Thursday, July 20, 2006
Wednesday morning was internet catch up time. What was supposed to take two hours took six (as if things ever change). My plan was to leave at eight in the morning to hike the Euschelpass. Instead I walked into the station at 2:36 in the afternoon. Lo and behold at 2:37 there was a bus to Bulle, where I could catch my connection to Jaun (pronounced ee-yawn). I walked hurriedly to the bay, hoping I could buy my ticket on the bus since there wasn’t time to wait in the line at the window. The driver shook his head and pointed backward when I showed him my railpass and asked if I could buy a ticket. “Huh?” I said in my inimitable English. He spewed a bunch of unintelligible French words. The only French I know is my name, the numbers 1-10, and how to ask someone if they want to sleep with me tonight – what else do you need to know in French? I pointed to the pay machine then to me. He shook his head again and pointed to the back of the bus. We weren’t getting anywhere. I pulled out my wallet, pointed to me, to the money, to the machine, and back to me again. He pushed open the little turnstile, then pushed me through it. A rail pass in Switzerland is valid for the bus system as well. I love Switzerland. I don’t, however, love that in my excitement to make a bus I don’t notice little things like whether it is the Dirette bus or not. One hour and twenty minutes later we arrived in Bulle, 15 miles from Fribourg. Oops…
The ride was beautiful though. Meandering through the Fribourg Canton, along the Lac de la Gruyere and through the Sarine valley, the bus turned off the highway and went through every little town and village along the way. I was mesmerized by the adorable little Swiss houses set in the beautiful green rolling countryside. Everything is cute and quaint. The houses are all picture perfect, freshly painted, with their little shutters and every window decorated by flower boxes in full bloom. It took me the longest time to figure out what made the Swiss houses so adorable compared to American houses. The roofs are made of a different, and I think more attractive material, and range from short fat A’s to tall skinny ones, sometimes with little folded envelope ends. But then American houses have A roofs as well, except the big monstrosity houses with convoluted roof designs. Most all Swiss houses have the precious dormer windows that I have always loved, but these are not uncommon in America either. Certainly the shutters and flowers and rows of windows made everything fresh and charming, but there was still something notably different from American houses. Then it hit me – the front of their houses is the side of our houses! We front our houses on the pitch of the roof – one side of the roof comes down over the front door, the other over the back door. When you face the front of a Swiss house you see both sides of the roof. That was the difference! That’s why it was so noticeable whether there were fat A roofs or thin A roofs. The larger houses split the A roof, so that all four sides have A-pitched roof lines, creating a larger usable top floor. Remember the game we used to play as kids with a piece of paper? You would fold the paper so you could open it in each direction with your finger and thumb and you would play “tell the future” or “who you like games” – writing boys names on the flaps. You would tell the paper-holder to stop and they would lift the flap to see which boy you liked or would marry someday. Remember? These houses remind me of how the paper looked when it was all closed. Who knows why… Then there are the life sized cuckoo clock houses, with beautifully etched wooden balconies on wooden frames or the white washed ones with the brown wood accents. I never saw a single house that I wouldn’t be thrilled to live in. While the Italians are clueless about “curb appeal”, the Swiss have it in spades.
When I first saw the beautiful pale blue green color of the Aare river in Bern, I thought it was something special about that particular river. I was wrong. Switzerland has captured the blue green rainbow of the Caribbean in their lakes. If you made a Crayola box and filled it with every shade of you can see off the shore of the islands in the Caribbean, you could find a lake that color in Switzerland. From the palest sea-green to the deepest ocean blue and every blue-green color you can imagine in between. The lake between Fribourg and Bulle is a beautiful pastel green with a turquoise tint reminding me of a butterfly’s wings shimmering in the dazzling sunlight of the day. These bodies of water seem as if they are of a dream, from a fairy tale book of a land forgotten, passed by time, yet here they are dropped like petals throughout this beautiful country.
Thank goodness when we at last arrived in Bulle, the bus to Jaun was sitting in the next bay. Though I loved the ride through the countryside, it was getting late to start this hike. Fortunately the Jaun bus only stopped twice. Once was to pick up about 37 Japanese tourists – all moms with their kids. I had to wonder where all the dads were. Kids ranged in age from about 3 to 16. I groaned in anticipation of the bus filling with noisy, rambunctious, vacationing youngsters and slipped down into my seat behind my book as they filled in around me like dam-released water rushing to fill an empty gorge. To my surprise and delight, they were quieter than church mice and perfectly behaved. Either they were exhausted or the moms were feeding them poppies off the trails. I’m guessing the Yen is doing pretty well against the Swiss Franc because there are Japanese tourists EVERYWHERE. Now there are always Japanese tourists everywhere, but in Switzerland they are everywhere squared. If you ever want to learn Japanese, you can come here and get just as much practice as you could in Japan. I’ve not been in a train car yet that wasn’t either empty or had at least four Japanese tourists.
