In the morning all seems well with the trains. Apparently the Swiss, horrified by the lapse of rail order worked all night not just to restore the power, but also to make sure that everyone has been shipped to his or her destination – even if they had to transport them by rickshaw. They’ve also cleaned the stations, returned all the trains to schedule – basically you’d never know there was a disaster at the station when you walk through in the morning.
We check out of the hotel Marthahaus, and drop the bags in the lockers at the station. Thank goodness we won’t schlep all that around all day.
Zentrum Paul Klee
We’re planning to head out to the outskirts of Bern to see the Zentrum Paul Klee. We have been exceptionally lucky in our timing the whole trip and the zentrum just opened the previous Monday, amidst much fanfare. It’s the largest collection of Paul Klee in the world and had been established at the Kunstmuseum –some 4000 pieces that pretty much cover his entire life’s work. The museum’s already extensive collection has been augmented by the donation of hundreds of works from the artist’s family, which they gave to the city with the proviso that the city build a big museum.
The place they chose is in rolling hills up above the river and the Italian architect, Renzo Piano echoed the landscape with three gently arching semi-hobbit holes into the ground. That sounds like it’s small and cute, but in fact, when you enter, it’s apparent that this is a huge soaring triple space, with an airy café and auditorium for public performances at one end, an enormous permanent exhibition of Klee works in the center, and a library in the third. Downstairs, there’s spaces for more exhibitions, traveling and permanent, and also workshops for educational programs for the kids. It’s so new that the wood floors still smell like they just cut them and the fittings sparkle with even more than the usual cleanliness and the best part is that it’s air-conditioned.
We’re so stunned with the overall effect we almost forget to use our museum cards to get in, and start to pay the admission fees. I wonder how many tourists do that.
The collection itself is immense, laid out in a hangar-sized space and tracing the development of the artist’s work chronologically– which probably would have made sense had we followed it chronologically, but the collection sort of sucks you in organically and you find yourself wandering from painting to painting looking at the oddly dreamlike shapes or attracted over there by colors, or distracted by that one’s geometry.
Throughout the place, there are kids, not lounging around like bored troublemakers in the corner, but rather sprawled on the floors with paper and colored pencils, working hard at making their own interpretations of the Klee designs. Two girls compare fish drawings and giggle. A college-age student sneaks in amidst a group of ten-year-olds while the teacher explains something to them, and crouches down, pretending to be a part of the class, to the kids’ amusement. Everywhere people are pretty much enjoying Klee. Wow, not much like how they go through the Legion of Honor back home.
Barengraben: grab those bears
We leave the cool museum and get back on the bus headed for the Barengraben, or bear pits, where two bored-looking troublemakers of brown bears are skulking around in the open pit just across the bridge from the city center. People are staring at them, and they’re staring back, a little sadly, I thought. They’ve got to be dying of heat because I’m dying of heat and I don’t have a thick fur coat on. The bears are a mascot of the city though, and despite some efforts to have them moved to a more reasonable larger exhibition place, the people “love” them so much that they want to keep them right there. In the pits. They at least have a little pool a rock cave thing in the center and plenty of branch-y things to play with, but still, the pit looks pretty small to me.
I don’t much like the pit, and we get back on a bus and head into town. Near the station there’s a old-fashioned tearoom with a confiserie in the front called Eichenberger’s where a lot of older Bernese are sitting having lunch. It looks like fun, so we wander in, and the waitress is very chatty and nice and tells us that the place is world famous for its truffles and chocolates which have been hand-made on site for decades.
We order omelettes and something cold and sit to enjoy the atmosphere. After lunch we get a box of truffles for one of Dad’s friends and he buys a pipe next door.
Kunst, kunst, kunst
We’re not far from the Kunstmuseum, so we pop in there next, and they turn out to have a small but very choice collection of paintings, from early Flemish right into impressionist and modern works. There are a few fine Monets and a Blue Period Picasso, but the great extent of the place’s space is taken up with three floors for traveling exhibitions.
There’s a questionably avant-garde exhibition of Chinese artists since the end of the Cultural Revolution, though it does have some very humorous pieces, including a giant diorama of troops marching through Tiananmen Square. The artist has used plastic toy soldiers and toy tanks, little saluting officials, all painted the same icky tan color, but if you start to examine the parade, at the end you see, he’s started to include waltzing couples, then little alien dolls, dinosaurs, spaceships and the creature from the Black Lagoon, also painted icky tan.
Back to the platzes
We have some time to kill, and figure maybe we can fit in a tour of the Zytglogge’s mechanism, but it turns out that they only do one tour a day, at 11:30. We wait around to see the clock strike five though, beside scores of Japanese tourists.
The minutes tick by and as we get closer, suddenly we hear the little gold rooster crow, and he creakily flaps his wings – it’s so subtle you can barely see them move. We wait, for music, or a parade of little figures or something, but there’s silence.
Then the King sitting next to the rooster, moves his hands slightly, tipping the scepter and raising the orb a little bit. Then nothing.
Then, suddenly the guy up above begins to strike the bell that’s hanging over the clock face. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Then it stops.
The rooster crows again, and flaps wearily.
That’s the show. The Japanese tourists applaud politely, and we all move on.
Subtle, very subtle.
We walk over to the Bundeshaus. This place is so homey and intimate that I totally keep forgetting it’s the capital of Switzerland. It doesn’t seem like a capital. Capitals are supposed to be noisy and dirty and teeming with masses of people.
The terrace behind the Bundeshaus is lovely though, with a view over the river and lawns of sunbathers outside of a large pool. Up near us there are guys playing on the ubiquitous oversized chessboards as we all quietly enjoy the view and breeze from over the river.
Marking time until the train to Zurich, we wander into a Loeb bookstore and collapse onto the couches in the cool basement, and in no time at all, it’s time to head to the station and catch the train to Zurich. Which is right on schedule. These people are amazing.
Zuricher pasta
The trip to Zurich was pleasant – traveling in first class definitely is nicer than when I backpacked across Europe in second class.
We arrived in Zurich, tossed our stuff into a locker like experts and headed on out to the town. It was fairly bold to step out of the train station since we didn’t have a map, and the tourism office was closed by the time we got there, but adventure is our middle name.
Actually this entire trip I’ve noticed has begun to revolve around the food – how do we find it, how do we get there and when is the next meal? I’ve decided that if I ever had any advice for travelers in foreign lands, it would be, plan lunch and dinner, then plan the rest of your day. Oh, and also figure out where your nearest bathrooms will be.
We walked down a promising pedestrian zone street directly away from the station and found a nice Italian restaurant though, where the waiter was willing to let us stumble along in German. The food was unexceptional, but sitting outside was quite nice with more of a breeze in our faces than we’d had in Bern.
