There
was a bright haze in the afternoon as I made my way to the Bodensee (Lake Constance). You could barely see the outlines of hills and
mountains. The brilliant fog over the water
made it hard on the eyes even to look upon the lake. It
was a blinding void.
Melawend
and I passed through Friedrichshafen, from where the famous Zeppelin airships were
deployed in the 1920’s and 1930’s. The
Dornier flying boats were built here. We
passed through the island town of Lindau at the east end of the lake. It had been a Roman military base. Now it was port and was guarded by an old
lighthouse and the Lion of Bavaria. Mozart
died in Lindau in 1791 while creating a requiem mass for the dead.
I
now realized that I could spend a year just zigzagging through Europe – that I would
have to leave a lot of Europe unseen. That
would include now Vienna, a city I associated with the world's finest classical music. Though hardly a lover of classical music, I enjoyed
some of it and was familiar with at least some of the strains of Brahms, Schubert, Haydn
and Beethoven – even if they were modified by the Beatles and utilized in slick
American commercials.
When
I thought of Austria, I thought of war and the "shot heard around the world" -
the assassination in Sarajevo of the heir to the Austrian throne and his wife by Serbian
nationalists. I more closely identified
Austria with Arnold Schwarzenegger. It was
easy to see why he was becoming a role model, combining strength of mind and character
with the promotion of physical fitness. And
there was truth in his philosophy of “No pain, no gain”, as I was discovering
through this journey (and that that pain, and gain, was also emotional and spiritual).
But
all I would see of Austria was the western tip as Melawend and I rounded the end of Lake
Constance. Austria for me was a buzz through
Bregenz, the capital of the province of Voralburg, at the base of the Pfänder. Bregenz had the world's largest marine stage and it
was popular on summer evenings. Melawend and I
made a short stop in a residential suburb of the industrial town of Dorbirn, spaciously
laid out at the base of the Bregenzerwald on the edge of the wide valley of the Rhine. I photographed a mountain backdrop, taken by some
apple trees in someone's side yard (the lawn needed mowing) beside a billboard that showed
a couple in winter wear.
At
the border between Austria and Liechtenstein, an old guard said I needed for a buy a
permit sticker to drive on the autobahn – for about $25.00. It was the price the Swiss had to pay to drive on
their highways for one year. It seemed unfair
for tourists who would use their roads for perhaps a few days or weeks.
"That's
okay," I said. "I'll be sticking to the side roads."
"All
is autobahn."
"No, I'll travel the small roads."
"This
is only place for ticket," he said. When
he saw he was not getting through to me, he just shook his head. Stupid
tourist.
Melawend and I
rolled into the pretty little principality of Liechtenstein, one of the richest countries
per person in the world. It was a tiny
landlocked country – only 62 square miles (160 sq km) – or about 90% the size of
Washington, DC. It was comprised of the Low
Country, which was a narrow strip of meadow-covered river valley, and the Upper Country to
the east, which contained western foothills of the Alps.
Liechtenstein's 28,000
people were governed by a democratically run constitutional monarchy. Liechtenstein
had a Customs and monetary union with its neighbour, Switzerland (the currency was Swiss
francs) and was also a well known corporate tax haven (some 25,000 corporations maintained
nominal headquarters here and foreigners constituted about 40% of the workforce).
But there was
neither an airport nor train station here. There
was no army here, no military service. The
country last went to war in 1866 when the German Confederation fell apart. The present dynasty had controlled the land since
1699, mostly from their estates in what was now Czechoslovakia. The country was now officially ruled by His Serene
Highness Prince Franz Josef II who was the first ruler to actually live in the castle that
was perched on the hip of a mountain high above the tiny capital. But his son, Prince Adam II, managed the day-to-day
operations.
(He would to
take over in 1989 when his father died after more than fifty years as Liechtenstein's
reigning sovereign.)
It was 5:00 p.m. by the time we rolled into Vaduz, an alpine town
of 5,000 people and the capital of Liechtenstein. It
was hard to see the possibility of any big city in the Alps where places were so tightly
walled in by steep mountains. Vaduz was
postcard-pretty and just as touristy. I had to
side-step Japanese tourists who were shooting pictures of each other near the Rathaus. Two one-way streets, Städtle and Äulestrasse,
diverged and then rejoined, enclosing the center of town.
There were walking trails along the ridge near the castle. There were campgrounds outside Vaduz.
