Tuesday, February 20, 2024

Hurry!

The morning was a flurry of packing, rounding up snow pants, and snipping tags off new mittens and helmets as we prepared for an overnight in Flumersberg. After a week of Connecticut-comparable weather in Zurich, we were heading to snowy mountains, fir trees, and alpine chalets to experience calendar-Switzerland. 

This trip required strategy as Lisa had enrolled Paul and Lexi in a weekly Sunday ski school, so we had the kids’ skis, poles, boots, and helmets to tote as well as our overnight bags. “And,” Lisa warned, her tone ominous, “we have to make several connections to get there.” 

Once all was ready, we waddled - fat in winter coats, dragging rolling bags, bristling with ski poles, and burdened with backpacks -  to the tram stop. As usual, Dave and I were grateful and apologetic for our duckling status, dependent as we were on Tucker and Lisa for directions and tickets. When the tram rounded the curve, Paul and Lexi took their positions at the exact spot where the back doors opened, scrambled inside, and nabbed their favorite seats by the back window. We were off!   

We arrived at the train station with enough time to buy lunch. The kids bee-lined for a booth selling warm, salty pretzel buns with a hole down the middle, just the right fit for a sausage or a generous portion of melted cheese. Delicious. We then located the correct track and sauntered its length before climbing on board. 

Swiss trains heading to Flumersberg expect skiers among their passengers and provide stands near the doors to store equipment. Having discovered how tricky it was to pry loose a ski pole that slid and stuck behind the overhead rack when initially placed with our bags on the shelf, we moved the kids’ gear to those stands. 

After we’d settled into our seats, Lisa commanded our attention. Like a general preparing her troops, she said, “When we arrive at our stop, we have to be ready. We have one minute to catch the bus.”

I know myself, and when making a connection, I want to avoid the wild-eyed anxiety of missing the next leg of my trip. I don’t mind an hour’s wait with plenty of time to read my book, stroll, or buy a snack. Naturally, I assumed one minute was an exaggeration.

Paul and Lexi bent their heads close over a video game while I gazed out at the landscape flying by. Rain streaked the window, artfully distorting glimpses of lakes, villages, and churches. Even so, I took pictures, hoping my iPhone would surprise me in freezing a few recognizable images. 



As we neared the station, Lisa gave the word, and we began to load up. ‘We have to move quickly,” she said. “I’m serious. We have one minute.” 

We shrugged on our coats and grabbed our bags from the racks and the ski equipment from the receptacles. The moment the train stopped and the doors slid open, we bolted. 

The bus was there, waiting on the far side of the tracks. “Hurry!” 

We ran! Grandparents and small children clumsy in boots and heavy coats, hurtling along the platform, backpacks bouncing, rolling bags clattering, skis and poles clanking! Down the stairs! Under the tracks! Up more stairs! “Hurry! Hurry!”

Everyone clambered onto the bus, the doors closed, and the bus took off. There was not a moment of grace, not a glance from the driver to check for people on the platform or passengers safely in seats. No! Time to go! Schedules to keep! Good heavens!  

Next, to the cable car. So many literally moving parts to this adventure, but this stretch, given all, was leisurely. The cable car was continually revolving for the next few hours, so we slipped into a general store to purchase a variety of chocolate snacks, then lugged our load up yet another flight of stairs. 

The cars swung around on a track, never stopping. The six of us gathered into a knot, tight as possible, so we could hustle onto the car as it slowed. Hurry! Skis and poles into the external holders! Shift over! Shift over! Everybody in! Is everybody in? Got the bags? Yes! Whew!

Relieved to have successfully reached the final leg of the trip, we slumped onto the hard bench seats as the car slid out of the station and rose over houses and expanses of green. Rain and fog enveloped us as we climbed. Gradually, up and ahead, we could see a distinct line where the temperature dropped and the rain… turned to snow. 