Late night trains
The hardest thing about rail travel though, is that overnighter train trip. Whether you’re a backpacker or you’re going first class, you still have the exhaustion of being out all day sightseeing and marking time until you can reasonably think about moseying back for your train, which in the case of overnight journeys, is often at 11 or 12 midnight. And often you’d rather have fallen prone on a bed at 10.
The hotel train or Euronight costs about the same as a night in a hotel, which I think is why Rick Steves, the travel expert, pushes the couchette system. Couchettes are the reclining easy chairs that you can get cheap reservations for in an open style train car instead of a compartment. You throw your luggage in the overhead rack, secure your moneybelt around you and push back for the night.
In some ways I can see the appeal, because the actual private compartments give you the illusion of being in a room, but it’s a room that’s about nine feet by nine feet, whether it’s for one, or for two or even three people. Everything is cleverly design to fold away, or swing aside, but let’s face it, in a double which is set up like bunk beds, one of the two of you has to have the agility of a monkey to get to that upper bunk, stash away your suitcase and change into PJ’s. And no matter what, only one person can really stand at a time. I couldn’t imagine three people in one compartment.
Still, if we felt a little cramped and uncomfortable (“Are they kidding?” my Dad says on seeing the room, “Is this made for midgets?”) A walk through second class, which is NOT air-conditioned, and always has three bunks to a compartment, quickly makes us grateful for the space we have. I do notice that there are luxury “suites” available in the upper level of our hotel car, which seems to mean you get a desk as well as beds, and it’s a little more roomy, but frankly, as I said, one might as well just take away the illusions – you’re all getting to Vienna at the same time, and everyone is going to need a shower when you get there.
I clamber up into my top bunk though, and feeling slightly nauseous from the swinging of the train and trying to check off my breakfast choices on a card written in German while traveling backwards has made my head explode. Dad and I tuck into bed as soon as possible, and actually sleep quite nicely all the way to Salzburg.
In the morning, we wake up and politely negotiate who will stand up first. Somehow we manage to get dressed and I signal the porter, a nice guy, who has been helpfully telling me about festivals in Vienna – apparently there’s one called Insel on the Donau canal—and he comes in to fold away the beds and pop out the bench and table. Now this I love. The beds just fold up and swing out of the way,and then the compartment seems actually quite luxurious for two.
We had asked him the previous night if we should go to the restaurant car for breakfast, and he gave us the “rabble in the restaurant car” kind of “no.” So we opted to be served – this felt kind of pleasantly silly – and sipped coffee and had our croissants as the countryside went by.
Arriving in Vienna, we had no trouble locating a taxi, and got straight to the hotel to relax and clean up before Eric arrived.
We had gotten in a tad early and the reception desk guy seemed a little non-plussed and told us our room wasn’t quite ready –but then gave us, I think, a nicer suite than we had reserved, for the same price.
The Konig von Ungarn, or King of Hungary, which I’d chosen mainly for its location – “right behind the Stephansdom in the heart of Old Vienna” – but also for price and recommendations, turned out to be, I think the nicest hotel we’d ever stayed in. It was very old world classic, in a building next to where Mozart composed the “Marriage of Figaro.” The rooms we had were a “family” apartment, with one room upstairs and one downstairs, but common bathroom, and entrance area. Both sets of rooms though, had a TV and radio and little sitting room, and we quickly flowed into and spread throughout the place with luggage and carry-ons.
I could have been the King of Hungary as I got into the sparkling shower, then collapsed on the 400 thread-count duvet to wait for Eric to arrive…
Showing posts with label Switzerland. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Switzerland. Show all posts
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Berner Oberland: Where adventure awaits
What a day.
We got an early-ish start, knowing that we’d be going to the Jungfrau region today, and, well-supplied with food and drinks from our little shopping trip yesterday, we headed out to the station.
I had exhaustively researched the trip to the Schilthorn and all its many complications and choices – dreihtseilbahn? Post bus? Is a cable car the same as a luftseilbahn? – and I finally mapped out our route. The man at the Swiss Rail office was very nice and when I explained our proposed route he didn’t seem to think it outlandish. The whole thing was a kind of expensive ticket, (108 CHF) even with a 25% discount offered by our rail pass, but we feel like it’s worth it, since the ticket lets us pick and choose our methods of transportation, which will turn out to be important.
Apparently, we can use our rail passes to get ourselves to Interlaken Ost, an old ski resort town, but from thereon in we are on a private railway. Our new tickets, though, cover everything.
To understand where we’re going, you have to picture a long valley slicing deeply into the Alps. Interlaken, which, as its name implies is between two enormous and enormously beautiful, jewel-like, aquamarine lakes, is a jumping off point for exploring a few valleys, but the one we want, which I have chosen because it’s supposed to be less touristy, is the Lauterbrunnen or “Loud Falls” valley. On the one side of the valley is the stunningly huge face of the Jungfrau, beside the Eiger and Monch peaks, and on the other side of the valley are several lovely little towns and a peak that we’re going to the top of, called the Schilthorn. James Bond fans will remember it as the site of the revolving restaurant “Piz Gloria” that figures in “On Her Majesty’s Secret Service.”
From the Schilthorn side, we’ll be able to see the Eiger and the Jungfrau, instead of being on them, and since I’m assured that the trip to the Piz Gloria is all very easy to manage, I decide, probably a better place for me and my Dad.
We take a little train to Lauterbrunnen, the town. We’d been warned already that we need the front half of the train, since the back of the train goes to touristy Grindelwald. On the ride up I can see already I’m going to have to ration my film, because everything looks so spectacular you just want to keep snapping photos.
From Lauterbrunnen, we follow the signs to the funicular or cogwheel train to Grutschalp. I just like saying “Grutschalp.”
The funicular is sometimes called a lift, and it might as well be an elevator, because the thing, which looks like a multicompartment mine car assemblage, seems to go almost straight up the face of the cliff. Grutschalp pends over Lauterbrunnen.
Up at the top, I had proposed that my dad and I walk to Murren, because the views are lovely and the pathway is supposed to be pretty level, but I can see already that we have a lot of walking ahead, so we decide to take the mini train – a one car affair that holds maybe 50 people – to Murren instead. The windows are wide open on the train, and having been advised to sit on the left side, we are treated to some spectacular views of the mountains and valley below us.
Murren is so charming it hurts. It doesn’t look overly touristy, but does have a little of the simulacrum feeling. Are real Swiss houses actually THAT neat, with bright geraniums hanging out of windows boxes and lace curtains, carved fences and picturesque water troughs in the shadow of the Jungfrau? Maybe this is really how it’s supposed to be. Just like Heidi.