I had a
penfriend in Vaduz. Here name was Ursula. I found her home on a quiet street of tightly
placed houses. She was sitting with her mother
and some other women on the high front porch. I
walked up the steep stairs. At first, she just
stared at me – I had surprised her. Her
friends left and we became acquainted. She
was much prettier than her pictures had indicated. She
was short with short blonde hair and iridescent blue eyes.
She had nice full figure and a smile that made her face wrinkle up into a pleasing
caricature – picture a shorter version of Liza Minelli with blond hair and smaller
eyes. Ursula had a spinal curvature that made
her walk with a slight sideward limp. She was
taking therapy for it. She could not walk for
a long time but she could ride her bicycle and go swimming.
I
was concerned that I had come without much notice. I
had written some time ago but I had not had her phone number to call her.
"That's
no problem," she said. She was not one to
register much emotion, not that I saw.
We
sat at her kitchen table and ate meats, pickles, lettuce, breads, and cheeses. It was after 6:00 p.m. and I said I had to find a
place to camp for free. She said no; she would
treat me to one night in a hotel.
"They
are very reasonable. I insist," she said. "No problem."
She
walked me over to the Hotel Löwen. Built in 1380, it was oldest inn in Liechtenstein. I felt awkward, ashamed really, about a
distant friend paying for my stay here. I had
not meant to impose.
It
was just another short walk into town. She
showed me roads that led up to the castle, she showed me the Rathaus, and the areas where
you could shop for souvenirs. She was a very
insistent girl and we ended up walking through much of Vaduz. I was concerned about her back problem but she
insisted that she was okay. We returned to her
house. Eureka, a girlfriend, picked her up to
go to her Spanish lessons. I went to my hotel
room and had a glorious shower.
I
was given room #9. Inside the door, which had
a hand-painted floral design, you saw two big antique wood single beds placed side by
side, big white fluffy comforters atop brown blankets and white sheets, a big matching
dresser and an Eastlake-style dresser on the other side of the room. Out
my dormer window, I looked out on the street below and to the right, the main drag of
Vaduz and the castle on the mountain just beyond it.
Ursula
returned with Eureka at 8:00 p.m. and the three of us went to a local nightspot that had
fake wood beams across the ceiling. Eureka
bought some local wine and Ursula bought gingerale. We
had dinner and then went to another nightclub and listened to a fairly good rock band. Eureka was more talkative than Ursula.
The
next day, I packed up and went to the Burgermeister's office and arranged an exchange
through one of the town administrators. Arthur
Konrad, the Burgermeister came out of his office. He
was in his early fifties, I guessed, and he had a sour preoccupied look. He signed the Odyssey Book and left.
I
toured the town and took photographs. From
just about every angle in town you could see the castle perched on the side of the
mountain. I got one particularly
representative composition of the castle through the arched stone entrance to one of the
country's cherished vineyards. Though the
country had only 43 acres of vineyards, Liechtensteiners produced about 100,000 liters
(26,000 UK gallons) of wine each year. They
were proud of their winemaking and nearly the entire harvest of grapes was vinified right
here in Liechtenstein.
I returned to
Ursula's where her father, a tall lean man who reminded me of Jacques Cousteau, invited me
in for lunch. We had a big meal of eggs,
croissant with and onion sauce, fish, cheeses, breads.
I returned to town and took more photographs. I
returned again to Ursula's and she was home. We
sat down to dinner with her father. Ursula's
mother prepared and served dinner, though she did not join us. Ursula and I talked on the front porch and played
with Dino, the family’s brown-haired, white-pawed puppy,. Ursula was wearing pink slacks and a bulky white
sweater and looked lovely. I wanted to take
photographs of Ursula and she posed in a shy, almost indifferent way.
Her
brother was about 19 and handsome like a male model but he had the same demeanor as the
Burgermeister. Maybe it was an off time for
him. Ursula had to leave for singing practice. She was part of a group of 30 women and 10 men. They were going to record an album of songs of 10
different parts of he world. They would do
"Down By the Riverside" to represent America.
I waited for an invitation to come with her.
(I should have
asked.)
When
she left, her father invited me to go for a walk. Like
many tall lean men, he was strong and quick in his stride.
I had difficulty keeping up with him. We
hiked up to the castle through a series of paths and roads.
We passed rich vineyards and the bold lines of the medieval Red House,
walking beside the vineyard that sloped up to it.
