to Grindelwald

His name is Dr. Schmidt, though I dont know the correct spelling of that. He speaks near perfect English and this morning I had a chance to reflect with him about the state of the American health care system. Well, and the state of America. His parting words? Spoken with total kindness -- I am so sorry for you. Really, so very sorry. I almost cried.

How did this come to pass? Well, a night light on sleep and high on ear pain told me that I should do something about this. My bug may be receding but it's leaving behind a hard stamp on my sinuses and ear. Reluctantly, at around 8 in the morning, I asked the hotel for a doctor recommendation. I best medicate before I run into hearing issues. The concierge asks the obvious -- do I want a doctor to come to the hotel for a visit? Because that can cost a bit of money. Several hundred Swiss francs. (I thought -- that's what we pay back home for any words exchanged with a doc, you're talkin to a citizen of the land of the most expensive medical care. Nothing can shock me!) 

I explained that I just need medicine for my ear. Ah, well that's different. You need to go to the pharmacy. It's open. Just up the block.

No no, that wont work. I probably need a doc's prescription for this one.

Well then talk to the pharmacy doctor. Here, I'll call him and tell him you're coming.

Five minutes later, I am at the pharmacy, talking to Dr. Schmidt. He listens. I talk about sinus pressure, pain in ear., antibiotics... He nods. It's not going to be an ear infection -- he tells me. You don't need antibiotics. You need a nasal spray and some herbal nonprescription pill for sinus congestion.

I trust Swiss docs. After all, my girls' pediatrician -- a beloved doc, like no other -- was a dual from Switzerland. And still, I ask -- are you sure? (I really said this! As if I wouldn't believe in the credentials of someone whose job it was to sit in the pharmacy and offer medical consultation.)

Listen, I'm happy to check it for you, but yes, I'm sure.

We go upstairs, he checks very thoroughly and nods his head. No infection. Just pressure. Your, how do you say it, tromellfell (ear drum) is bulging. Follow my recommendation and you'll be fine. Say hello to the people at the Storchen for me. (This is when the subject of health care in America came up. See above.)

Ten minutes later I am back at the hotel popping an herbal pill and going down for breakfast at the Storchen.

Did I pay for this service? I honestly do not know. I paid a small sum that could have been just for the meds he gave me, or it could have included something for the consultation. In any case, it was fast, inexpensive, efficient, professional. I think back to the hours I spent waiting to see just a nurse practitioner at urgent care back home. About the bad advice she gave me, the time wasted, the money spent (not my own, but ultimately yours, because your taxes pay for my Medicare). Here, I worried at night about having to reshuffle my travel today. Whether I would have to cancel my late morning train reservation and make a new one. But it wasn't serious worry, because I knew that even if I didn't address this issue in Zurich, I could just as easily seek out help in the Alpine town that is to be my home for the next 6 days. And I knew it would not break my budget.

Thank you, Dr. Schmidt. For your good advice and your sympathetic words.

Breakfast at the Storchen: my last one. And no, I didn't go light. 

(before they even brought out the omelet and the avocado)

Here's my reasoning: I'll be traveling. There wont be time for lunch. Whatever I eat now will have to hold me for twelve hours (dinner at 8 tonight). [The faulty thinking here is obvious: no way will I not find food between now and the evening.] 

At 10:20 I catch a cab to the train station.

Swiss trains had a stellar reputation even before train travel reached new heights of speed and efficiency in Europe in these past few decades. I have memories of this! Here's a vivid one:

It's 1972. I'd just arrived in New York, employed as an au pair, providing child care in exchange for college tuition at Barnard -- the alma mater of the matriarch of the family I worked for. I was 18 and had 2.5 years of university behind me. I needed two more to get my B.A. in New York.

Despite being new to college life, despite being a commuter (most kids at Barnard lived in campus housing and most did not work for their tuition), despite my job, I plunged into extra curriculars. I looked around for good clubs to join and was shocked to see that there was no ski club in the offerings. I got in touch with Columbia's ski club (Columbia was then the men's college across the street) and formed a plan: I'd organize a Barnard ski club and get members to sign up for a ski trip to the Alps. Michael, the Columbia ski club pres, assured me that if we had a sufficient number of skiers, our trip would be paid for.

Between his efforts at Columbia and mine at Barnard, we got the requisite minimum. I was thrilled. That's when he said -- the travel company will pay for only two free trips -- mine and my friend's -- he helps run the Columbia club. 