I’ve read that J.R.R. Tolkien traveled this way as a young man, and much of the Lauterbrunnen valley and mountains inspired his Lord of the Rings landscape. It was easy to believe, since the land is almost exactly as he describes, from the snowy mountain passes, to the waterfalls, to the villages nestled in the valley. We even passed a village called Isenfluh on the way in, and I couldn’t help but think that he stole the name for Middle Earth’s Isen River. And the cursive, semi-Celtic Swiss calligraphy that seems to be ubiquitous on all the houses and signs, closely resembles Elvish writing. I feel like a hobbit setting out on an adventure.
We pass through the town to the Schilthornbahn – a footpath to the Schilthorn is marked on the way there, but as it would mean ascending some 5000 feet up the mountain, the cable car is the way we’re going. It’s the longest aerial cableway in Europe, a sign helpfully informs us – I wonder, is there a longer aerial cableway in Kuala Lumpur, say?
The car ascends majestically, passing a stream and fields, where you can see truly happy-looking cows lolling about on soft grassy patches like contented cats. We change cable cars at Birg, which is basically a rocky promontory that looks like an excuse to stop on the way to the Schilthorn, and watch the altimeter climb to 2900 meters. Nearly ten thousand feet. I’m light-headed, or maybe it was the vertigo of looking down from the suspended cable car.
Once up though – and it was cool, though not cold up there, and yes, there was quite a bit of snow – the view is everything that was promised. You can see Mont d’Or, Mont Blanc – and countless peaks whose names we couldn’t even pronounce. The wraparound terrace lets you walk all the way around and suck in just how spectacular it really is. Maybe the Jungfraujoch is higher – the ticket was certainly more expensive! – but the view here just can’t be beat.
Inside the Piz Gloria, is a revolving restaurant where they are happy to serve you overpriced food, and you are happy to pay for it while you sit and watch the entire world go by. We get away with ordering two hauskaffees which turn out to be liberally laced with schnapps, and spend a good hour or so admiring the view.
The descent to Murren was uneventful, although I did wonder how many people faint from vertigo at the heights. The trip is a good one for older as well as younger people, though, since you really don’t have to climb a step. Really, when you get to the Piz Gloria, there are even escalators and elevators to take you higher, and it looks like everything is completely wheelchair accessible.
From Murren we have decided to walk to Gimmelwald, since it’s a downhill trip and the alpine flowers are in full bloom. The way is longer than I had imagined, certainly longer for us than the promised 30 minutes, but the vistas are totally worth it. Midway through, we perch on a conveniently shady bench and have our picnic. With chunks of fresh bread, Vacherin and prosciutto, and a glass of wine in hand, we were feeling pretty much like the world was our oyster.
The trek down to Gimmelwald pretty much does it for my Dad, though, and we resolve to take the cable car down to the valley floor at Stechelberg and then the Post bus from Stechelberg to Lauterbrunnen to catch the train back. I’m really wanting to see the waterfalls that I heard about though, and I find out that the bus makes stops all along the valley, so we can get on and off at Trummelbach falls.
Trummelbach was a bit of a bonus. I figured if we’d have time, we’d see it, since the one or two things I’d read made it sound like fun – a waterfall inside the mountain. When we got to the front gate, it turned out that it was 10 CHF to get in, and I thought, well that’s a bit much to go look at a waterfall. The man assured us though that it was to cover the lift inside the mountain, and so we decided to just go ahead and do it.
Nothing, not even poems to Trummelbach written by Lord Byron, could have prepared us for how amazing it was.
The funicular (more like a glorified mine lift than ever) took us up a ways into the mountain, and then the operator pointed us toward a path that seemed to dive into a cleft in the rock face. We could hear the falls, a kind of monstrous roar, deep and basso that made me shiver, and on the first turn in the path, we saw an astonishing rage of water boiling through a cataract. Some 20,000 liters of water per second was the information they gave, with the melt from the Eiger, the Monch, and the Jungfrau, all flowing through this one place. The falls must be even wilder in the spring.
The path continued back deeper into the mountain and as we made our way into the darkened tunnels, it became clear that the water had cut vast slashes and carved out great funneling tubes in the rock face, right through the mountain. Like dwarves, we went further and further into the misty tunnels, thoughtfully lit at strategic places, and at each new stopping place were more and more awed. The paths allowed you so close that you could feel the force of the rushing water, and then it put you above madly bubbling cauldrons. It was colder there, beside the glacier chilled falls, than on top of the Schilthorn.
Now this, I said, is worth the price of admission.
As we came out of the falls into the light again, I could see the grayish clouds moving over the Alps like the darkening of Mordor, and was quite glad for the advice to come early – the afternoons are always cloudy in the Alps. But the scene, with its speckled patches of sunlight and enormous fluffy clouds hanging over waterfalls all the way down the valley, was certainly nothing less than overwhelming.
Still, we were tired by this time, and happily piled into the post bus to Lauterbrunnen, and onto the train back to Interlaken. There was a bit of a wait for the next train to Bern, and so after a moment’s debate, we headed into the Coop supermarket to get some salads and sandwiches for dinner, figuring when we got back to Bern, we’d probably want nothing more than to collapse into bed. A couple of café lattes from the local coffee shop and we were ready to board the train, which came a little early into the Interlaken station. Little did we know what lay ahead.
Entirely exhausted, we slumped gratefully into our seats, hoping to have a nice relaxing time with our coffee and some cookies – ready for the hour’s ride back to Bern. Everything was running smoothly and I was admiring the views and taking pictures of the beautiful evening light over the Thunsee, when suddenly, the train ground to a halt. It stayed there for a good five minutes, and I thought to myself, the Swiss are not going to like this.
The SBB or Swiss Rail is renowned for its timeliness, and in a recent survey, they found that something like 80% of its trains pull into the station within a minute of the scheduled time --97% of its trains come in no less than four minutes late. Well, there we were, waiting, waiting, waiting -- and then I saw a conductor marching up the train and thought – oh-oh, definitely not good. I’ve seen that look before – on Amtrak. It’s the “I-hate-that-this-train-is-going-nowhere” look. This cannot be good.
After he passes by, announcements ensue in German and French, but no one around us speaks English, so we’re in the dark until a voice comes on saying, “Ladies and gentlemen, due to a technical difficulty we are unable to continue the journey. We apologize.”
I think to myself, well, that’s nice, but does that mean you’re just going to leave us here forever, between Interlaken and Spiez, then?