We
got along well, talking comfortably in sort of father-and-son-law way that I remembered
from being with the father of an old girlfriend. (No,
the girl wasn’t old – the relationship was.
It had changed but I had remained close friends with her and her parents.) As we got higher, there were views of the city
through the trees. Lights were coming on in
the dwindling daylight. I could see my dormer
window at the Hotel Löwen.
We
hiked up to the castle. It was a rather plain
stone building with small windows. I was sure
that it commanded a magnificent view from its lofty perch immediately above Vaduz. As we neared the castle, you could see Vaduz and
the narrow flat plain of the Rhine River. Across
the river was Switzerland. Earlier, I had seen
a few people hangliding, working the updrafts in this tranquil Alpine principality. I could see the vineyard-covered slope that led up
to the Red House, and I saw the street where Ursula lived.
We
walked along the lane that went close behind the castle.
There were lights on inside, but the rear windows small and you could not
distinguish much inside, only that it in the warm glow of the lights it looked homey. The walk in the mountain air was invigorating and
the views of Liechtenstein under the setting sun were superb. It was still hazy so the horizon was a big coral
sky with a dark jagged blue bite out of the bottom. It
was dark by the time we came down from the mountain and too late for me to leave and find
a place to camp.
"No,
I insist that you stay another night (in the Hotel Löwen),"
Ursula’s father said. "You have a
lot of courage to make this trip."
Again
I was embarrassed, but I accepted gratefully. As
we walked, he asked more questions about the journey.
"How
will you manage in places like Egypt?" he said. "Do
you worry about being robbed?"
We
went to the hotel sat and drank beer with the owner in a dark old room. The man and Ursula's father had a long conversation
in German. He plunked down 100 Swiss francs to
pay for my stay. I felt like shriveling up. We shook hands and I retired to my room. I felt awkward.
Ursula's letters had been infrequent and she had not heard from me in a
couple of months. I had the same room.
In
the morning, I had a breakfast at the Hotel Löwen: two large
rolls, six varieties of jams in little sealed plastic tubs, three pats of butter, two
wedges of Swiss cheese, and a pot of hot milk into which you put chocolate powder. It was enough for three cups. I also had two croissants.
(I had thought
croissants were a French invention. They
originated in Vienna, made by Viennese bakers to commemorate the 1653 liberation of the
city from the Turks. Bakers, being very early
risers, had heard the Turks tunneling beneath the city and had raised the alarm. The
croissant is in the shape of the crescent moon on the Turkish flag.)
As
I sipped my hot chocolate, I looked out the big picture window. Beyond and high above the hotel's vineyard I saw
the castle through the morning fog, looking like it was suspended in a cloud. I thought of how so many people had done so much
for me. For some reason, they had admired what
I was doing. I was beginning to feel a
responsibility to all those people who had helped me get here, and the feeling began to
empower me.
Soon
a wind came up and blew the haze away so that you could see the wonder of this mountainous
countryside. I went over to Ursula's and took
a few more photos. She did not talk much. Her arms stayed limp at her sides as I hugged her
goodbye. We shook hands. I mounted Melawend and left, feeling a bit uneasy.
The
winds that had swept away the morning haze now brought threatening clouds as I crossed the
border into Switzerland. I took the side
roads. We rode on to the little village of
Buchs on the Swiss border. Ernest and Pauline
Hemingway and their infant son "Bumby" had stopped in Buchs on the 20th
of December, 1924, to get a ticket for an electric train that would take them up the
Montafon Valley to Shruns. There, Ernest would
become jubilant, learning that In Our Time had
been accepted for publication. (It was his first commercially published book.) They would spend that winter in Schruns where
Hemingway played poker, pecked away at a sticky Corona typewriter, drank kirsch and grew a
heavy beard. The locals called him “The
Black Kirsch-drinking Christ”.
From the open valley just outside Buchs, the road went way up
past beautiful chalet-style homes. I thought
there must have been terrific views from their windows.
I stood on the road just above one home that looked into bright valley that
was filling with haze. All I could see was the
jagged, pale blue outline of nearby mountains.
Again I felt pressed for time – there was so much road ahead
of me. Melawend and I rolled through pretty
little alpine villages and towns right through to Watswill.
Things leveled out at Raperswill. Most homes had second-story balconies and
flower boxes that overflowed with geraniums.
