Ain't No Mountain High Enough: Hiking in Italy and Switzerland
My brother and sister used to call me "Bookworm" as if that were an insult. I spent a lot of my childhood (and my grownup life, for that matter) with my face buried in a book. I especially loved historical fiction with spunky girl characters who lived outdoors much of the time on either the frontier (like Caddie the heroine of the marvelous Caddie Woodlawn, or Laura in the Little House on the Prairie series) or in the mountains (like my idol Heidi). They seemed to have more than their fair share of adventures involving either "wild Indians" or tempestuous weather.
I tell you all this because I realize now that reading gave me - just a girl with freckles from a small city called Trenton, N.J. - the chance to live a life of adventure and experience a vicarious thrill. And living in Amsterdam - so close to some rather amazing places - that girl from Trenton has had the chance to make good on the research she did all those years ago about living that adventurous life.
This photo was taken at the height of my bookworm era. I took a day off from my antics on the prairie to take part in School Picture Day at Princeton Day School.
So off we went to The Dolomites, or Dol-a-mee-tays as they are pronounced in Dutch. We were looking for a nearby place to hike for a few days, and the Dolomites fit the bill. First I had to figure out via a Google search where they actually were. I discovered they are in Italy, within spitting - or at least viewing distance - of the Austrian Alps. My inner Heidi was thrilled.
We decided to travel with a hiking company, since we planned the trip just weeks in advance. That meant a van was there to greet us when we arrived at the airport in Venice. I've always wanted to be one of those people greeted at the airport with a sign bearing her name. Now I could experience the thrill for myself. More importantly, that meant someone else would be negotiating the hairpin turns on the road for us. The three hour drive to the hotel took far longer than the barely hour-and-a-half flight from Amsterdam.
We were the only Americans staying at our little hotel. The hiking company was run by Brits, so it made sense that we were surrounded by British, Australian, Irish, and Scottish accents. At times, their accents proved as incomprehensible to me as Dutch, I might add. We were also bombarded by questions about Donald Trump, which relented only when we asked about Brexit. But this Heidi was there to hike, so I ignored the questions and concentrated on the main events: the spectacular mountains and the wildflowers.
Something about the position of the Dolomites in the area leads to unsettled weather, especially mid-day. During one hike, we were accosted by a storm so intense that I was brought back to my childhood days at sleep-away camp. I remembered the summer lightning storms we were sometimes caught out in that turned me into a sprinter. I was always the first one back to the bunk, pretending it was just because I liked to run fast, and not because I was almost literally scared to death. So when the storm interrupted our hike, I took off for the nearest refugio, the name for the series of hikers' huts that serve coffee, beer and wine, and plain but delicious food. While some of our group stayed put on the patio to watch the spectacular lightning show, I went inside with Rachel and waited it out. Perhaps I should have done some research before we arrived. I would have found out that intense lightning storms are common during the summer in the Dolomites, I also might have chickened out of going had I known. Here is yet another occasion where ignorance was, well, if not bliss, at least better than packing my anxiety along with my hiking boots. Better to do the research après-hike, from the safety of my home while writing this blog post.
I think this was taken right before the world came crashing down around us.
The hikes weren't all so anxiety-filled, but they were all spectacular. There were surprisingly few people on the trails, but when we did see people, they came in all ages, from children to seniors. There was an impressive public bus system to ferry you from your hotel to the trail heads, which meant fewer cars on the roads. We also saw quite a few dog-hikers. It seems as if even the dogs in Europe are more fit and active than their U.S. counterparts.
I wish I were in half-as-good shape as this Golden was. I also wish my teeth were half as white.
There's something about hiking that encourages you to talk, and it was nice to spend time catching up with Peter and Rachel. From Rachel, I heard stories about Nepal and Colgate that might not have spilled out had we just been sitting at our dining room table. So I was grateful to her for proposing a hiking holiday instead of a city visit to Stockholm or Berlin, our initial plans.
It turned out that we didn't even have time to miss the mountains. Two days after returning home to Amsterdam and flat soil, we were off again, this time to Switzerland. This trip had been on the books for months, and was another big adventure for us. We were breaking with tradition and heading off with three other couples. Four couples traveling together? So much opportunity for standing around and debating instead of doing, you might think. We certainly did. But we decided to give the group-travel idea a chance. After all, when in expat-land, do as the expats do, right? I had to revise my deep-seated fears of the group travel religion that so many expats seem to practice. For reasons I will now share with you, I am so glad I converted.
