Wet, Cold, and Exhilarated

Before we left for Europe, I’d checked the weather in England and was dismayed to see reports of rain for pretty much every day we’d be there. Sigh. Dave and I both needed new raincoats. I have my mother-in-law’s old yellow slicker, but I wanted something vaguely chic, and Dave turned to Amazon to purchase a padded black jacket that would serve for rain as well as cold. A practical choice since Lisa had told us to pack hats, gloves, and warm coats for our excursion up to the Jungfrau where it would be bitter cold. Continuing my tradition of wearing inherited clothes, I was content to bring my mother’s long, black parka for that jaunt.  

Truth is, in the flurry of last-minute preparations and election activities and worries, I was content to hand over all Swiss plans to Lisa and Tucker. I wasn’t even sure what the Jungfrau was, and never got around to Googling it. So, we’d done as Lisa asked, but from the warm days of September to the mild weather we encountered throughout our trip, it was hard to imagine needing the winter clothes tucked in the bottom of our suitcases. 

Our lovely trail walk of paragliders and rainbows ended at the bus stop for the Trummelbachfalle, a series of waterfalls inside the mountain open to visitors by way of an elevator, tunnels, and stairs. We couldn’t miss that, but it would have to wait; hunger and the allure of creamy cheese fondue and crusty bread demanded return to the village. 

The next day was overcast and drizzly, the perfect maiden voyage for our new raincoats. We took a local bus back to the Trummelbachfalle, bought tickets, and opted for the elevator for the first leg of the climb. 

Raincoats. It was a good thing we’d worn them. Ten waterfalls draining from the glaciers of the Eiger thundered past us, over 5,000 gallons per second, in a wild rush to the river below, dousing us as we clung to iron railings and navigated the steep, wet stairs cut into the rock. 

In Europe, I am ever amazed by the trust placed in travelers. Yes, there are signs urging caution and consideration of others. And yes, there was that iron railing to keep us from plummeting into the falls, but basically, our safety was left to our good judgment. 

Tucker, Lisa, Lexi, and Paul wore yellow, magenta, pink and royal blue raincoats, vivid in the dim light of the tunnels or while snaking between the cliff and surging water. They were game for the adventure, but it tested my heart to watch those butterfly-bright colors inching between unyielding rock and the water’s force. 

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What’s with these birds? We are atop the Jungfrau, at 13,642 feet, the highest train station in Europe.  It is frostbite-cold, and we are buffeted by wind, slipping on icy snow, and surrounded by gleeful tourists throwing snowballs. There’s not a tree to harbor grubs, shrubs to shelter creatures, nor carcasses to scavenge. What do these birds eat? Where do they sleep? What draws them to this freezing, barren height? 

We are drawn by stunning views, the prospect of visiting an ice palace, and the joy of accompanying our kids on another adventure.  

First surmounted in 1811 and now accessible by a delightful ride on a train the color of Christmas, “Jungfrau” means  young woman or virgin.

I don’t get the connection. There is no blush of the rose, no wisp of springtime green up here, that’s for sure. All is glacial white, or that icy blue that colors the river and waterfalls below. In fact, beyond the crags, glaciers, and this snowy plateau, I glimpse a distant blue sea. Or is it sky?

While I am mincing about like the ancient being I am to make sure I don’t fall, Paul and Lexi are enjoying the ice, sliding and skidding for fun. And that is the vibe. Bundled against the cold but giddy, people are posing, flinging loose snow, packing it into projectiles, and laughing aloud.

Our stay outside is not long, however; the cold is cruel, and there are only so many times I can whip off my gloves to snap pictures of the scene, the kids, and those birds before the ache in my fingers begs me leave.   

We head inside the Jungfraujoch complex to  zip down the corridors and past the ice sculptures of the Ice Palace, take a just-in-case trip to the restroom, and board the train for the two-hour ride back to Lauterbrunnen. We have a dinner reservation at 6:00 and cheese fondue awaits. 

Throughout our trip, from the Churchill War Rooms, to the many-times conquered village of Rothenberg ob der Tauber, to the icy reaches of the Jungfrau, I have pondered the forces of man and nature, and the changes they have wrought. Sometimes over eons, as water erodes valleys and cuts through rock, or, over a matter of a few generations as brutal lessons are forgotten and once again, human animosity, conquest, and power-hunger have felled civilizations. With the upheaval that undoubtedly lies ahead for America after this election, it has been a blessing to immerse ourselves in these glorious settings, the lives of our children, and the still-innocent world of our grandkids.   

 

 

  

Turning Six

“It’s so beautiful, it looks fake,” my daughter Casey texts back every time I send her pictures. Harsh as that sounds, it’s true. I’m here, walking in a valley through green meadows bordered by mountains  beribboned with tumbling waterfalls, and it’s hard to believe it’s real.