Melawend
and I rolled down to the shore of beautiful Lake Lucerne and to the edge of the resort
city of the same name. Lucerne was at the west
end of Lake, at the end of a long narrow bay, on both sides of the Reuss River. It was a playground of the rich and famous. It hosted the International Festival of Music
(mid-August to mid-September) one of the most important classical music events in
Switzerland. Looking south of Lucerne, I saw
Mt. Pilatus (6,955 feet / 2120 meters). According
to legend, it was named for Pontius Pilate, whose spirit was thought to haunt its heights.
When
I got to Bern, the Canadian Embassy was not ready for me though they had had notice of my
coming. No matter. Marguerite Bellemare, the ambassador's secretary,
put through a call to the Mayor's office. As I
waited in the lobby, I saw a small color art rendition of Rick Hansen on his wheelchair. At this time, Rick was nearing the end of his
"Man in Motion World Tour" for spinal-cord research. While I was looking at this image of Rick, he was
on the east coast of Canada, just beginning his long and triumphant run across Canada to
Vancouver BC. I remembered being at my
mother’s home on Vancouver Island watching a newscast about Rick’s start out
back in March of 1985.
(In Bern, I
did not know that I would have a lateral encounter with Rick’s life when I reached
San Francisco.)
A
few minutes later I was standing in front of an elegant mansion, the 225-year-old former
home of a nobleman, now Bern’s city hall. At
an elaborate iron gate, Liselotte Berger, the burgermeister's secretary, a tall and
elegant woman in a ruffled gold blouse, greeted me. She
led me inside and talked of Bern as she gave me a tour of the mansion. I met Mayor Werner Bircher, a tall
executive-looking man who welcomed my journey and gave me souvenirs of Bern. I was permitted to take photos from his office
window – of the red tiled rooms of townhouses along the gravely Aare River to the
right, and the rear upper terrace of the home to left which overlooked a densely
landscaped rear yard, and more red tile rooms homes with those single dormers looking like
so many popping eyes. When Lisolette took me
out to the formal gardens, Mayor Bircher posed by waving from his office window.
I
had time enough in Bern for a photo of the 15th century gothic cathedral on
Junkerngasse, which had the highest spire in Switzerland (328 feet / 100 meters). From the tower it was said that you could see the
Bernese Alps with the reddish rooftops of Bern scattered below. It was Catholic until the Reformation at which
point many of the statues were thrown out, hence the empty recesses in the chancel.
I
headed south toward Vevey and stopped about 20 miles outside Bern at a farm that was owned
by the Schmutz family. A fortyish woman who
did not speak English greeted me at the door and nodded at the articles I showed her. She showed them to her husband who was working in a
barn and he said I was welcome to camp here. I
set up in thick grass within sight of the wooden barn and manure compost. I had downed three peanut butter sandwiches and
two-thirds of a tin of pineapple when one of the boys came out and nosed around my camp. He posed with a rake for me. Then Mrs. Schmutz came out carrying the youngest
boy and motioned for me to come in.
"Essen"
she said, pinching the fingers together and pointing them toward her mouth.
I
was welcomed into the kitchen where I was stuffed with two heaping plates of macaroni and
beef, salad, cookies, and three cups of coffee. (I
thought I was going to burst!) A
17-year-old student mechanic named Pires (pronounced "puse") came over on an
invitation to translate.
I
learned that Anni Schmutz and her husband had been married for twenty years. The boys names were Thomas, who was 11, Norbert,
who was seven and Philippe was three. Most of
the conversation was in German but in all I felt like a welcomed curiosity. I retired happily and heavily to my tent around
10:30.
At
frühstück (froo-shtook – breakfast) the
next morning, it was suggested that I would give a story to the popular paper, Blick, which looked like tabloid along the lines of
the National Enquirer and featured photos of nude women.
I
thanked my hosts, then Melawend I were away, southward bound under glorious sunshine. Switzerland was full of chalet-style homes. Some were new and huge and had expensive cars in
the driveways. The more rural ones were dark
and weathered and were surrounded by picket fences and small vegetable gardens. They often had tools and bicycles leaning against
them, and people doing laundry by hand or cutting firewood near side doors.
Melawend
and I stopped in the little village of Villivilard in time to photograph some cows as they
were being marched along the main road. They
were adorned with tin and bells that clanged from their necks and they walked. I looked up and saw a boy as he looked absently out
an upstairs window of a weathered chalet-style home. It
seemed to me that he was bored and was thinking seriously of distant places. The backdrop for Villivilard was a splendid
picture-perfect mountain range. It was in a
thin haze that gave the whole scene a matted look, with an idyllic Alpine mountain in the
center. It looked like the painted backdrop of
an old movie. Click.