Well, to make a long travail short, we finally get inched into the Spiez station on the main line, and change trains twice, each one hotter and more crowded than the last, and we are over two hours late by the time the train finally pulls out of the station. Thank goodness we had no place to be that evening. We were lucky to have gotten ourselves dinner and ate it -- a little disconsolately, but feeling more fortunate than others who were stuck with what was on the snack cart. There’s been rampant confusion, and AFTER the train pulls out of Spiez, the conductor informs us that the train is going to Bern, but it will then continue to Zurich, not Basel.
When we arrive in Bern finally, there is absolute chaos at the Hauptbahnhof. Seriously, did I mention that the Swiss are an orderly, organized people? This is CHAOS. That must be one helluva a technical difficulty.
As we come down the stairs from the track, a horde of people in a little group are running against the tide, desperately tugging luggage behind them, rather like the train station scene in “Mr. Hulot’s Holiday.” Outside the station, a completely disorganized crowd of literally hundreds is milling around, with about a dozen buses pulled in front. Men in orange vests are shouting into bullhorns, “Thun! Basel! Zuricher! Luzerne hier!” People are dashing for the buses, which are a motley assortment of city buses, tour buses, private coaches, all with different signs indicating other cities. We take in this whole affair in amazement. There is a line of dozens of buses up the side of the bahnhof all the way to the Lorraine Bridge. I spot our city bus stuck in the line about halfway down.
“I think we’re walking to the pension,” my father observes.
You can measure the scale of the disaster by the fact that a trash can outside the station has overflowed with bottles and cans onto the sidewalk and the garbage is starting to scatter on the street. Unheard of.
I would learn later that we were caught in the largest collapse of the Swiss rail system in their entire history. A voltage drop near Ticino caused the entire system of the SBB to shut down throughout the country, and the rail officials were desperately trying to shuttle people by bus and plane to their destinations. I spoke with a guy stuck in Bern, who was staying at the Martahaus overnight in the hopes that he could get back to Basel in the morning. A sweaty, and decidedly harried looking official appeared on local TV saying they hoped to have everything back to normal by tomorrow.
We shall see…. I hope so-- how else will we get to Wien?
We got an early-ish start, knowing that we’d be going to the Jungfrau region today, and, well-supplied with food and drinks from our little shopping trip yesterday, we headed out to the station.
I had exhaustively researched the trip to the Schilthorn and all its many complications and choices – dreihtseilbahn? Post bus? Is a cable car the same as a luftseilbahn? – and I finally mapped out our route. The man at the Swiss Rail office was very nice and when I explained our proposed route he didn’t seem to think it outlandish. The whole thing was a kind of expensive ticket, (108 CHF) even with a 25% discount offered by our rail pass, but we feel like it’s worth it, since the ticket lets us pick and choose our methods of transportation, which will turn out to be important.
Apparently, we can use our rail passes to get ourselves to Interlaken Ost, an old ski resort town, but from thereon in we are on a private railway. Our new tickets, though, cover everything.
To understand where we’re going, you have to picture a long valley slicing deeply into the Alps. Interlaken, which, as its name implies is between two enormous and enormously beautiful, jewel-like, aquamarine lakes, is a jumping off point for exploring a few valleys, but the one we want, which I have chosen because it’s supposed to be less touristy, is the Lauterbrunnen or “Loud Falls” valley. On the one side of the valley is the stunningly huge face of the Jungfrau, beside the Eiger and Monch peaks, and on the other side of the valley are several lovely little towns and a peak that we’re going to the top of, called the Schilthorn. James Bond fans will remember it as the site of the revolving restaurant “Piz Gloria” that figures in “On Her Majesty’s Secret Service.”
From the Schilthorn side, we’ll be able to see the Eiger and the Jungfrau, instead of being on them, and since I’m assured that the trip to the Piz Gloria is all very easy to manage, I decide, probably a better place for me and my Dad.
We take a little train to Lauterbrunnen, the town. We’d been warned already that we need the front half of the train, since the back of the train goes to touristy Grindelwald. On the ride up I can see already I’m going to have to ration my film, because everything looks so spectacular you just want to keep snapping photos.
From Lauterbrunnen, we follow the signs to the funicular or cogwheel train to Grutschalp. I just like saying “Grutschalp.”
The funicular is sometimes called a lift, and it might as well be an elevator, because the thing, which looks like a multicompartment mine car assemblage, seems to go almost straight up the face of the cliff. Grutschalp pends over Lauterbrunnen.
Up at the top, I had proposed that my dad and I walk to Murren, because the views are lovely and the pathway is supposed to be pretty level, but I can see already that we have a lot of walking ahead, so we decide to take the mini train – a one car affair that holds maybe 50 people – to Murren instead. The windows are wide open on the train, and having been advised to sit on the left side, we are treated to some spectacular views of the mountains and valley below us.
Murren is so charming it hurts. It doesn’t look overly touristy, but does have a little of the simulacrum feeling. Are real Swiss houses actually THAT neat, with bright geraniums hanging out of windows boxes and lace curtains, carved fences and picturesque water troughs in the shadow of the Jungfrau? Maybe this is really how it’s supposed to be. Just like Heidi.
I’ve read that J.R.R. Tolkien traveled this way as a young man, and much of the Lauterbrunnen valley and mountains inspired his Lord of the Rings landscape. It was easy to believe, since the land is almost exactly as he describes, from the snowy mountain passes, to the waterfalls, to the villages nestled in the valley. We even passed a village called Isenfluh on the way in, and I couldn’t help but think that he stole the name for Middle Earth’s Isen River. And the cursive, semi-Celtic Swiss calligraphy that seems to be ubiquitous on all the houses and signs, closely resembles Elvish writing. I feel like a hobbit setting out on an adventure.
We pass through the town to the Schilthornbahn – a footpath to the Schilthorn is marked on the way there, but as it would mean ascending some 5000 feet up the mountain, the cable car is the way we’re going. It’s the longest aerial cableway in Europe, a sign helpfully informs us – I wonder, is there a longer aerial cableway in Kuala Lumpur, say?
The car ascends majestically, passing a stream and fields, where you can see truly happy-looking cows lolling about on soft grassy patches like contented cats. We change cable cars at Birg, which is basically a rocky promontory that looks like an excuse to stop on the way to the Schilthorn, and watch the altimeter climb to 2900 meters. Nearly ten thousand feet. I’m light-headed, or maybe it was the vertigo of looking down from the suspended cable car.
Once up though – and it was cool, though not cold up there, and yes, there was quite a bit of snow – the view is everything that was promised. You can see Mont d’Or, Mont Blanc – and countless peaks whose names we couldn’t even pronounce. The wraparound terrace lets you walk all the way around and suck in just how spectacular it really is. Maybe the Jungfraujoch is higher – the ticket was certainly more expensive! – but the view here just can’t be beat.