The bus dropped me (and the 37 Japanese tourists) off in Jaun. I stopped at the store to buy some water and chocolate – how could I hike the Alps and not find a precious perch where I could savor a little Swiss chocolate? Glancing at my phone as I approached the trail, I saw it was five ‘till five. Well not exactly the early morning hike I planned, but at least it wouldn’t be so hot. The hike was about four hours so I would make it down by sunset… hopefully. I brought a pack of cigarettes just in case I got stuck somewhere for the night. The only thing worse than being stuck all night in a pass in Switzerland without food or water would be being stuck there without food, water, or a cigarette if you wanted one. The first forty minutes was pretty steep upward but then the path leveled out into a pleasant country stroll. I didn’t find out until later I was technically in the Pre-Alps not the real alps. Guess I should have realized “country stroll” would not be a likely adjective for an Alpine hike.
I was expecting to be hours from any form of civilization and was surprised to see a farm/restaurant a little way up the initial steep climb. It turned out to be the first of many. These ‘farmhouses’ have patio decks built into the side of them where the wandering tourist can sit at little umbrella covered picnic tables and enjoy the view while sipping something to drink or having a little snack (for the cost of a small car). They reminded me of ski lodges - which they probably are eight months out of the year. A row of cow bells was proudly displayed on the wall above the deck. I guess these belonged to beloved cows of days gone by. The sound of cowbells fills virtually every cube of airspace in Switzerland. Whether it is a soft tinkling sound in the distance or the loud clang of a bull-bell up close, you find the sound everywhere except the very center of the cities. Even then it doesn’t take more than a brisk walk a few minutes away from the center before you can hear the bells again. As I approached the farmhouses the sound of cowbells for the herd belonging to that farmhouse would grow louder and then recede in the distance behind with the farmhouse as I continued along the path. I thought I was heading into four hours of wilderness, but there was never a moment I couldn’t hear the cows ahead or behind me with a farmhouse and the option of a cool drink and an outhouse. I hope it didn’t hurt my grandmother’s feelings in heaven that the outhouse reminded me of her. My grandparents had a little outhouse at the shanty on their farm in De Leon, Texas. It was the first one I ever used. When I saw the outhouse at the little Swiss farmhouse, I was flooded (no pun intended) with the memory of being a scared little city girl trying to act big and brave in the outhouse. After all if an old lady like my grandmother could use this awful place and thought it was normal, I ought to be able to. (She was not too much older than me at the time).
I find a child-like freedom whenever I hike alone. Lost amidst the trees and the flowers, far from the sounds of man, I skip and sing, and talk out loud (okay so I do that anywhere). I love doing silly things, making jokes with myself, and just frolicking without a care in the world. Does everyone do this when they are alone in a field? For me it is like a time machine to when I was 7. How could the world be anything but beautiful and carefree? Especially when there is no one I have to share my chocolate with. About halfway through the hike I picked a stone looking over a field of cows, beneath the towering wedge of the Moleson in the distance, and sat down to taste my first bought-in-Switzerland Swiss chocolate… mmmm mmmm. I suddenly remembered that I had my Italian SIM card that I had set up before with a call back service and that I could actually call the states. I didn’t want to share my chocolate but did want to share the moment. My daughter was the only one who answered and got to hear the melody of cow bells played in the Euschelpass..
The sun was beginning to set, so I made my way down the pass toward Schwartzee, the black lake, and its little town where I could catch the bus back to Fribourg… I thought. I did not stop to think that little town bus service might end a little earlier than big city bus service. I arrived in Schwartzee a little after 8pm. The last bus? 7:50. Shit. I had glanced at a little B&B I passed on the last leg of the road into town – it was about $260 for a room. That was not going to happen. My choices were sleep in the phone booth – not too appealing – or walk the 25 kilometers to Fribourg. I decided to walk. Twenty-five kilometers = about 15 miles = about four hours. Well, I’d be home by midnight. I set off with determination then spotted a tourist office that strangely enough seemed open. Perhaps they knew of a cheap room or another way to get to a train somewhere. It was my lucky night – they were having a meeting that night. The man who came to the door told me to come back at 10pm and someone would give me a ride.