At Fribourg,
Melawend and I stopped on a high bridge to photograph the city below. Truly it was picturesque with Sarine River cutting
through, a tall bridge with Roman arches high over it, the red-roofed town on green hills
along its banks, and the tower of St. Nicholas cathedral dominating all. This was a bilingual town with French occupying
much of the old town on the west bank and Germans on the east. Street signs were in German and French. This reminded me that Switzerland had four
languages – German (mostly Schwyzertütsch – Swiss German),
French, Italian and Romanish.
The
sky was hazy again as we wound along switchbacks down into Vevey. There were stunning sights of the city nestled on
the shore of Lake Geneva, far below the green vineyards through which we were travelling
(this was the capital of the Lavaux wine-growing region).
The steep blue misty mountains of the far shore lent a special
grandeur. In Vevey, an elaborate and exuberant
festival occurred every 25 years and I was 13 years shy of the next one (next was to be
held in 1999). The annual International Comedy
Film Festival had been in July. Several
museums provided most of the daily entertainment here.
The old streets east of Grande Place and the lakeside promenades were
supposed to have been worth exploring, but my primary geographical objective in
Switzerland was a natural one and it was still far away.
I had passing glimpses the beauty of Lake Geneva and the mountains beyond. This would have to be enough, for now.
As
I got closer to the lake, the haze was swept away by a strong wind. The sky became blue and sunny. In the distance I marveled at the flyer of a hang
glider working the Alpine updrafts, just as I had seen in Vaduz. I thought, How magnificent!
To be able to strap yourself to a huge kite and work the winds was the
closest thing yet to independent flight – the human attempt at being Jonathan
Livingston Seagull. I thought, I want to try that someday.
It
was the weekend. I wanted to work an exchange
through Geneva on Monday so I had time to go and see one of the quintessential images of
the Alps – The Matterhorn. I had reached
Vevey and found it large. Villaneauve looked
touristy, old and expensive.
Melawend
and I rolled through classy Montreaux, the “Centerpiece of the Swiss Rivera”. It had lakeside walks and glittery hotels. The town’s reputation grew in the 19th
century as many artists, musicians and writers discovered its beauty, including Lord Byron
and Mary Shelly (Frankenstein). Montreaux hosted annual jazz and music festivals. In 1971, the Casio Theatre caught fire during a
performance by American composer and rock musician Frank Zappa. From across the lake, the great pall of smoke that
rose from the fire had been watched by the band Deep Purple and it had inspired their
classic song “Smoke on the Water.”
It
was on to pretty Martigny through a widening flat valley between low mountains. The Romans
had loved it here, seizing it in 15 B.C. and building a 6,000-seat amphitheater. The ruins were still used for the Combat de Reines – the climax of a series of
cow-fights that were supposed to less distasteful than Spanish bullfighting, and less
bloody. But I would not see this as I barely
had time to take in a passing view of Martigny.
Vineyards
stretched across the valley and on up and over the mountaintops. You could see houses and
villages high up on those slopes and you wondered how you would get up there. We turned suddenly east at Montagny and rode up a
huge narrowing corridor of the Rhône Valley between the Valsian Mountains, reaching Sion
in their cusp. In the town, there were two
breast-shaped hills nippled with medieval fortifications.
On one hill there were the remains of Tourbillon Castle while the other bore
the fortress-like 12th century Basilique de Valére, which held the world's
oldest playable organ.
All
the way there were vineyards. At first they
were flat and wide then narrowed and began climbing in narrowing terraces up to sky-bound
homes that seemed to clung like eagles nests to clefts in the steep forested slopes. Beyond the cobbled streets and shuttered windows of
Visp, we entered the valley that led to Zermatt. We
had turned south and the land rose up sharply. And
it continued steeper still. I could feel
Melawend straining but she took on the Alps with amazing speed and grace. I was feeling a chill all the time we were heading
up as if into a tightening, twisting funnel. Now
the slopes were green and almost treeless. There
were little villages clinging to the narrowing valley, chalet homes interspersed in a
green hilly pockets between sheer granite sentinels. And
higher still where I saw old wooden cabins that I took as winter refuges for hikers and
skiers. And higher still.
Is there no
end to this climbing?
We
finally reached Nikalus. We were high in the
mountains but there was still no snow. I
pulled Melawend into a Polizei station but they were of no help for a place to camp. I asked about farms.