  

 

 

Wednesday, February 7, 2024

Shoeless in Lucerne

With full hearts, apps, and online planners, Lisa and Tucker strove to convince us that their move to Switzerland really does have a silver lining. Perhaps an overnight stay in a palace in Lucerne would be persuasive? Worth a try. 

After an easy one-hour train ride, we stowed our bags in a locker at the station and hopped a tram to the Museum of Transportation. Paul is a train enthusiast, and after two prior visits, this museum had become his favorite: a must-go, first-stop in Lucerne. For a time, Dave and I joined the kids in wandering among vintage steam engines and passenger cars, admiring massive cogs, beautiful wood paneling, and gleaming brass fittings. My father would have loved this place, but when Tucker said Paul and Lexi could spend hours there, I silently reflected that I, on the other hand, might prefer to do something else. My mind-reader of a son suggested that Dave and I take off and explore the historic sections of the city on our own for a few hours. Brilliant.

Absent apps and lacking comfort with public transportation, we opted to stroll the sidewalk that skirted Vierwaldstättersee, or Lake Lucerne.  Heavy gray skies stained the water pewter, and low-slung clouds swathed the snow-capped mountains on the far side of the lake. As we passed beneath the gnarled limbs of ink-black trees, I became aware of a strange scratching sound that seemed to follow us. 


I turned to survey the scene behind me. Swans sailing along or butt up in the water. Boats shrouded and anchored for winter.  Skeletal branches clawing the sky. Nothing to explain the odd noise. We continued on… and so did the sound, only it had morphed into a thwapping drumbeat.  

What the…?   

At some point, I thought to check my boot  –  formerly, Mom’s boot. 

Packing for the trip to Zurich had required strategy. We needed to bring warm clothes, Christmas presents, and twelve boxes of Annie’s Mac N’ Cheese, beloved by the grandkids and unavailable in Switzerland. Shoes had presented a particular challenge. We knew one of the activities Tucker and Lisa had envisioned entailed an afternoon of sledding during an overnight in the mountains, so winter boots were a must. Given their bulk, they wouldn’t fit in our suitcases, so we’d be wearing those boots on the plane. I love my Lands End snow boots, but not on my feet while wedged in economy seating for eight hours.

Mom passed in 2018, and I had inherited her tall, black, fleece-lined, water-resistant boots. They were good-looking enough for evenings in Zurich, would suffice in snow, and were slim and comfortable enough for the plane ride. Thank you, Mom.

Who knows how old they were, or how often Mom had worn them? They looked to be in perfect condition, but, on this day, with hours of walking ahead, the sole of one boot had detached from the heel.  Earlier, Lisa had mentioned that she thought stores were closed today due to the holidays. Great.

As I clopped along, I wondered if we might find an open hardware store where we could buy twine to bind the sole to the shoe? Or maybe, the front desk of one of these grand, lakeside hotels would have some Gorilla Glue?

Eventually, the sole fell off, the clopping sound now replaced by a satisfying metallic click, like that of a tap shoe. So, we sang “Singin’ in the Rain” as I added a few jaunty dance moves to my lop-sided gait.

Seriously though, what to do? These were the only shoes I ‘d brought to Lucerne, and we were having a special dinner at Château Gütsch, the palace, that night. Already I felt self-conscious and literally out of step as passersby swept along in their chic overcoats and snappy, intact shoes. 

Ultimately, we crossed a bridge and entered an alley we hoped would take us to the historic center of the city, the covered pedestrian bridge, the lion monument… and glue, twine, or shoes.   

A winding cobblestone street led past an ornately painted building, its fairytale façade aswirl in golden vines, urns, and a faux balcony from which gazed portraits of a young family. Across the alley, an elaborate sign in forest green and gold depicted a rampant lion and the dates 1334-1937. Mere steps from these ancient beauties, we spotted a shop window announcing a “Schuhmacher.” We don’t speak German, but there was no mistaking the meaning, the array of soles so cruelly within reach… nor the dark interior of a store clearly closed. 


