Grindelwald

1. Morning Nose Stuck in  Computer

Not that you asked, but here's some advice about brain power and adding years to your life: as you age, it's crucial that you find the time to do the things you love to do. Even if you think you should give them up because, well, you're old(er). Adjust, as your abilities shift! But don't retreat, don't move away from exploring all that you love, however you may have to redefine it. Okay, that's a two line summary of an article I read (along with the comments to it) in the NYTimes today on aging and how to forestall cognitive decline. (I'm providing a gifted link here. If you read it, do go to the Readers Pick comments. They're illuminating and they challenge some of the article's conclusions.)

This is so obvious, right? Your first reaction may well be duh... tell me something I don't already know. And yet do we really live by this premise? Do we walk the walk? In fact, I'm not even sure if we talk the talk. This is the way I often speak about my trips: how many years of travel do I have left anyway? I foresee the end. And when I feel frail or vulnerable, I think of that end coming sooner rather than later. 

This, I think, is a mistake. The attitude of "can't do" is widespread in media sources, in the very fabric of our culture: look at all the things you can't do as a senior! When I come back from a packed travel day, I think -- "that was probably too much" rather than "wow, I could do all that! how awesome! let me do some more!" A commenter reminded us all of Chagall, who became infirm and could no longer paint. He adjusted and did art in other ways -- using scissors for cut-outs. Adjust, continue.

One little factoid from the article stood out for me: research indicates that at least 40% of dementia in our society is preventable.  Isn't it grand that perhaps doing things you love may keep you sharp just that much longer?

I read the above during breakfast at the Fleischerblick in Grindelwald, Switzerland. I have five days of hiking still before me here, and I'm working on shifting my perspective from "wow, that's the last time I'll be doing that" to "wow, that was awesome, let me do some more."

This is a refreshing focus for me: away from politics, onto hiking. But I have to admit it -- I started my meal with reading and talking about the news of the day. The staff here knows not to mention politics, especially to Americans, but I'm reading about how Europeans are being insulted and beaten up right now in the discourse of my country's leadership, and I find myself bringing this up just to make sure they know that we are horrified. That I am horrified. I invite their reaction. [Today, one person asked me -- why do you vote in this way where someone can win without having majority support? Most of my answers always come down to these words -- it's complicated. Why do so many people support what's going on in your country? It's complicated.  Why did they vote for him? It's complicated... I try to explain, but in fact, it is complicated.]

 

2. In a Fog

The morning began with fog sweeping into the valley. My windows would offer a panoramic view if only the clouds would lift. Currently, I can only see a few chalets up the nearby hill.

Breakfast at the hotel is lovely. They are just days away from closing for the season. The staff will get five weeks off starting in early April (and then again seven weeks off in November and part of December -- the second dead season in the Alps, so another closure for the hotel). There is just a scattering of guests. I see two couples from China. And I hear one pair speaking English.

I'm told that summer is even more hectic here than winter. People come from far and wide to ride the cog rail to "the top of Europe," to gaze at Alpine meadows and listen to the song of cowbells. (Summer brings more guests from around the world, winter brings more of the Swiss who are crazy about winter sports. On the weekends, the Swiss come up from the big cities to get away from it all.) 

I eat solidly, adding Grindelwald eggs and local Swiss cheeses to the usual.

 

 

3. 28 Chances to Understand the Mysteries of the Mountains

 

Here's how little I know about life in the mountains: I can't even guess where the mysteries are. What to expect, what to question. And I've spent quite a bit of time in them -- in Poland, in France, Italy. In the U.S. too, though not as much in the big ones. And in Switzerland. And still, I'm a babe here. An old babe, to be sure. Taking baby steps of discovery, every day I am here.

A very helpful hotel person gave me advice on where to hike today. The fog is lifting, but low lying clouds remain. They're constantly moving, and she tells me there's hope that some will burn away into nothing. Maybe she just wants to infuse me with optimism, I don't know. In any case, I'm leaving my umbrella at home.