"Ach,
no farms," he said.
To hell with
it, I thought, I've got to find a place to camp.
Switzerland
was just too expensive. I saw numerous
guesthouses, white with dark wood trim. The
officer had informed me that I required a special permit to drive from Tasch to Zermatt. It cost 6 francs and I was down to 2.5 francs. I needed a Visa advance, badly. It was 6:30 and the sky was darkening.
I
kept going on up to Tasch and then backtracked and found a relatively big farm about 2
miles (3 km) down from Tasch. I turned up a
lane and headed toward a small cluster of farm buildings.
A man and a teenage girl were tending a cow in a small hay-strewn barn. He spoke only German.
I showed him the letter of reference Rainer had written for me in German. The man smiled.
The girl looked warmly at me out of the corner of her eyes.
"Ein
nicht for campin?" I said.
"Ya,
ya," he said.
He
motioned fo me to ride up a dirt lane toward a grove of evergreens next to a sheer rock
wall. This would be home for the night. I rewarded my tenacity with a filling meal: a
peanut butter and apricot jam sandwich and food Rainer had given me, including a can of
peas and a can of pop.
(I know, that combination sounds awful, but it was my
haute cuisine in the Swiss Alps.)
As
darkness fell, I listened to the wind whispering through the pine needles. In the distance, I could hear what sounded like a
church bell. I closed my eyes and remembered
scrambling over the shove ice along the shore of Lake Erie and falling through the ice
while training for the journey. I thought of
girls and most recently of a beautiful green-eyed blonde that I had seen walking in Tasch. For what seemed a long time, I thought of love and
of making love. There were so many lovely
girls in the world – and all I wanted was one.
Why am I so
alone?
I
packed up and reached Tasch by 8:30 the next morning, just in time to get my VISA advance
(phew!) and a ticket for the train up to
Zermatt. It cost only 3 francs more than the
permit to drive up the road. The grade was steep and the train vibrated several times as
it climbed slowly up between steep rock walls – I was glad Melawend was safe (I
hoped) in the parking lot in Tasch. On the
train, there were a lot of people of many races, chattering in different languages. To me they seemed like the mixed loose change of
different countries. You could put them into
the same pocket – like this train car – and they would mix but not loose their
identity.
Zermatt
was as I thought it would be: dark wooden hotels and shops festooned with flower boxes. There were skiers dressed in colorful designer
jackets trundling colorful ski boots and skis. And
of course, there were picture-snapping Japanese tourists.
There were outdoor cafés along the narrow streets were tourists dined,
chatted and looked around at other tourists, the buildings and the mountains. Zermatt was dotted with white guesthouses with dark
wood trim. It catered to the well-heeled
tourist.
I
walked through the town and passed the Klein Matterhorn Restaurant with its cliché
setting. But what I saw blew away any sense of
cliché. There it was standing alone, towering
so high above other peaks, resting by itself atop a long high ridge of green. You found your own description – images of
independent power: like an eagle's talon, like a rhino's horn, or like some rock-hard dick
with (as I saw later) ejaculate (clouds) spewing from the tip. Did its attraction hold some unspoken sexual
symbolism? Whatever. It was simply awesome in its solitary majesty.
It was also
one of the most recognizable images of Europe. At
14,688 feet (4477 meters), it was only half the height of Mt. Everest, but this lone
visage commanded attention. And it had drawn
many climbers since it was first ascended by Edward Whymper in 1865 (four
members of his party were killed in the descent). Apparently
it could be climbed in a matter of hours (definitely with the help of a guide for the
not-so-experienced climber).
At
40 francs (about US$28), it was too expensive for me to take the lift up a neighbouring
slope for a higher vantage point. It
would have been a waste today anyway. I saw
the top for just a few minutes as I was walking toward it on the edge of Zermatt. I
thought, It’s sunny. I have time. But a white cloud erupted from the top, spewing
away with the wind but always obscuring the peak. As
I got closer, searching for an image without people in it, the cloud grew thicker and
gradually enveloped the Matterhorn down toward its base.
The entire sky soon became overcast.
I
jumped down off a small ledge and found my natural image, but I was too late. It was all I could do to wrestle into my Hiker's
Haven sweatshirt and photograph myself against a mere wispy stub of this international
landmark, a dark forbidding unrecognizable image to give to my sponsor.