Dave and I are in Switzerland visiting my son Tucker, his wife, Lisa, and our grandkids, Paul and Lexi. Lexi is tireless, and she scampers down the trail ahead of me and Lisa, the bell on her purple backpack jingling in concert with the hollow toll of the bells slung round the necks of the cows and goats grazing in the grass as we stroll by. Propelled by the glaciers melting milky blue ice into its waters, the river rushes alongside.  

Lexi races back to us, her eyes wide behind her pink glasses. She dances with excitement and points skyward. “Look! Look up!

A paraglider has taken off from the cliff above and sails ever lower, a white vision dipping and angling across the trail before us and then dropping neatly into the field to our left. I have snapped, snapped, snapped a series of pictures of his descent, yet another “whoa!” moment in this setting that is magical even without the appearance of a winged human landing nearby. 

But where are the boys? We turn and shield our eyes against the sun hoping to spot them, but Dave, Tucker, and eight-year-old Paul have lingered behind and are still out of sight. What could they possibly be doing?

When we visited the kids in Zurich last January, we were surprised to find the weather so much like Connecticut. It was gray, drizzly, and mild, not calendar Switzerland in the least. “I told you to come in October,” Tucker had groused. He wanted so much for us to see why they loved their new home, but “We are here to be with you,” I would say. “I don’t care about the weather.”

And that was totally true, but Tucker was also right. October in Lauterbrunnen is an artful symphony of spilling water, clanging bells, skipping lambs, and verdant green against the white of snowy mountains. Rustic sheds dot the hillsides, and red geraniums bloom brilliant against the wooden shutters of alpine homes. Months ago, I saw a picture of Tucker and family taken on a path above this village and told him, I want to go there! So, dear souls, they arranged this get-away during our visit. 

Lisa, Lexi, and I skirt the meadow where the paraglider landed and cross a wooden bridge, scanning the trail behind us for signs of the men. “Look!” Lisa says. “A rainbow!” 

Flying humans, contented cows, and now a rainbow? Seriously? Yes. Where the sun graces the mist of one of the waterfalls, a rainbow arches from cliffside to the trail. And there, running toward us, is Paul, with Tucker and Dave in his wake.

“Did you see…. (where to begin?) the paraglider! The rainbow! The cows! The goats!” We greet them with a barrage of all that has amazed us. Yes, they have, and like me, stopped to take innumerable pictures trying to freeze them. 

This has been my challenge since my kids were born. Trying to freeze their precious baby faces, their toddler missteps, their proud accomplishments. Trying to pay attention and take nothing for granted. Trying to do the impossible: slow time. So, I take many pictures, ironically sacrificing the moment in the very act of striving to preserve it. But with Tucker and family now living overseas, imprinting the time together is that much more important. 

When my grandkids were even younger, I’d wonder after a memorable day of picking apples at a local farm, hiking in our woods, or playing in a fort made of a blanket stretched over a quilt rack, Will they remember this? Probably not, but I hoped the feeling would stick. Maybe the feeling of fun and being so deeply loved by their grandparents would last. Shamelessly, I work to cement that. 

“Do you know you’re the best boy in the world?” I’ll say to Paul. 

“Yes!” he hoots.

“How do you know?” I ask.

“Because you’ve told me about a million times!” By then I have him in a smothering hug, so his words are a giggly growl. 

Back on the trail, Lexi dashes off to meet her brother and wraps him in her arms. Today is her 6^th birthday, and to Lexi, everything about this day – the rainbow, the paraglider, the music of the bells, our visit – is all for her.  And perhaps, it is. The Universe generous in celebrating this little girl.  

“Where have you been, Paul?” 

“We played ba-loop for a while, throwing rocks into the river. Stopped to see the cows. Did you see the cat at the house with the big garden out front?” 

Yes, we did. “And we got pear chips there!” crows Lexi, with just a hint of “and you didn’t!” in her tone. She is a good sharer, though, and offers Paul a piece. 

That had been yet another fascinating surprise, to come across a vending machine offering raclette cheese, bread, chocolate, and pear chips housed in a charming alpine hut adjacent to a house with an abundant garden. Pear chips can only go so far in staving off hunger and the grouchiness that can go with it, so we head back to the village for lunch and then to the gondola cableway for our afternoon trip to Murren.

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Once we clamber aboard, the gondola lifts us up the steep slope of the mountain. We climb past trees tinged orange and gold, up the white face of the cliff, up until the village is a storybook stage set far below. At Grutschalp, we transfer to a train for the final leg to Murren. Tucker hands Lexi his 360 camera mounted on a long pole. “You are six now, old enough to hold the camera.” Personally, I think he’s brave to hand it over, but Lexi’s proud smile is a gift as Tucker opens the window and extends the pole outside.