You might look at this photo and think, "They all look so happy!" My mom looked and wondered why I was the only one not protecting my skin with a hat.
The trip wouldn't have worked without someone in charge at the helm, shepherding us around. Too many cooks spoil the broth, or something like that. Since Darlene and Rob had lived in Switzerland for five years, they were the trip planners, and the lighthouses in the fog. Darlene would probably have preferred those metaphors to the one we chose: we called her "Mom" and peppered her with questions just as any other bratty kids would: "Are we there yet?" and "Can I get some ice cream?" It was funny to us each time we called Darlene "Mom". I'm not sure she saw it that way.
We took a lot of trains in Switzerland, and they lived up to their reputation. They departed on time almost each and every time. The one time a train left the station two minutes late, it was nearly cause for a national crisis. In addition to the trains living up to their Swiss reputation, so did the hotel rooms and public bathrooms: all immaculate.
This was just one of the many scenic views from the window of a train. Ordinarily, I love to either sleep or read when I'm on a train, but with views like this careening by, I couldn't enjoy either of those favorite train activities for long.
In a tribute to Swiss engineering, one of the trains we took - the Jungfrau Railway- sliced straight through a mountain, and then up and up to the top. It's Europe's highest-altitude train station. While on the train, we were informed that each day, a railway employee walks the 9.2 kilometers of tracks and checks to make sure they are in tip-top shape. Let's just say that mechanical failures like the ones New Jersey Transit passengers experience almost daily would not be welcome, unless you are a roller-coaster fan.
This train was resting before beginning its hike up the mountain.
The view from the top of the Jungfrau was spectacular. It looked like I imagine the moon might look, if it were covered in snow. We found it surprising that many of the tourists who joined us for the ride were Japanese and Arab. We wondered which guidebooks had touted the beauty of Switzerland to them. I don't think the Swiss are known for their acceptance of cultural differences. In this case, I think money talks, and if tourists come bearing cash, the Swiss are happy to welcome them.
In addition to traveling by train, we also used our own two feet. I got to stretch my Heidi legs on a few gorgeous hikes which were preceded by gondola rides up the mountain. For some reason, the older I get, the less I like dizzying heights, but since this was part of the tour "Mom" arranged, I took deep breaths and tried to enjoy the ride. I even looked down (sometimes).
You learn a lot about your friends when you travel together. For example, who knew that Seanette (in the far background, seated, next to one of her cow friends) loved cows and that her husband Richard, although initially afraid of them, turned into a bit of a cow whisperer himself? Deb and Marc, on the right, looked as appropriately skeptical of the new friendships as I, hiding behind my iPhone and at a safe distance away.
These cows had far better balance than I, and were often perched up on hillsides at impossible angles. The constant low-level din of their bells was the musical accompaniment to our hikes. So were our constant check-ins with each other over bum ankles and fear of heights, as in, "Everything O.K. back there, ______ ,?" [Names omitted to protect our fragile aging identities].
With all of that hiking, you need sustenance. Luckily, the Swiss were at the ready with endless combinations of cheese, potatoes, and cream. The entrées may have different names, and the ratios may change slightly, but that's basically the heart and soul of Swiss food. One lunch consisted of the obligatory potato-cheese delight, with a dotting of spinach, a rare sighting of an actual vegetable during our five day stay. Otherwise, a pickle on the side or a sprinkling of chives qualified as a vegetable serving. If it was good enough for Heidi, it was good enough for me. This was carbo-loading at its most dizzying, delicious heights.
Yes, I finished every last morsel.
Those chunks of apple in this Swiss confection? That's your fruit serving for the day.
Another way you can really get to know your friends is by bunking up with them. Since we are still good friends with our traveling companions, suffice it to say that some of them broke the sound barrier with their nocturnal sounds/snoring. The idea of sharing a hiking hut with each other proved far more enticing then the reality. Still I consoled my sleepy self the next day with the notion that I'm still open to adventure, even at my ripe old age.
I may be a "pillar of society" now, but I can still spend one night on a bunk bed like in the old days. Maybe I'm not so respectable after all? Perhaps the question is: how much suffering are you willing to put up with in order to have a good story to tell for years to come? I think the answer for me, without question, is...a lot!