But
the Matterhorn was its moods too. It was a
wonder to behold the exquisite play of light from brilliant white to dark, smoky gray, and
that immense craggy talon clawing into the misty morass.
It was ethereal. I saw it as a
steep stairway to heaven, an Alpine version of the forbidden slopes of Mount Sinai. I knew that if I had been able to stay and capture
it properly, I would have seen the true living mountain, not just some blue-sky postcard
cliché.
By
one o'clock, the Matterhorn was completely enveloped in cloud. I felt as a tourist might feel in Crystal Beach,
having come for the sun and the beach only to come to it in a heavy rain. I'd love to
return, I thought. And then my thoughts
turned to Geneva, Paris, Spain and all the rest of the journey that lay ahead.
At
a more leisurely pace, I walked back toward the centre of Zermatt, past the babbling Visp
River as it tumbled over a rubbly bed and was finally channeled through the town. Zermatt was closely walled by the valley’s
steep green forested slopes that were near the treeline and you saw the barren grey-brown
summits above. Except for electric carts,
bicycles and horse-drawn wagons, Zermatt was free of vehicles. Coming into town, you went past narrow steep alleys
with dark timber bars and guesthouses. In the
center of town, looking forward from the Hotel Garni, you saw the cluster of shops, cafés
and hotels that were of dark wood or light finish and everywhere lined long rows of boxes
overflowing with red flowers along every floor level.
The
eyes were always led to the almost overpowering presence of mountains just beyond the
town, looking like the sides of sleeping giants. In
the company of many tourists mixed with locals, you walked along the narrow main street
next of outdoor cafés that were full of ruddy-face people. You sidestepped small,
sturdily built horse-drawn carriages that had shaggy white upholstery for passengers'
comfort. Ahead of me walked four Asian girls
who were decked out in colorful designer skiwear. As
I said, Zermatt catered to rich tourists. I
felt out of place.
As
I backtracked to Lac Leman, I felt I had touched a milestone in the journey, a pivotal
point that became a springboard for the journey to Geneva.
I had accomplished something just by taking Melawend up there and seeing
that natural wonder firsthand. Like so many
cliché's that I had seen already, I knew that I could no longer look complacently upon a
picture of the Matterhorn.
And
the confidence bestowed by this accomplishment carried me though big resort towns and
along narrow streets with narrow sidewalks in little French villages along the south shore
of the lake. It was pretty here, and the
feeling was rich and layback. I would see
motorcyclists and, just as everywhere, they would waves of passing. There had been an inspiring blend of excitement and
relaxation here, as in all I had seen of the Alps, and I was left feeling sanguine.
It
was getting dark when I reached the French / Swiss border, largely because dark clouds had
moved in. I entered France from Switzerland at
the east end of the lake with no problems. When
I went from France back into Switzerland at the west end, I was pulled over by a gendarme. He could have been Harrison Ford's twin brother,
dressed in an olive green uniform (making me think of a scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark). He wore that familiar Charles de Gaulle hat.
"Passport,"
he said. It was the only word he spoke.
I
could not find my passport. I gave him some of
my articles to look at as I wrestled with my packs trying to find the damned thing. I guess he saw that my intentions were honest
because he smiled and just waved me through. He
trusted me.
It
was beginning to drizzle when I reached the outskirts of Geneva. I had to find a place to camp. I stopped on a rough stone drive at one of the last
farms before the city. A father and his
adolescent son and daughter came out and stared at me.
I gestured camping. The father
pointed back the way I had come.
"Twelve
kilomet," he said.
I
could not get Melawend onto her center stand in the deep rubbly drive so I could gesture
more clearly that I hoped to camp in their field. In
my struggles, I felt embarrassed and thought they might look upon me as threatening, so I
just thanked them and drove off. I came upon a
police station and thought, What the hell… An officer came out.
He was closing up the station for the evening.
He did not speak any English but he glanced at my articles and understood my
contortions.
"Ah,"
he said. He pointed to a school just up the
road (so I thought), smiled, got in his car and drove away.
I
pulled into the schoolyard and set up under a tree near a basketball court just as it
started to rain. I scrambled into my soggy
tent, shivering but happy. I was also hungry,
but I was out of food because I had not stopped to buy any.
Still, I was sheltered. I
watched the shadows of trees slide across the walls of the tent as cars drove by on an
adjoining road. I felt my aloneness again and
thought of how many beautiful girls I had seen in this part of Europe. In the distance I heard the sound of European
sirens that reminded me of movies with Peters Sellers playing Inspector Clouseau.