To begin with, I’m surprised that passengers are free to open the windows, but more surprising still is when I spot the train’s driver leaning back in his seat, arms stretched luxuriously behind his head. Yes, he is going “no hands” as our train carries us ever higher. He knows his vehicle, though, and we arrive unscathed in Murren. 

The summer tourists have largely departed, and the village is in the throes of build and repair. While there are few private cars, work crews are busy. Trucks shuttle loads of lumber; earth movers shovel dirt; and metal clangs against metal. Still, the town is a collage of color. Window boxes blaze with purple petunias and red geraniums, vibrant against shutters of natural wood or green. Clouds shift across the face of the mountains, and visible far below, we see the waterfalls, village, and snaking path of the river. 

The kids are troopers; scanning scenic vistas is not their favorite thing. But there are tree stumps to climb, a cat to coo over, a grandfather willing to give shoulder rides, and pear chips to nibble.

Across the valley, we see signs of a rockslide, and we’ve heard that the glaciers that feed the river and waterfalls are shrinking. I have allowed myself a respite from the news during our time here, and the affairs of humans seem small and distant in the face of the forces that, over eons, have shaped this expansive scene.

But more immediately, today is Lexi’s birthday, and for me, thoughts of forever hover. 

 “I will miss five-year-old Lexi, but I love six-year-old Lexi sooooooooooo much!” I tell her while enveloping her in a squeeze. 

“Like… for infinity?” she says.

“Yes. Infinity!”

“But what about when you die?” she asks, her expression becoming serious. 

My nose prickles and my voice is strained, although I hope she doesn’t notice. “Even then, Sweetie. I will always be there, watching over you.” 

I remember my sixth birthday; surely Lexi will remember hers?

 

 

 

 

 

  

Pixel Zoo Jungle

Given the fatigue of yesterday’s journey from Rothenberg ob der Tauber to Zurich, it was lovely to nestle in a bean bag chair with my grandchildren, son, and daughter-in-law snuggled nearby. Dave and Tucker dozed off, lulled by music and masked by the darkness, but Lisa, Lexi, Paul, and I were entranced by the swirling colors, verdant greens, lumbering elephants, loping leopards, and swinging apes projected on the walls encircling us. We had come to experience immersion in the Pixel Zoo Jungle at the Kirche auf der Egg, and, as the kids had promised, to do some coloring afterwards. Nice! Coloring can be soothing.

When the lights came on, we gathered up coats and slipped on our shoes. Tucker and Dave rubbed their eyes and tried to look like they’d not been sleeping. We left the womb of the church theater to enter a hall lined with tables and chairs stocked with crayons and colored pencils. 

Shelves nearby held copious sheets of paper, each with a line drawing of one of the animals portrayed in the show. Paul chose a leopard but colored him with the orange and black stripes of a tiger. Lexi’s butterfly was green and purple. I chose a poison frog and bejeweled him with blue, yellow, and green. Dave’s parrot was a stunning array of scarlet, blue, and yellow feathers. Fun!

Paul disappeared behind a curtain, but absorbed as I was in adorning my frog, I paid no attention. 

Suddenly, he thrust the curtains aside, and ran to us saying, “My tiger is REAL! Come see!”

What?

We followed him through the curtains and down a dark hall where the wall seemed alive with creatures roaming through dense foliage.

“Look! There he is! My tiger!” hooted Paul as a handsome beast, strong and fluid, sauntered before us, his markings exactly as Paul had colored them. 

How could that be?

“Over here!” said Paul as he led the way to a tall, white cubby with a shelf opening to the front. “Put your drawing on this square under the light.” 

 

As instructed, but expecting little, I placed my frog.

“Now, go look for him!” 

As Paul’s tiger continued to prowl, a golden sphere floated across the jungle scene. The sphere expanded, then evaporated… leaving my frog - in his blue, yellow, and green glory - squatting on a rock. 

No way!  

My frog stretched his leg. He did! You won’t believe this, but MY frog stretched his leg! AI or not, modern technology or not, this was magic – our creations come to life!

Next into the cubby and under the enchanted beam, Dave’s parrot and Lexi’s butterfly. And then, the miracle, as they hatched from golden spheres to flutter and fly through twisting vines and tropical palms.

Of course, we were not the only ones populating that jungle and had to take turns at the cubby. So, we hurried back to the tables to produce two anacondas, another butterfly, and a red, purple, and green jaguar, then proudly waited to witness their birth. 

Later that evening, back at the kids’ place, we clustered on the couch to watch a tape of the Space-X Starship launch and the extraordinary precision of the booster rocket’s re-capture when it returned to Earth. 

What a day of marvels! Drawings brought to life and starships guided home. If we humans choose potential over division, what will Paul, Lexi, and Eleanor live to see?