From the scenic mountains, we made our way to the scenic city of Luzern. Some highlights included a boat ride around the lake, a walk around the Old City, a concert by some hipsters with some giant horns, and a dinner at the iconic Old Swiss House restaurant, where a brick of butter was used to prepare our wienerschnitzel table-side. For those of you who haven't yet been introduced to wiernerschnitzel, it's thinly pounded veal with a ton of bread crumbs that then does time in that butter. Swiss dining at its absolute buttered best.
Another highlight was a visit to the The Rosengart Collection, a small museum that houses the private collection owned by the late Siegfried Rosengart, and now his 86-year-old daughter. How often have you gone to a museum and skipped right over the film they want to show you? Who needs it? Lucky for us, we didn't skip it this time. The film gave us the history of the museum, including the fascinating story about a young girl, her art-adoring father, and their then young and relatively unknown artist friends like Chagall and Picasso. After watching the film, we wandered the wide and mostly empty galleries looking at the gorgeous paintings. I saw an older, aristocratic and beautiful woman who looked familiar. That's because it was Angela Rosengart herself. Had I skipped the film, I would have skipped right past her, too. Since I respected the museum's rules about no photography, I had to pull this one from Google. Here she is next to one of Picasso's paintings of her. Seeing her right there in the museum and chatting with her about how much we adored the museum was truly special. It ranked right up there with the time I saw Chubby Checker in concert when I was in college. At that point, Mr. Checker was well past his prime. Nonetheless, when my friend Pam and I found ourselves near his dressing room trailer and managed to invite ourselves in, I swear he pointed to his cheek and I planted a kiss there. Truth be told, (sadly) Pam can't confirm that story, so it may have been a figment of my imagination. Angela Rosengart, however, was not. We met Luzern's royalty that day, and what a treat it was.
Angela Rosengart remembers that her father said about the paintings, "We don't have a collection. We just have nice paintings." Very nice paintings, indeed.
From soup to nuts, "Mom" planned an amazing trip. This also included tickets to see the young jazz/R & B/soul singer-songwriter Corrine Bailey Rae in concert at the oddly-named Blue Balls Music Festival. This was truly a concert for folks our age. Just like the Swiss trains, the concert began strictly on time at 8 p.m. By 9:45, we were outside and on our way to get ice cream. What could be better? I remember when my parents started to notice that everyone was so very young: people running for office, doctors, our teachers. That time has arrived for me. Corrine Bailey Rae had a gorgeous big voice, and she looked like she was eighteen. She is actually 37. How did she get so wise already? I loved this song, Stop Where You Are, about appreciating the moment.
Wonder why you wish your life away
Waiting for the perfect boat to take
Waiting for the perfect wind to sail away
Life’s shining around you
Don’t miss a day
If you’re caught up in the chase
You hold your happiness away from you
Those words really resonate for me as I live here, trying my best to appreciate the time we have. For example, when the offer came to travel with other couples to Switzerland, we said yes. When would we get another chance to go? I'm so glad we did. In fact, the morning after we arrived home, I wandered downstairs for my coffee. I didn't see my travelling companions, and I have to admit, it felt lonely. Luckily, 30 minutes later, while out for a walk with Casey, I ran into Seanette, one of the Switzerland 8. We walked together and talked over the great trip that "Mom" had planned.
As I wrote earlier, there is something about hiking that opens up the lines of communication. You really get to know folks a lot better after spending a few days going up and down skinny paths in the mountains. I recently read a short piece written by an Indian author who lives in the U.S., Karan Mahajan, about how Americans deal mostly in small talk rather than developing the close relationships people from Eastern countries experience. He writes, "In the East, I’ve heard it said, there’s intimacy without friendship; in the West, there’s friendship without intimacy." Friendship without intimacy: how sad for us Americans. Maybe the sped-up friendships we have as expats put intimacy on the fast track, too. I hope so. It certainly seems that way.
I've always liked hiking, but just haven't done much of it since we had kids. I'm wondering if you enjoy it more as you get older because it can give you the illusion of being a reckless daredevil even if you are on a gentle incline. Apparently, just being outdoors is good for your brain. Too bad I didn't know that useful tidbit of information back when I used to pester my teachers in middle school to let us have class outdoors. Do I especially enjoy hiking now that we live below-sea-level, in a city where a slight rise up and over a canal qualifies as a mountain? All I know is that my inner Heidi was thrilled to be in these places with these people this summer.