In
the morning I heard roosters. Though still
dark, I saw the silhouette of a basketball net in the beginnings of a beautiful red dawn
over the mountains to the southeast. It was
already 6:50 a.m. and I realized the days were getting much shorter, and that children
would be coming here soon.
I
cleaned up in a dirty and depressing public washroom.
I pissed in the urinal that was just a painted block wall with a blackened
gutter along the floor. The place stunk.
I
did not know quite what I wanted to do in Geneva. I
had made no arrangements. I thought that
perhaps it would be enough to collect information on the UN and grab some photographs of
the buildings. I passed the Office du Tourisme
de Geneve and decided to stop in. I talked
with a very amiable man, Jean-Pierre Carrier, the office manager, who welcomed my letters
of exchange and called someone at La Suisse and
at La Tribune.
They were too busy at La Tribune
but I was able to meet a young reporter, Laurent Nagy, of La Suisse at a nearby café. He took a story and some photos and suggested for
me to "Take it easy".
Then
I thought, I'm on my own mission of peace, why not
make something out of my visit beyond a few tourist snap shots. What more significant place would I visit in my
whole journey?
(Looking back,
I feel that if I had taken myself more seriously, and had had more confidence in myself, I
would have better-prepared myself for this moment.)
It
seemed everyone knew what the United Nations' biggest building in New York City looked
like – a huge book that stood on end by the Manhattan waterfront. I had no idea what the UN in Geneva looked like. I found a building with lot of international flags
flapping about but it was the European Properties Building.
I
got my bearings, scooted up the Avenue de France and found the entrance to Ariana Park. The United Nations Organization at Geneva (UNOG) was based at the broad low Palais des Nations, which
was built in 1936 as the headquarters for the League of Nations. Melawend and I rolled up the long straight drive to
the UN and got
the security guard to call through to the Public Information Office. I talked over the guard's phone with the secretary
of the Director of Public Information.
"No,
no, you must go through proper channels to be admitted.
Go first to your embassy."
I
explained the nature of my journey and asked if I just might see a junior information
officer, just for a few minutes.
"No,
no. You must see Mr. Soloviev, himself,"
she said. "Come back at 3:30."
Himself? I thought. Just who is this Mr. Soloviev?
In
the meantime, I found the offices of Honda Switzerland where a lovely girl named Erika
loaded me up with Honda trinkets – stickers, hats, pens, lighters, badges – more
goodwill giveaways, but there was no spare tire, which is what I really needed. I bought a loaf of bread and pigged out on peanut
butter sandwiches as I had not eaten in over 24 hours.
I
returned to the UN, was given a visitor's badge and met this Mr. Soloviev – a big
friendly Russian with graying hair. He was the
director of the information section. He showed
me the information supply area. Anything to be
mailed would have to be sent out of New York, he explained.
I was loaded down with information that I would try to get our embassy to
send back to Fort Erie. There was no UN patch
available that I could sew onto the Odyssey Jacket.
Visiting
the UN in Geneva had been a fascinating experience for which I had been totally
unprepared.
(As I would be
told at the UN in New York: “Next time you want to do something like this (make such
a journey), give us a call.” Though I
would take that primarily as a personal credit for having come to the end of my journey
– that I had qualified myself as a peace promoter – I also took it as sound
advice for any purpose-oriented trip:
·
Set up a
detailed infrastructure for your journey. MAKE
CONTACTS and keep in touch with them. (They might forget that you are coming!)
In
all of Europe, in fact all the way through to Japan, Geneva was the only place where I saw
another Honda Elite 250cc motorscooter. I saw
four here. It was called the Spacey 250 in
Europe. The price of a tire was twice that in
North America.
I
left Geneva at 4:45. I was going to try to get
a campsite in Switzerland, but as soon as you left the city, you were in France. Just a few miles further on at Firney, you climbed,
up and up and up along innumerable switchbacks. As
my last sight of Switzerland, I was treated to superlative views of the distant mountains
and Geneva far below at the southeastern tip of Lac Leman.
Then we rode over a pass and down the road toward Paris.
I
thought, Ah, Paris – the City of Lights, the
city of love!
But
once again I was besieged by a prejudiced mind-set. I
felt as if I was going from the frying pan of Québec into the fire
of France. Not only that, but Paris itself was
under fire – by terrorists.
Chapter 19
PARIS
Beauty and the Bombs
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