They screwed me big time, but I went on the trip anyway. They got a good price for the group and I got a second job working at the local bookstore to pay for it. We went to Zermatt, in Switzerland. Perhaps you know that Zermatt is traffic free -- you can only reach it by train. I will never forget that ride up to the resort. It was dark and we were tired and yet someone felt like singing. Crosby Still & Nash. Teach your children well:

You, who are on the road

Must have a code you try to live by

And so become yourself 

Because the past is just a goodbye...

 

I cried, big time. Those were years when I still clung to my Polish university friends. Somehow I was stuck (and I would be stuck here for a long long time) not knowing where I belonged. These American kids were of a different fabric. Not my fabric. And yet, here we were. Michael came into my room that evening to give me a massage. I had to laugh: such an American way to address a problem!

 

I would return again to Zermatt many times, but always approaching it from the Italian side. I liked the perpetual Italian sunshine. When I did ride the Swiss train again, it was with Ed, early into our relationship. We took an overnight from Amsterdam to Milan and I lost my passport on that train -- something I discovered much later, on an island in the middle of an Italian lake. That was the last time I stuffed things into pockets without zippers.

Let's spin forward, to this day: where am I going? To Grindelwald.

It's not a strange destination, not at all! Here's how I came to it: I wanted to take walks. Many walks. In the country. I needed a destination that would be easy to get to from a big city. I'd already canvassed the Savoie region of France, and Italy is not at all easy in terms of "reachability" and so the obvious candidate was Switzerland. I wanted to avoid the ritzy ski resorts. I stumbled upon Grindelwald somehow, probably from an extensive hotel search up and down the mountains of this country. I dont even remember if I chose the Hotel Feischerblick  because it was in Grindelwald, or of I chose Grindelwald because it had the Fiescherblick. Probably the latter!

I ride the train first to Interlaken (2 hours). 

(out my window)

There I change to the tiny local that takes me to Grindelwald (30 minutes). It's a quick change of trains (5 minutes) and requires a traipse below the tracks, but I get some help with my medium suitcase from a sympathetic young guy and I make it! 

(on the way up to the valley of Grindelwald: out my window)

 

So... what's so special about Grindelwald? 

Well, it's pretty, judging from the photos. Tall mountains line one side of the valley and somewhere in there you'll find Jungfrau (one of the largest in the Alps, at 13, 642ft/4158m). One reason people travel to Grindelwald is that from here you can take a gondola up to the Eiger Glacier and from there, the cog rail to the highest train station in Europe, with a platform at 3454m/11,332ft. I'm not sure I'm a candidate for it -- high elevations make my head spin, but still, it is an option. 

Grindelwald is small (population: 3800). And it's not just a ski place. I heard that Asian tourists will come here because it reminds them of Heidi (even as Heidi fictionally takes place elsewhere): green pastures, cow bells. That kind of thing.

And the Hotel Feischerblick? It's also small (19 rooms). Two brothers from a Grindelwald hotel family -- Matthias and Lars (their parents own the hotel across the driveway) took over an older building and renovated it, and it is their efforts, as pictured on the website, that drew me to the place. Call it Scandinavian modern! It's definitely a newer spin on the Alpine standard (which is lots of knotty pine furniture). I was curious to see it, at first for only a short visit, but as I corresponded with the exceptionally friendly and helpful staff, I extended my stay and so here I am, for nearly a full week.

Of course, there's the matter of the weather. Long walks in the rain? Not so good. I panicked when I saw the forecast for the week. Wet and cloudy, every day. But the brothers laughed off my worry. Weather in the mountains is unpredictable. Do not fret! Indeed, the forecast somewhat improved for at least two of the six days. Still, today is a wet-ish one. I call the hotel from the train, they come over to pick me up at the station. I have arrived.

 

 

 

My room is just perfect. Big windows, lots of them, making even a small space open up to the world. It has a desk. It has a chair. And it has lovely spring flowers!

I'm not ambitious today. I go downstairs for a coffee (with apple cake -- it's what they have, making me think that apple cake is the it food in Switzerland) 

I unpack and take stock. There is a pause in the drizzle. Now is the time to take a walk. I opt for one recommended by Andras, who works here (if ever there was a nature lover -- it's him). He outlines a possibility on a map. It has it all -- meadows, forests, a brook, a gorge, looping to downtown Grindelwald. Sounds good to me!