Discouraged, we tapped on, but were soon enchanted by fountains and squares encircled by gabled buildings magical in color and design, all telling stories if we’d known how to read them. Still distracted by my Cinderella-esque, missing-shoe situation, I wondered what the denouement of my tale would be. 


As the afternoon wore on, lights shown amber from restaurants and cafès and - behold! – in rounding a corner, we spotted a department store. And it was open! 

I tap-limped inside and located the shoe department only to find rack upon rack of sneakers. I found a salesperson, gestured toward my foot, and sheepishly waved the orphan sole. She smiled encouragement and directed us to a store a block away. “Easy! And they’re having a sale!” she said. 

Now, with a springy step to my tapping, I strode ahead of Dave to Dosenbach with its bountiful selection of shoes. In noticing my plight, another customer laughed and said, “The same thing happened to me in New York!” And there it is: while world events would have us think otherwise, kindness and common experience grace so many chance encounters.

Once I’d settled on not one, but two new pairs, a saleswoman scooped up Mom’s boots and said, “Should I dispose of them?” 

Why would I lug those traitors around?  I was done with them and waved them away without a thought.

Until later. That night as I lay awake, I thought about the ease of repair and the connection to Mom, and wished I’d not been so hasty. 

                       *                                 *                                 *

Comfortably shod and gleeful having successfully navigated our way back to the station after our solo excursion, Dave and I met up with the kids and retrieved our bags from the locker. We boarded a tram, and Lisa checked her phone for the location of the cable car up to our palace.

Lisa’s parents have lived in Germany for years and with that, and a number of trips to Switzerland prior to their move, Paul and Lexi have evolved from the screaming babies on the plane that everyone dreads to the seasoned travelers they are now. When we descended from the tram and ran to the cable car, the kids cheerfully trotted to keep up, the backpacks carrying stuffed animals, pillows, and books bobbing on their backs.

We squeezed into the tiny cable car and ascended via an ever-so-steep track to the gleaming white turrets and spires of Château Gütsch. Enthroned high above Lucerne, the hotel welcomed us with heraldic lions, winged angels, and banners flying. 

What would be the décor of a 19th century palace? I had pictured ponderous rough-hewn doors and wrought-iron torches, and there were a few, tokens perhaps from the earliest structure, but overall, the interior was bright, sleek, and elegant.  As we waited to check in at the reception desk, Lexi twirled with the excitement we all felt, and I wondered who had thought it wise to place a large porcelain vase on a delicate pedestal table so close by. Blessedly, there were no mishaps before we received our keys and headed through a ballroom, outside along a balcony overlooking a courtyard and the city below, back inside, down a hall, and into our rooms. 

Paul would be sleeping with Dave and me, and his cot was made up at the bottom of a twisting wooden stairway to our bedroom loft. After he freed Winnie the Pooh from his backpack and set him on his pillow, he scampered up to check things out and noted, as the stairs creaked with every step, “It sounds like your house!”   

After we settled in, it was time to dress for dinner. New shoes or not, I was pretty sure my black sweater and herringbone slacks would be inadequate in such a setting. But so it would be. As it happened, there was only one other party in the spacious dining room when we were seated, and they did not seem bothered by what I was wearing. 

With an eye to creating a garden ambience, the room was pale green, rose, and white lighted by ornate chandeliers - bouquets, really -  of crystal flowers in pastel hues. Airy as it was, the room might have seemed cold but for a blazing fire in the massive fireplace. That proved irresistible, and Dave took the kids over to snuggle in front of that warmth for some stories while we waited for dinner to be served.

In the interim, a large group entered the dining room. They were in great spirits, happy to be together and relishing, as we were, the treat of staying at Château Gütsch. And they were comfortably at ease in their well-worn sweatshirts, jeans, and sneakers. 

Why had I worried? Times have changed. Mom is no longer looking me over and asking, “are you really going to wear that?” but old lessons die hard.  

And I wish I’d not discarded her boots.