Inside the Piz Gloria, is a revolving restaurant where they are happy to serve you overpriced food, and you are happy to pay for it while you sit and watch the entire world go by. We get away with ordering two hauskaffees which turn out to be liberally laced with schnapps, and spend a good hour or so admiring the view.
The descent to Murren was uneventful, although I did wonder how many people faint from vertigo at the heights. The trip is a good one for older as well as younger people, though, since you really don’t have to climb a step. Really, when you get to the Piz Gloria, there are even escalators and elevators to take you higher, and it looks like everything is completely wheelchair accessible.
From Murren we have decided to walk to Gimmelwald, since it’s a downhill trip and the alpine flowers are in full bloom. The way is longer than I had imagined, certainly longer for us than the promised 30 minutes, but the vistas are totally worth it. Midway through, we perch on a conveniently shady bench and have our picnic. With chunks of fresh bread, Vacherin and prosciutto, and a glass of wine in hand, we were feeling pretty much like the world was our oyster.
The trek down to Gimmelwald pretty much does it for my Dad, though, and we resolve to take the cable car down to the valley floor at Stechelberg and then the Post bus from Stechelberg to Lauterbrunnen to catch the train back. I’m really wanting to see the waterfalls that I heard about though, and I find out that the bus makes stops all along the valley, so we can get on and off at Trummelbach falls.
Trummelbach was a bit of a bonus. I figured if we’d have time, we’d see it, since the one or two things I’d read made it sound like fun – a waterfall inside the mountain. When we got to the front gate, it turned out that it was 10 CHF to get in, and I thought, well that’s a bit much to go look at a waterfall. The man assured us though that it was to cover the lift inside the mountain, and so we decided to just go ahead and do it.
Nothing, not even poems to Trummelbach written by Lord Byron, could have prepared us for how amazing it was.
The funicular (more like a glorified mine lift than ever) took us up a ways into the mountain, and then the operator pointed us toward a path that seemed to dive into a cleft in the rock face. We could hear the falls, a kind of monstrous roar, deep and basso that made me shiver, and on the first turn in the path, we saw an astonishing rage of water boiling through a cataract. Some 20,000 liters of water per second was the information they gave, with the melt from the Eiger, the Monch, and the Jungfrau, all flowing through this one place. The falls must be even wilder in the spring.
The path continued back deeper into the mountain and as we made our way into the darkened tunnels, it became clear that the water had cut vast slashes and carved out great funneling tubes in the rock face, right through the mountain. Like dwarves, we went further and further into the misty tunnels, thoughtfully lit at strategic places, and at each new stopping place were more and more awed. The paths allowed you so close that you could feel the force of the rushing water, and then it put you above madly bubbling cauldrons. It was colder there, beside the glacier chilled falls, than on top of the Schilthorn.
Now this, I said, is worth the price of admission.
As we came out of the falls into the light again, I could see the grayish clouds moving over the Alps like the darkening of Mordor, and was quite glad for the advice to come early – the afternoons are always cloudy in the Alps. But the scene, with its speckled patches of sunlight and enormous fluffy clouds hanging over waterfalls all the way down the valley, was certainly nothing less than overwhelming.
Still, we were tired by this time, and happily piled into the post bus to Lauterbrunnen, and onto the train back to Interlaken. There was a bit of a wait for the next train to Bern, and so after a moment’s debate, we headed into the Coop supermarket to get some salads and sandwiches for dinner, figuring when we got back to Bern, we’d probably want nothing more than to collapse into bed. A couple of café lattes from the local coffee shop and we were ready to board the train, which came a little early into the Interlaken station. Little did we know what lay ahead.
Entirely exhausted, we slumped gratefully into our seats, hoping to have a nice relaxing time with our coffee and some cookies – ready for the hour’s ride back to Bern. Everything was running smoothly and I was admiring the views and taking pictures of the beautiful evening light over the Thunsee, when suddenly, the train ground to a halt. It stayed there for a good five minutes, and I thought to myself, the Swiss are not going to like this.
The SBB or Swiss Rail is renowned for its timeliness, and in a recent survey, they found that something like 80% of its trains pull into the station within a minute of the scheduled time --97% of its trains come in no less than four minutes late. Well, there we were, waiting, waiting, waiting -- and then I saw a conductor marching up the train and thought – oh-oh, definitely not good. I’ve seen that look before – on Amtrak. It’s the “I-hate-that-this-train-is-going-nowhere” look. This cannot be good.
After he passes by, announcements ensue in German and French, but no one around us speaks English, so we’re in the dark until a voice comes on saying, “Ladies and gentlemen, due to a technical difficulty we are unable to continue the journey. We apologize.”
I think to myself, well, that’s nice, but does that mean you’re just going to leave us here forever, between Interlaken and Spiez, then?
Well, to make a long travail short, we finally get inched into the Spiez station on the main line, and change trains twice, each one hotter and more crowded than the last, and we are over two hours late by the time the train finally pulls out of the station. Thank goodness we had no place to be that evening. We were lucky to have gotten ourselves dinner and ate it -- a little disconsolately, but feeling more fortunate than others who were stuck with what was on the snack cart. There’s been rampant confusion, and AFTER the train pulls out of Spiez, the conductor informs us that the train is going to Bern, but it will then continue to Zurich, not Basel.
When we arrive in Bern finally, there is absolute chaos at the Hauptbahnhof. Seriously, did I mention that the Swiss are an orderly, organized people? This is CHAOS. That must be one helluva a technical difficulty.
As we come down the stairs from the track, a horde of people in a little group are running against the tide, desperately tugging luggage behind them, rather like the train station scene in “Mr. Hulot’s Holiday.” Outside the station, a completely disorganized crowd of literally hundreds is milling around, with about a dozen buses pulled in front. Men in orange vests are shouting into bullhorns, “Thun! Basel! Zuricher! Luzerne hier!” People are dashing for the buses, which are a motley assortment of city buses, tour buses, private coaches, all with different signs indicating other cities. We take in this whole affair in amazement. There is a line of dozens of buses up the side of the bahnhof all the way to the Lorraine Bridge. I spot our city bus stuck in the line about halfway down.
“I think we’re walking to the pension,” my father observes.
You can measure the scale of the disaster by the fact that a trash can outside the station has overflowed with bottles and cans onto the sidewalk and the garbage is starting to scatter on the street. Unheard of.