I was no sooner settled into the café across the street with my book and cup of coffee when the sky let out a shriek of thunder accompanied by a nuclear flash of lightening and the heavens opened up. If I had been walking my camera and on-loan Nabokov first print would have been ruined. I don’t mind taking a shower in the great outdoors but cameras and books sure do. I passed the hour reading and thanking my lucky stars as the rain poured down.
By 10pm it was clear skies again. My life saver, Nicholas, was a delight. He is a high-school teacher. Remember the cool high-school teacher who all the kids liked? The one who knew how to get along with the kids and still motivate them? It was obvious Nicholas was one of those rare few, with genuine eyes and a curious, kind, but subtly strong character. He teaches writing, German, and politics and clearly knew more about American politics than I do (though I’m afraid that is not saying much). Is it true the Rice lady might run against Hillary in the next election? Can Hillary run again after she has already been president once?
Nicholas and I chatted easily the short drive to Fribourg and by 10:30 I was happily sitting on Mirjam’s balcony with a glass of wine and the emergency cigarettes recounting the tales of the day
The next day, after errands and other to-dos, I made my way late in the day to the little hill top castle town of Gruyere – yes as in the cheese. I never knew I liked Gruyere cheese so much. It is a traditional, creamy, unpasteurized, semi-soft cheese with a earthy, nutty flavor. I couldn’t wait to get a real sample from a real Gruyere factory. Unfortunately, the term “bankers’ hours” applies to most tourist sights in Switzerland. If you’re not there before 4 or 5, you are generally out of luck. I missed the cheese factory tour and the castle tour but I did get to partake in an Alien coffee. What is an Alien coffee you ask? Well it seems that Mr. Giger, one of the worlds foremost artists of Fantastic Realism and creator of Alien, as in the Oscar winning Alien, bought a house in of all places little Gruyere (maybe he likes the cheese) where he opened the Giger Museum. Across from the Museum is the Giger Bar.
Unfortunately the museum was also closed, so after my short walking tour of the little village, I made my way into the uniquely designed Giger Bar. It turns out Mr. Giger is an architect as well as is obvious by the interior of this unique space. His designs capitalized on the Gothic architecture of the 400+ year old space with giant skeletal arches following the natural vaults of the ceiling. Skull candles, a silver bar, intriguing Giger statues, intricately carved floors, and stone like furniture create an other worldly sensation, giving the eye something new to take in at every blink. I loved the black leather alien backbone chairs that swiveled in slow circles, like the door of a haunted house, slowly, steadily opening with building anticipation for the nothing that is behind it. They were downright eerie. My pictures just couldn’t do the place justice, but you can see pictures at Giger’s official website: https://www.hrgiger.com/frame.htm
Being a coffee addict, I had to order the Alien coffee – coffee in a silver mug, a glass of stout green liquor, two little silver cups of pure cream, a cookie, a chocolate, and three meringues on a metal plate, all on a special little wooden plaque with perfectly sized holes for each accoutrement, including the spoon. It was an absurd 14 Swiss Francs (about $11) but I love things that are done to perfection and it certainly was. 
Alien-ness aside, Gruyere is a precious little town – more like a Walt Disney World village than a real town. Set high on a hill with a castle that overlooks the land below you feel as if you have stepped into the past. Well you would feel that way if instead of tourist shops up and down the streets, there were blacksmiths and bakers. You could buy every Swiss tourist trinket known to man in these little shops – cheap reproductions of the guys with the big long horns (somehow that doesn’t sound right), cheese, cheese, and more cheese, chocolate, chocolate and more chocolate, cow bells in all shapes and sizes, cuckoo clocks, little wooden jewelry boxes that croon Edelweiss, Edelweiss earrings and necklaces and t-shrits, Swiss flags, and knives, and all things red. I wandered through them all in search of the one thing missing from this rolling hill, flower-bedecked, snowcapped-mountain-in-the-distance memory of my childhood but to no avail. I never saw Heidi anywhere. No little blonde braids, no little Gingham dresses, no key chains or magnets with pictures of Heidi and her milk cow pail. I could hear her soft yodel every step I took along the Euschelpass, lost in the little-girl delight of my younger days. A beautiful memory she is, but a marketing tool for Switzerland, it seems she is not. I am surprised, but in a way a little pleased as well. I’m sure she is much prettier in my visions than in plastic.
(I do hope the Aliens didn’t eat her…)
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