The goal is to take a trail to the Hotel Wetterhorn. The hotel is at the end of the road that comes from Interlaken, although it's not entirely true that it is "the end" because in the summertime, a bus actually picks up a narrow single lane from there that goes even deeper into the mountains, climbing another few miles for those who live up there, or those who want to get closer to steeper hiking trails. My own trail zigzags through the hills and ends at that hotel. From the hotel, I can take any number of trails in any direction for a "there and back" kind of a hike.

Sounds good to me!

When I leave the village, the clouds are low enough that I don't really pay attention to the mountains. But as I keep going up, the clouds play with the rocky facade, revealing something to me, just a little here and there. And you'll see what I saw of the base of the highest mountains, never quite displaying for me, for you the entirety.

First, though, I look around at the structures that dot the landscape. Initially homes (this first one with emerging daffodils in the meadow), but very quickly it all changes: I walk a path that passes alongside farmsteads and barns. I smell it, I hear it. 

So, let's pause with the descriptions and look at my photo selection. Why so many from the hike? (I posted 28!) Well, because nothing stayed in place. Every time I looked up, I had a new perspective -- on the mountains just to my side, and of the Grindelwald valley below.

The mountains require patience and humility. Those who live here know it. Me -- I'm just learning.

 Okay, this view is very close to my hotel. It's still very cloudy.

 

And then I start smelling and hearing cows. I come across barns with proud signs announcing cheese. (I peak inside one barn.)

 

Next to one barn, there is a tiny shed with Alp and Kase banners slapped on it. Even after only a day here, I know what Kase is. 

 

 

 

I'm curious: I open the latched door and peak inside. A refrigerator! With (drum roll) local Swiss cheeses.

 

 

I pay attention to flowers, you know I do. I come across loads of crocuses. Most are still shut tight. But at least they're standing tall and ready for that burst of sunshine. [One thing I learn at dinner tonight is that in this corner of Grindelwald, there is no sunshine at all for two months out of the year. The Eiger peak (standing tall at about 4000 meters/over 13,000 feet) blocks it until about mid February.]

 

 

 

Primroses everywhere...

 

 

 

Glancing back toward Grindelwald, I see that the town is now obliterated by an intervening hill. But the mountains reveal themselves. A little. Here and there.

 

 

 

Cow stables. One after another. Gotta love that smell of cows, wintering over inside.

 

 

 

Now I look to my right: the wall of mountain. Take a photo, quick, before it disappears again.

 

 

 

Glance back to Grindelwald, take 2.

 

 

 

Look at that wooden hut. Then look up at that enormous wall of mountain. Right next to it.

 

 

 

This is what peak (sic) a boo looks like!

 

 

 

Back on the trail: as I go further up, the grass is that much less green. And yet, here's this one solo daffodil...

 

 

 

What draws your attention, the stream or the mountain?

 

 

 

Imagine living in that house...

 

 

 

Looking back toward Grindelwald, take 3: now there are two hills shielding the view...

 

 

 

The path takes me past a barn with many baa-ing noises inside. I pause. The farmer here gives me a nod. I ask -- do you speak English? Nein....  Yet somehow we come to an understanding. I want to see his sheep. He shows them to me. For milch? -- I ask. Nein.... Ah. Must be for meat.

 

 

 

He shows me his other sheep: English - American, he explains. (This would be the origin of the species I guess). Gross. Ah -- we are the source of the big sheep in this world. Too many sad double entendres there.

 

 

 

Schweizer! -- he says, pointing to the next pen. So, the Swiss gave us the black sheep....

 

 

Because I am enthusiastic, he beckons me to follow him to his yard where he keeps... two chickens. Seeking commonality of interests, I tell him we have six, then immediately regret it. Typical Americans,  always showing off that they have more...

 

 

 

Still, he smiles, finds two eggs, and offers to share his loot, passing me one of them. I explain that I cannot take it -- I'm staying in a hotel, but this is probably beyond our incomprehensible communication levels.

 

 

 

Such a warm guy. This is where he lives:

 

 

 

And across the path, there is another farmer. I can hear (and smell) that he has cows, but I don't disturb him. He's already double tasking: smoking a pipe and putting in a solar panel.

 

 

 

Look to the right -- more of the mountain is visible now...

 

 

 

Glance back to Grindelwald take 4: yet another hill blocking view of the town...

 

 

 

Whoa!....