I would learn later that we were caught in the largest collapse of the Swiss rail system in their entire history. A voltage drop near Ticino caused the entire system of the SBB to shut down throughout the country, and the rail officials were desperately trying to shuttle people by bus and plane to their destinations. I spoke with a guy stuck in Bern, who was staying at the Martahaus overnight in the hopes that he could get back to Basel in the morning. A sweaty, and decidedly harried looking official appeared on local TV saying they hoped to have everything back to normal by tomorrow.
We shall see…. I hope so-- how else will we get to Wien?
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Bern: To Market, to Market
Having checked the weather, we’ve decided to risk waiting til Wednesday to go to the Jungfrau region, so we decide to hit the famous farmers’ markets in the streets of Bern to stock up for the Alpine excursion.
The markets, which line various arcades along the streets and then spread into the Barenplatz and beyond, are wonderful, with gorgeous produce that positively glistens in the bright sunlight. I’m still recalling the sweet succulent cherry tomatoes I had with my Costoletto on our last night in Milan at the canals, and all these tomatoes have that same beautiful red color. The onions – apparently Bern has a famous Onion Festival every fall – are so shiny I think they’re winking at me, and then there’s cheeses.
Now, looking over the selections we’re confronted with in the Swiss market, I have to say we get a very fine choice of cheeses in San Francisco. In fact I think it’s amazing how much terrific stuff we get in San Francisco, but the cheeses here are definitely different. One woman gives us a taste of Vacherin de Jura (Swiss definitely) and we succumb and buy a hundred grams. I’m quite pleased actually to have conducted the entire transaction in a kind of pidgin German/French mix. And I think that I’m flattered that when I try to communicate in very poor German, most people immediately switch to French, not English. So maybe all along they’ve been thinking I’m a crazy French tourist.
We collect grapes, meat, nuts, and a challah-like zopfbolle of bread (transaction completed in French) and then swing by a supermarket to get some water and a local rose. We should be set for tomorrow.
On our way back to the hotel to drop things, we stop in the Einstein Haus, where I am jubilant to see that in the celebration of the hundredth anniversary of Einstein’s Annus Mirabilis (1905 was the year that he published five papers, four of them seminal, on topics ranging from electrodynamics to Brownian motion to the Special Theory of Relativity) his wife Mileva Maric’s contributions and sacrifices have not been forgotten. There is even a sympathetic note that calls her his intellectual equal, a woman who gave up her own academic career to work on the mathematics of relativity, only later to be trapped in housework and nappies.
The house is very small, and I try to imagine Mileva and the baby and Einstein smushed in here, but I do recall one or the other of them saying that their years on Kramgasse Street were the happiest of their lives. In pictures you can see Mileva go from a pretty young woman to a sad-faced almost resentful-looking hausfrau. For that matter, Einstein himself looks sadder and sadder as the years pass too, although it still steams me to see him sitting there amongst Lorentz and Dirac, Curie and Schroedinger and think that Mileva should have been there with him. As Anna Quindlen said, in his private life he was no Einstein.
In the afternoon, we search unsuccessfully for a little underground tapas place that was recommended in a guide book, but fail to find it and settle instead at a local bar, which serves late lunch. Then we wander into the Munster Cathedral, which, I must say, is very Gothic looking for a Protestant church. OF course the interior isn’t much decorated if you don’t count the highly Baroque organ that dominates the rear of the nave. Everything seems to be in the midst of cleaning though, and they’re setting up for a performance of Haydn’s Te Deum that night, which we consider going to. If we’re not exhausted. Hah.
A quick bus ride puts us across the Aare on our way to the Rosengarten, or Rose Garden, which is in full bloom and filled with an orderly riot of pinks, reds and oranges. As promised the view of the city is spectacular from this side and I think that if I were a spy, I’d set up shop someplace over here and watch all the streets from the convenience and shade of the terrace.
For dinner we try to find Cave 49, the place under the sidewalk, and finally locate a bar in a cellar, although the proprietor tells us that it’s changed and is now just a bar – no food. I ask him for a recommendation for dinner though and he sends us to Restaurant du Webern up the street and we wander up that way.
It turns out to be a good recommendation – the food is not too expensive and we have a gazpacho, and share a “farmer’s dinner” which is composed of Rosti, and egg sunny side up, a slice of cheese and two thick slices of ham. I muse that it’s just like the breakfast at Denny’s except that the potato pancake is WAY better, the egg is real, the ham is fresh cured and the cheese is Tete de Moine. Otherwise it’s exactly the same.
I have a Gebrunntecreme for dessert which turns out to be a lovely caramel crème. A lot of it. In a big bowl.
We decide to skip the concert and instead walk around examining the fountains, some of which seem to have been removed from Kramgasse for the construction work that’s going on. But the one outside of the opera house on Kornhausplatz of an ogre eating small children is amusing enough for all of them.
Eating children. Hmmm, no thanks… I couldn’t have another bite….
The markets, which line various arcades along the streets and then spread into the Barenplatz and beyond, are wonderful, with gorgeous produce that positively glistens in the bright sunlight. I’m still recalling the sweet succulent cherry tomatoes I had with my Costoletto on our last night in Milan at the canals, and all these tomatoes have that same beautiful red color. The onions – apparently Bern has a famous Onion Festival every fall – are so shiny I think they’re winking at me, and then there’s cheeses.
Now, looking over the selections we’re confronted with in the Swiss market, I have to say we get a very fine choice of cheeses in San Francisco. In fact I think it’s amazing how much terrific stuff we get in San Francisco, but the cheeses here are definitely different. One woman gives us a taste of Vacherin de Jura (Swiss definitely) and we succumb and buy a hundred grams. I’m quite pleased actually to have conducted the entire transaction in a kind of pidgin German/French mix. And I think that I’m flattered that when I try to communicate in very poor German, most people immediately switch to French, not English. So maybe all along they’ve been thinking I’m a crazy French tourist.
We collect grapes, meat, nuts, and a challah-like zopfbolle of bread (transaction completed in French) and then swing by a supermarket to get some water and a local rose. We should be set for tomorrow.
On our way back to the hotel to drop things, we stop in the Einstein Haus, where I am jubilant to see that in the celebration of the hundredth anniversary of Einstein’s Annus Mirabilis (1905 was the year that he published five papers, four of them seminal, on topics ranging from electrodynamics to Brownian motion to the Special Theory of Relativity) his wife Mileva Maric’s contributions and sacrifices have not been forgotten. There is even a sympathetic note that calls her his intellectual equal, a woman who gave up her own academic career to work on the mathematics of relativity, only later to be trapped in housework and nappies.
