So, instead of returning straight to my hotel in the Old Town, I did in fact go to the bar in Kronenhalle, where the door always did exactly the opposite of what one expected. If you wanted to pull it, it could be opened only with a push, and vice versa. I took my seat there in the back, down at the farthest end of the bar, right by the toilets; the tables at the front were always reserved for money-grubbing Zurich middle management and their mostly Ukrainian female retinue. People visiting the city tended to think that the spirit of Joyce or of the Cabaret Voltaire would waft about them, but in reality they found merely an array of depressing hustlers. It had been a very long time since I’d given up hoping for a better seat. At the bar in the back, by the toilets, you have it just as good, I thought; at least you’re served the same white saucers of salted almonds, paprika chips, and little pretzel sticks with your drink as at the tables up front, and even if one day that were no longer the case, one could presumably still go to the bar, and for all intents and purposes the effect would be the same.