visits were quick, in and out by helicopter — back to Zurich or an alpine ski resort after 15 minutes signing documents. No, these were rooms for those of us in service of people hiding money. The hotel was perfectly designed for our visits: a clean, sterile, machine for a night’s rest. We came with little luggage, just a suit and a toothbrush, so I doubt there was a dresser or even a drawer in the bedside table. There was a landline phone— I remember checking in for last minute instruction before my visit to the bank— and the bed itself was sturdy and simple and had that perfect Germanic eiderdown cover. The bathroom was small but so clean and well lit with strategically placed florescent lights. The breakfast area too was white and plain, like an Ikea display area, with none of the rustic touches that locate you in the Alps.
In fact, that is it! My experience, or really my memory of my experience, is of a way station. A locationless fragile dreamscape you could punch a hole through with little effort. A hotel unnerving in its temporariness and the efficiency of its comforts. A place you are so happy to be but cannot wait to leave in the morning.