The house is very small, and I try to imagine Mileva and the baby and Einstein smushed in here, but I do recall one or the other of them saying that their years on Kramgasse Street were the happiest of their lives. In pictures you can see Mileva go from a pretty young woman to a sad-faced almost resentful-looking hausfrau. For that matter, Einstein himself looks sadder and sadder as the years pass too, although it still steams me to see him sitting there amongst Lorentz and Dirac, Curie and Schroedinger and think that Mileva should have been there with him. As Anna Quindlen said, in his private life he was no Einstein.
In the afternoon, we search unsuccessfully for a little underground tapas place that was recommended in a guide book, but fail to find it and settle instead at a local bar, which serves late lunch. Then we wander into the Munster Cathedral, which, I must say, is very Gothic looking for a Protestant church. OF course the interior isn’t much decorated if you don’t count the highly Baroque organ that dominates the rear of the nave. Everything seems to be in the midst of cleaning though, and they’re setting up for a performance of Haydn’s Te Deum that night, which we consider going to. If we’re not exhausted. Hah.
A quick bus ride puts us across the Aare on our way to the Rosengarten, or Rose Garden, which is in full bloom and filled with an orderly riot of pinks, reds and oranges. As promised the view of the city is spectacular from this side and I think that if I were a spy, I’d set up shop someplace over here and watch all the streets from the convenience and shade of the terrace.
For dinner we try to find Cave 49, the place under the sidewalk, and finally locate a bar in a cellar, although the proprietor tells us that it’s changed and is now just a bar – no food. I ask him for a recommendation for dinner though and he sends us to Restaurant du Webern up the street and we wander up that way.
It turns out to be a good recommendation – the food is not too expensive and we have a gazpacho, and share a “farmer’s dinner” which is composed of Rosti, and egg sunny side up, a slice of cheese and two thick slices of ham. I muse that it’s just like the breakfast at Denny’s except that the potato pancake is WAY better, the egg is real, the ham is fresh cured and the cheese is Tete de Moine. Otherwise it’s exactly the same.
I have a Gebrunntecreme for dessert which turns out to be a lovely caramel crème. A lot of it. In a big bowl.
We decide to skip the concert and instead walk around examining the fountains, some of which seem to have been removed from Kramgasse for the construction work that’s going on. But the one outside of the opera house on Kornhausplatz of an ogre eating small children is amusing enough for all of them.
Eating children. Hmmm, no thanks… I couldn’t have another bite….
Monday, June 20, 2005
Bern: Smiley's City
Once in the train station in Bern, it seemed like countless businessmen and residents were rushing past us as we tried to find the tourism office, which I had read was on the street level. As it turned out, everything is remarkably well-labelled, although matters are definitely simpler if you read German. Then you don’t miss little details like “Express bus” or “for employees only.”
Still, we found the office where a very nice woman answered many random questions like, how much is the cable car ride to the top of the Schilthorn in the Alps, can we see Reichenbach Falls where Sherlock Holmes died, and where is a good place to get dinner? She also gave us a nice clear map of the city -- I learned from previous trips that you should never leave the train station or airport without obtaining a one. I can ask for a map and a bathroom in at least six languages.
She also directed us to the hotel via the public bus service, which is very quick and efficient, but could benefit from air conditioning. The Pension Martahaus, which I’d read as catering to a range of clients from backpackers to businessmen, turned out to be a lovely quiet little place in a more residential area. And indeed, we ran into a pair of backpackers and a businessman in the lobby as we checked in.
I had been worrying about whether or not it was convenient to the city, since it looked a little outside of the Old Town or Altstadt, on the maps. It turns out to be a moot point, though, since everything in Bern is pretty much walking distance. If we hadn’t been dragging fifty kilos of baggage, and totally not known which way to go, we could easily have walked from the train station to the hotel.
The one thing that maps don’t tell you, though – and this is true of maps in San Francisco too – is the elevation. That would be really helpful. Really helpful. After freshening up in the hotel, we decided to head into the Altstadt for dinner, and I took us along a road that seemed to make a nice path close to the botanical gardens and then across the Kornhausbrucke bridge. What it didn’t note is that it took you down all the way to the riverside, which was several hundred feet down, sweeping nicely past the foot of the bridge to a pedestrian bridge, from whence you had to climb all the way back up on the other side.
Still, it was a lovely, shady walk and we were amused, but also a little alarmed to see that city denizens apparently swim in the river on hot days – “swim” here, meaning “get carried by a pretty darned swift current around the bends in the river at a fairly good clip.”
When we got up the other bank though, we found we were next to the Stadttheater and in the heart of the town. Everything in this lovely little town is neat looking, even the graffiti – what little there is. Red geraniums are hanging out of window boxes everywhere you look and that grey stone of the houses looks as clean as if the place had been just built last year. But it’s all so nice, and quiet and charming that it’s hard to believe that this is the capital city of Switzerland.
The restaurant, called Harmonie, turned out to be quiet and pleasantly out of the way of too much street traffic. It serves Swiss specialties, which is what I had asked for from the tourist office agent. She looked at me as if I were nuts when I asked about fondue and said, “It’s a little too hot, I think, for fondue…” but then gave me the “Do as you wish, you crazy tourist, you” shrug and handed me the map.
I guess everyone thinks it’s a bizarre request in summer – why would you want a heated thing on your table – and when I order it, I have the distinct impression that the people at the next table keep turning around to see if the nutty American will spontaneously combust. Nevertheless, it’s yummy. They bring me a basket of bread and the booziest fondue I’ve ever had in my life. I’m happy.
For dessert I go with the summer specialties though, and submit to Suessmoschtcreme, a local dessert, I am led to believe, which looks like a vanilla crème but has been liberally laced with apple cider.
Rolling ourselves out of the restaurant, we walk about the old town a little, and see the Zytglogge and spot some of the fountains – all very brightly painted. Apparently Swiss German is a little like Dutch, in that I will never figure out how to properly pronounce anything. The word “Zytglogge” looked to me like “Ziteglogger” but when we get on the bus later and they say the name of the station, the manicured Swiss voice says something more like, “Zeet-clocker.” Well, a clocker it certainly is. With a little mini zodiac and all kinds of little figures, it’s less impressive than the one in Munich, but still a lot of fun.
Walking back across the river, my Dad calls up memories of “Smiley’s People” in which master spy Alec Guinness walks the bridge in Bern. With the Milanese yellow moon suspended next to the spire of the cathedral, I think, I could be a spy in this town, but I’d have to be a very relaxed spy.
Still, we found the office where a very nice woman answered many random questions like, how much is the cable car ride to the top of the Schilthorn in the Alps, can we see Reichenbach Falls where Sherlock Holmes died, and where is a good place to get dinner? She also gave us a nice clear map of the city -- I learned from previous trips that you should never leave the train station or airport without obtaining a one. I can ask for a map and a bathroom in at least six languages.