 

 

 

Small hut, massive mountain...

 

 

  

Clouds, mountains, huts... I reach pivotal intersection. I turn back.

 

 

4. Time for Tea... or Beer

I'd come to the Hotel Wetterhorn, I'd climbed beyond it, and I turned back. Now, again at the Wetterhorn, I decide to take a pause. Inside, in the restaurant. For a cup of fruit tea. I can always count on the Swiss to have a nice fruit tea on the menu.

I sit to the side, watching the two (Swiss) couples finishing up a lunch. Was it good? Do they come her often? I've noticed that Swiss diners are on the quiet side of the spectrum. The French used to be very quiet too, but that ship has now sailed -- younger people eschew the reserve.

 

 

 

Here, I get lazy. The Grindelwald final bus stop is just in front of the hotel. The bus is free for all who live here or are staying at a Grindelwald hotel (we all get special passes for the area, not that the driver cares about seeing it). It just pulled up and is ready to head down the hill. 

I hop on.

Here's a surprise: at a further stop, these dudes get on with their wet and slushy snowboards. And they have open beers. And they drink them. That's a first one for me! (They speak a mix of British English and German and they clearly know the norms.)

 

 

 

5. Downtown

I stay on the bus until it gets to the commercial blocks of Grindelwald. Ironically, this is when I see some of the high peaks.  How different it all looks when the clouds are pushed back!

 

 

 (Grindelwald, downtown, in the daytime)

 

 

I stop at the only open bakery in town -- the Grindelwald Bakery. Later, I learn that they make an award winning sourdough bread -- winner of several national competitions. Right now, though, I'm hungry for a coffee and something sweet. I tell the salesperson to pick her favorite. She points to the hazelnut croissant. Hazelnuts are very popular here.

 

 

 

I walk up the hill back to the hotel. You'll know I'm almost there: I have before me that white church...

 

 

 

 6. Dinner at Home

When I booked my stay here, I had read about the restaurant that is part of the hotel. I was intrigued. It's a young team -- the chef is from a new generation of talented cooks -- and I knew that there is some unusual mixing and matching of flavors taking place in the kitchen, even as the food is mostly sourced locally, with an attention to our more modern understanding of what makes for a good meal. Of course I was going to try the place  -- I just let them decide which night would be my Fiescherblick night. They reserved a table for me for tonight.

The first thing I do is arrive late. I have dinner reservations for 8 pm each night and I forgot that for this place (which serves a tasting menu over an extended period of time) starts dinner earlier. They'd made a  7 pm booking for me. At a minute before 8, the waiter comes up to my room asking if I am... alright. Heavy blush here!

The dining room is on the quiet side. Half of the diners speak French, the other half German. I can tell, because when someone speaks, I can hear them. So enters the American. Late for dinner. Blushing and throwing out apologies. Loudly, by comparison.

I thought I'd do the 4 course tasting menu, but after my blunder, I decide to do the full 5 (you can do as many as 6 if you come with a larger group).

Not only do I have no regrets but I am, in fact in a stupor of amazement. The food here is out of this world excellent. I haven't worn my food focused hat for a while now, but the evening did spin me back to the days when I cooked delectably (especially when I cooked at L'Etoile in Madison) and took groups on food tours (before it was fashionable to do this; now, they're a dime a dozen, which gives you pause...). I thought tonight that the chef took me, took all of us to new levels of creativity. The so called salad dish? It's the only one I'll post a photo of here. This one:

It's stunning and delicious -- various lettuces, prepared in different ways, over a pumpkin puree and even as I write this, I am not doing it justice. Which is why I wont describe anything more. 

The chef came out to chat  with me for a few mins afterwards. I know that at least one of the brothers who own and run this hotel spent years in Zurich managing fine dining establishments, which explains why the meal works so seamlessly, why the staff know the foods so well, why they seem genuinely happy to give you each new and exciting dish. But of course the talent belongs to the young chef. He hails from Interlaken so you could say he is home grown. I hope he stays here and isn't lured to some establishments in New York or London. Wait a year or two and you'll seem the place get its Michelin star. Then come back and tell me how right I was!

Full, happy, and feeling so much better...

with love...

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...