MIND THE CHIT-CHAT

I’ve just returned from a two-week holiday trip to Switzerland and the UK, and once again,

I'm left marvelling at the wildly different ways humans choose to interact – or not. One of the greatest joys of travel is not just the food and the sights, but observing how people in various locations engage in that ancient ritual called small talk.

So, grab a metaphorical chocolate (you'll see why), and join me on a virtual tour through the highs, lows, and awkward silences of international chit-chat.

🇨🇭 Stop 1: The French-Speaking Swiss – An interesting blend

My journey began in the Francophone part of Switzerland, where people tend to embody a fascinating blend of Latin warmth and Swiss reservedness. Animated and lively exchanges can often be observed, but seem to be limited to locals who know each other. As a stranger, don't expect to be involved in conversations beyond the absolutely necessary. I also found it challenging to practice my – admittedly rather rusty – French. The moment they realised I'm not a native French speaker, people immediately categorised me as an outsider and swiftly switched to English. So much for my efforts to brush up on my French language skills...

🇨🇭 Stop 2: The German-Speaking Swiss – Swiss Efficiency

Then I crossed into the German-speaking region – my home turf, no less. After all, I spent the first 27 years of my life here.

But while – at least in the countryside or on hiking trails – you are expected to greet fellow humans with an enthusiastic "Grüezi", engaging in actual conversation is not the done thing here. People don't do small talk with strangers. Conversations are precise, purposeful, and ideally kept under 90 seconds. If someone talks to you on public transport, they’re either lost, in distress, or possibly begging for money...

🇬🇧 Stop 3: Britain – Where Small Talk Is a National Currency

From there, I hopped over to the UK, the land of tea, sarcasm and small talk. Here, small talk isn’t just a pastime, it’s practically a sport. Everyone has a comment ready for absolutely any conceivable (or inconceivable) situation. Cold and windy? “Ah, the great British summer showing off” You drop your fork in a restaurant? “Ah, gravity striking again.” You trip over your suitcase in the hotel lobby? “You alright, love? That trolley’s got a mind of its own!”

It’s dazzling. The British are like verbal ninjas, flinging witty observations and dry remarks at a moment’s notice, as if they had been secretly rehearsing in the loo.

For me, this is both inspiring and terrifying. I often require a 3–5 business day processing window before responding to anything with flair. By the time I’ve crafted a suitably clever reply, the moment has passed, the train has left the station, and so has the person I was talking to.

Still, 10 days in the UK is like immersion therapy in banter. I nearly passed for a local by the end.

🇯🇵 Stop 4: Japan – The Sound of Silence

And then, I landed back in Japan, where casual conversation with strangers is not exactly part of the cultural toolkit.

After my cab driver at Haneda Airport asked – using the best English he could manage – where I was headed, he quickly realised I spoke Japanese and actually lived here. You’d think that would open the floodgates to conversation; after all, the language barrier had just politely stepped aside.

But I was only met with... silence. No comment on the sweltering weather and record heat (a British driver would've written a haiku about it by now), no questions about where I flew in from, no idle chit-chat about the traffic. Nothing but ambient silence.

I didn't push it – after all, I'm Swiss. I'm genetically programmed not to initiate conversation with strangers. So we both sat there, two socially allergic introverts, coexisting peacefully in mutual conversational avoidance.

Back at work the next day, I placed a box of Swiss chocolate near the coffee machine – a classic post-trip peace offering to make up for the inconvenience caused by a – for Japanese standards – monumental two-week absence.

 A colleague picked it up, looked at me, and asked, “Is this from you?”

“Yes,” I said, smiling, expecting this to be the intro to some break room chit-chat.

“Hmmm,” he replied.

Hmmm?

That was it. No "Thanks, I love Swiss chocolate!" No "Where did you go?" or “How was your trip?” Just... hmmm. And he didn’t even take a chocolate.

The Swiss chocolate. The sacred offering. Untouched. I cannot deny that I felt lightly offended.

Now, let’s rewind to the UK for a moment – specifically, an improvised play I saw, called Murder Most Unexpected, where the audience decides the details of the crime, leading to a different outcome in every performance.

In our version, the murder took place on a runaway train from London to Durham, and the victim was killed by a trampoline. Yes, a trampoline. I don't know what it says about the British psyche, but the whole show was held together by the audience’s wit and the cast’s miraculous ability to keep it coherent and consistently hilarious.

This concept – audience-powered theatre – is brilliant. Could it work in Japan or Switzerland? I doubt it. In Japan, people would wait for someone else to go first, and then politely apologise for interrupting the flow of the scene. In Switzerland, they’d ask for a detailed risk assessment and a PowerPoint presentation before suggesting a murder weapon. The murder would remain unsolved. Everyone would bow. Curtain.

So there you have it: a journey through the highs and lows of global small talk. From Alpine restraint to British banter, from chocolate apathy to trampoline homicide – it's a fascinating world, and sometimes, the silence speaks volumes.