She also directed us to the hotel via the public bus service, which is very quick and efficient, but could benefit from air conditioning. The Pension Martahaus, which I’d read as catering to a range of clients from backpackers to businessmen, turned out to be a lovely quiet little place in a more residential area. And indeed, we ran into a pair of backpackers and a businessman in the lobby as we checked in.
I had been worrying about whether or not it was convenient to the city, since it looked a little outside of the Old Town or Altstadt, on the maps. It turns out to be a moot point, though, since everything in Bern is pretty much walking distance. If we hadn’t been dragging fifty kilos of baggage, and totally not known which way to go, we could easily have walked from the train station to the hotel.
The one thing that maps don’t tell you, though – and this is true of maps in San Francisco too – is the elevation. That would be really helpful. Really helpful. After freshening up in the hotel, we decided to head into the Altstadt for dinner, and I took us along a road that seemed to make a nice path close to the botanical gardens and then across the Kornhausbrucke bridge. What it didn’t note is that it took you down all the way to the riverside, which was several hundred feet down, sweeping nicely past the foot of the bridge to a pedestrian bridge, from whence you had to climb all the way back up on the other side.
Still, it was a lovely, shady walk and we were amused, but also a little alarmed to see that city denizens apparently swim in the river on hot days – “swim” here, meaning “get carried by a pretty darned swift current around the bends in the river at a fairly good clip.”
When we got up the other bank though, we found we were next to the Stadttheater and in the heart of the town. Everything in this lovely little town is neat looking, even the graffiti – what little there is. Red geraniums are hanging out of window boxes everywhere you look and that grey stone of the houses looks as clean as if the place had been just built last year. But it’s all so nice, and quiet and charming that it’s hard to believe that this is the capital city of Switzerland.
The restaurant, called Harmonie, turned out to be quiet and pleasantly out of the way of too much street traffic. It serves Swiss specialties, which is what I had asked for from the tourist office agent. She looked at me as if I were nuts when I asked about fondue and said, “It’s a little too hot, I think, for fondue…” but then gave me the “Do as you wish, you crazy tourist, you” shrug and handed me the map.
I guess everyone thinks it’s a bizarre request in summer – why would you want a heated thing on your table – and when I order it, I have the distinct impression that the people at the next table keep turning around to see if the nutty American will spontaneously combust. Nevertheless, it’s yummy. They bring me a basket of bread and the booziest fondue I’ve ever had in my life. I’m happy.
For dessert I go with the summer specialties though, and submit to Suessmoschtcreme, a local dessert, I am led to believe, which looks like a vanilla crème but has been liberally laced with apple cider.
Rolling ourselves out of the restaurant, we walk about the old town a little, and see the Zytglogge and spot some of the fountains – all very brightly painted. Apparently Swiss German is a little like Dutch, in that I will never figure out how to properly pronounce anything. The word “Zytglogge” looked to me like “Ziteglogger” but when we get on the bus later and they say the name of the station, the manicured Swiss voice says something more like, “Zeet-clocker.” Well, a clocker it certainly is. With a little mini zodiac and all kinds of little figures, it’s less impressive than the one in Munich, but still a lot of fun.
Walking back across the river, my Dad calls up memories of “Smiley’s People” in which master spy Alec Guinness walks the bridge in Bern. With the Milanese yellow moon suspended next to the spire of the cathedral, I think, I could be a spy in this town, but I’d have to be a very relaxed spy.
Milan and Bern: The Misty Mountains
We're trying so hard not to rush, but I just have to squeeze in a bit of time to see the Portniari chapel, so we take the metro back to the Navigli district (shuttered again as if nothing had happened last night...) and walk to Sant'Eustorgio again. It looks like it's not to be though as the chapel seems to be closed on mondays. As my Dad and I wander into the church though, we realize that the back doors under the crypt are open. Two women are busily tending the gardens and they've opened all the doors to the sacristy and the chapel, so we furtively sneak back there and get a peek at the brilliant colors of the Michelozzo fresco. Luck has really been with us this time.
I read belatedly that the Metro stop that we've been using near the hotel -- Loreto -- marks the square where Mussolini's body was strung up after he was killed. My Dad remembers the ghoulish nastiness of it, and I'm happy enough never to have seen it.
Helene asked about the train station in Milan -- I have to say, it is one of the largest but also most confusing stations Ive been in in Europe. For all it's gargantuan architecture, it's hot and bothersome, and we wandered around so disconsolately, we almost missed the train, which with Swiss efficiency pulled out of the station on the DOT.
Travelling in first class is new to me, and the whole air conditioning thing is much appreciated, but of course what was most fun was the gorgeous ride through the lake region and the mountains.
We passed Lake Maggiore which was an extraordinary color (the light of the sky all day was an extraordinary color too) and then moved into the mountains. I couldn't help but recall that I'd read J.R.R. Tolkien passed through the region and found the inspiration for Rivendell at the Lauterbrunnen valley. As I looked up and down these positively lush valleys with their streams and waterfalls and saw the gathering clouds over the Alps, I thought that his picture of most of Middle Earth must have come from this area.
Spectacular scenery flew by the windows and when a small crowd got off at Spienz on their way to Interlaken, I couldn't help but want to trail after them into the mountains. That we'll do on Wednesday though...
More to come on Bern soon...
I read belatedly that the Metro stop that we've been using near the hotel -- Loreto -- marks the square where Mussolini's body was strung up after he was killed. My Dad remembers the ghoulish nastiness of it, and I'm happy enough never to have seen it.
Helene asked about the train station in Milan -- I have to say, it is one of the largest but also most confusing stations Ive been in in Europe. For all it's gargantuan architecture, it's hot and bothersome, and we wandered around so disconsolately, we almost missed the train, which with Swiss efficiency pulled out of the station on the DOT.
Travelling in first class is new to me, and the whole air conditioning thing is much appreciated, but of course what was most fun was the gorgeous ride through the lake region and the mountains.
We passed Lake Maggiore which was an extraordinary color (the light of the sky all day was an extraordinary color too) and then moved into the mountains. I couldn't help but recall that I'd read J.R.R. Tolkien passed through the region and found the inspiration for Rivendell at the Lauterbrunnen valley. As I looked up and down these positively lush valleys with their streams and waterfalls and saw the gathering clouds over the Alps, I thought that his picture of most of Middle Earth must have come from this area.
Spectacular scenery flew by the windows and when a small crowd got off at Spienz on their way to Interlaken, I couldn't help but want to trail after them into the mountains. That we'll do on Wednesday though...
More to come on Bern soon...
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