I take out my walking stick and set out.

The stick is a real asset. There's no such thing as a flat path in this valley. The mountains are immediate, hugging you from all sides.

 

 

 

I walk through the town's outskirts, past farms and cheese makers...

 

 (this one has got some awards going...)

 

 

... down to the brook, admiring the primrose blooms by the Swiss chalets that dot the landscape.

I'm supposed to follow the road for a long while. Yes, it's basically free of traffic, but I have this tickle in my legs as I spot a trail pointing up in the direction of a forest. Yes, that's what I want -- a walk in this dense green forest. 

And almost immediately I come across swaths of purple flowers -- they bear the unattractive name of Liverwort. It's somewhere between an Anemone and a purple Buttercup and it is beautiful.

And there's so much of it and it looks stunning against the green moss that spreads across the forest floor.

Down the hill I hear the goats and donkeys...

And in the forest, the birdsong is gorgeous --  I hear a Common Firecrest and a Song Thrush -- both distinctly European birds, loving the tall pines in the mountains once winter leaves their steep slopes.

It's a thrilling walk. 

Occasionally, I see glimpses of Grindelwald and my hotel -- easy to spot because it is right next to the very visible white church steeple.

 

 

Does the hike have a goal? This path becomes a straight uphill affair, so I dont have to worry about having the strength to get back (though there will be a modest climb to the hotel on the opposite side of the creek). But when does one decide to turn around? For me, there has to be a marker of some sort: I hiked all the way up to... what?

I find my turning point where the path intersects with the road again, this time as it comes to a dead end in front of a seemingly closed something or other  -- maybe a bar? An eatery? Hard to tell, but it looks old, especially the front building. 

There's a good view here toward the creek below and the Grindelwald valley. The mountains may be hidden under a cloud cover, but the valley stretches before me -- one big sprawl of chalets, farms, vacation homes. With its 3800 people, it's not nearly as big as Chamonix (population: 9000), but it's larger than tiny Saint Martin de Belleville (population: 2600). And unlike Saint Martin de Belleville it has that Jungfrau draw for tourists who often come here just for that. Andras nicely poo-pooed it for me ("it's a tourist trap! You ride up to the "top of Europe" and wow, there's a post office there and you can mail your postcard and then sit down and have a Wiener schnitzel.") so now I don't have to feel obligated to go!

I turn around, hike back and take a couple of hours to unwind.

My dinner is downtown today. I let them pick all the eateries for me here. The hotel brothers grew up in Grindelwald, they should know what's good.

I walk the 15 minutes to the less formal room of the Restaurant Kreuz & Post. This is actually my first real glimpse of Grindelwald, the town.

 

 

Everything is closed of course, and in this low season, I cant expect to see people out and about. I, of course, like the quiet. And I like that it's a modest place. No fancy stores charging a million (think: Zurich. St. Moritz, though I've never been. Think Geneva.)

At the restaurant, I order everything off the "seasonal spring menu." Home made rabbit terrine with rhubarb chutney. (Am I getting back at the rabbits that destroy my gardens back home?) Perch, sustainably sourced nearby, with spring carrots and monk's beard -- a Mediterranean vegetable I'd never heard of -- all that fish (and there was a lot!) placed over three huge home made gnocchi.

 

 

(Yes, I'm totally into a new mystery novel; I can't listen in on the dining room conversations -- with the exception of one table, I hear only German and I can tell the people are local, enjoying a meal out when the tourists have finally packed and gone home.)

For dessert, I ask for just HALF a slice of their plum tart.

 

 

It's when I hand over my credit card (obviously American -- they ring up differently), that the waitress (who is just a little younger than me) probes my background. She tells me -- when they made the reservation for you, I thought you were Croatian, I had no idea you'd be American. (My last name is my ex-husband's and his father was in fact Croatian. Europeans spot this instantly and always pronounce my name in the Croatian way -- it sounds like Camich.) Like the others, she tries to temper the awfulness of America's current state of affairs. But she also can't help herself. She tells me they all suspect these people on top right now, they have something wrong "upstairs." And the cruelty! And the environment! She asks -- why don't Americans care about the environment? To this I have no answer.

I walk home slowly. It's crisp outside: just a tad above freezing. As I approach the edge of the town (this is where my hotel is), I smell barn. I smell hay. I smell cows. Makes me think of home!

with so much love...