1971 – 1974 United States of America

Life as New Immigrants

January 17, 1971—what a day. Our families stood on the tarmac in Switzerland, waving us off with tears in their eyes, while we boarded a flight to New York. First time on a plane. Ever. Excited? Yes. Terrified? Even more so. We clutched each other’s hands like our lives depended on it as the jet barreled down the runway. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might trigger the seatbelt alarm! But then the plane lifted, the flight attendant smiled, and soon drinks and snacks appeared. That helped calm us—though it still felt like the longest flight of our lives: Zürich-London-New York.

We landed with one travel bag, one suitcase each, and a grand total of $700 cash. JFK Airport seemed huge compared to Zurich. With almost no English, we followed the crowd like lost ducklings until we spotted a big, friendly sign: Welcome to the United States of America. That alone gave us courage. After the immigration officer stamped our papers, we stumbled into the arrivals hall, luggage in tow, wondering what on earth we had just done.

Then came New York City’s winter wind—sharp enough to slice through our coats. We lined up for a cab, bound for the Wellington Hotel, where my employer had booked us a room. The ride was terrifying: the driver cut lanes, swerved, and overtook like he was in a Formula One race. Swiss drivers would’ve fainted. But when we crossed the Triborough Bridge and saw Manhattan’s skyline—those towering skyscrapers stabbing the sky—it took our breath away.

Saturday afternoon arrival meant no dinner for us. We were too stunned to eat. Sunday morning, though, hunger won, so we shuffled across 7th Avenue to a coffee shop. The waitress asked if we wanted coffee. That much we understood. But the four-page menu? Forget it. I only recognized eggs, so I pointed at “Eggs Any Style”. She fired off a string of questions that sounded like machine-gun fire. I kept pointing helplessly at “Eggs Any Style”. Finally, she threw up her hands, disappeared into the kitchen, and came back with scrambled eggs, hash browns, and toast. Perfect! When she noticed a smile on our faces, she knew she had guessed correctly. Funny, those foreigners - and she wasn’t wrong.

By day two, our necks were sore from staring at skyscrapers. My new job was at Piaget Watch Co. on the 31st floor of 1345 Avenue of the Americas. The elevator rocketed up in 36 seconds—my ears popped every time. But the view from the workshop window was unforgettable: Central Park stretching north to Harlem and the Bronx.

At work, I was welcomed warmly by Mr. Grinberg, the director, and my colleagues. Peppi Petzenbaum, a kind elderly Jewish lady in accounting who spoke some German, practically adopted us. She set up our first checking account (I had no clue what that was) and kindly enrolled us in English classes at Hunter College.

But New York wasted no time showing us its tough side. On day three, we returned to the hotel and found our room broken into. My camera and $120 cash were gone. Luckily, I had deposited $500 in the bank the day before. Welcome to New York, lesson number one.

Soon after, we moved to a furnished apartment in Astoria, Queens—a lively mix of Greeks and Italians. Within walking distance: a German butcher, an Italian bakery, a KeyFoods supermarket, and a laundromat. Perfect for newcomers. Best of all, the RR subway took me to work in 20 minutes.

Still, money was tight. My take-home pay was $145 a week—barely enough. Ursula hunted tirelessly for an architect’s job but came home many nights discouraged. We relied on our English classes, TV commercials, and everyday trial-and-error to improve our language skills. Meanwhile, to make ends meet, I started moonlighting—picking up watch repairs from jewelers on 5th Avenue during lunch, then fixing them in a corner of our bedroom at night. Exhausting, yes, but it paid for groceries, the occasional movie, and ice cream. We promised ourselves: if Ursula couldn’t land a job by November, we’d head back to Switzerland.

Then things turned around. In October, Ursula got a part-time job, and by November, she was full-time with Araldo Cossutta, a partner of the legendary I.M. Pei. Huge relief. Suddenly, America seemed full of possibilities.

By January 1973, I was promoted to Service Manager at Piaget. Not long after, we bought our first car: a red 1969 VW Camper. Freedom on wheels! That summer, Ursula’s mother and my sister Hedwig visited, and off we went on a road trip to Niagara Falls, Toronto, Ottawa, Montreal, and Quebec.

The camper quickly became our weekend getaway machine—lakeside camping, simple meals, Beatles and Simon & Garfunkel on the radio. Until one awful night, it was stolen—gut punch. New York struck again!
Thankfully, insurance paid out, and soon we had a new set of wheels: a Targa yellow 1972 Westfalia camper. Back on the road!

New Plans
By late 1973, wanderlust was stirring again. One day, I stumbled across a National Geographic article on New Zealand. Two islands—one alpine and Swiss-like, the other tropical and lush? I was hooked. Ursula didn’t take long to get on board.

Our dream plan: quit our jobs, drive our camper from Alaska to South America, then up to Ecuador, sell the camper, and continue to New Zealand to start fresh. Sound crazy? Mr. Grinberg certainly thought so when I resigned. He shook his head and said I was out of my mind. Maybe he was right—but it felt like the adventure of a lifetime.

By spring, fate seemed to agree. I landed a job offer in Christchurch, and we got our New Zealand immigration visas. In addition, Ursula's twin brother, Wally, decided to join us on this adventurous trip. We packed up the camper, left our belongings in storage with Mrs. Semko, and entrusted our mail and banking duties to our kind friends, Bernhard and Elisabeth.

On May 1, 1974, we rolled out - heading for Canada.

>>> To follow us on that journey, click on 1974-1975 Camper Travel in the link https://findpenguins.com/98womiebuaqpzRead more