I Could Never Be Swiss

By Anita Kando

As a frequent visitor to Switzerland, the country never ceases to delight and to impress me , and it is about as perfect a country as it gets. I’ve been very fortunate to be a guest of the Bienz family, my husband’s cousins, in Solothurn, a gorgeous little town between Basel and Zurich. Being a guest of the Bienz family will spoil you for all time. They live in a charming three story rock-solid home with beautiful nature photography throughout the home, a garden that looks out over the Jungfrau and the Eiger, a winding stairway made of the most beautiful wood, a state of the art kitchen where Esther (the best cook in our extended family – where the competition is quite fierce for that title) produces the most amazing Swiss dishes. They have enticed us with unparalleled Swiss fondue and introduced us to the fun of sharing raclette at the kitchen table with the whole family. The air is crisp, cool, it’s often sunny, and one sleeps like a baby in their upstairs, chalet-styled, wooden-ceiling bedroom with duvets and huge pillows that make it difficult to ever get out of bed.

We have made many journeys and side trips within Switzerland, and it is impossible for me to say which one has been more delightful. Just when you think it can’t get any more stunningly gorgeous, Switzerland will find a way to show you that it can. We took a train through the countryside to Appenzell . The entire ride there was like a travelogue, with side visits to Schaffhausen and St. Gallen where we visited one of the world’s most impressive libraries (we actually saw Napoleon’s correspondence there).

We took this amazing little train that wound nearly vertically up a mountainside toward Appenzell. My husband and I looked at each other, laughing that at every turn the landscape just gets more and more impossibly beautiful. Unreal, we thought. When we reached this Brigadoon of a town, we were convinced that it could not possibly be real. Swiss architecture is always beautiful, and the people of Appenzell really outdid themselves when they decorated their buildings. Our hotel was a beautiful shade of red, with a hanging medieval sign stating the name of the inn. There was a riot of brightly colored flowers in the window boxes. The inside proved to be equally amazing, with everything made of beautiful wood. As we walked down the street, we realized that all of the houses were just as beautiful, or more beautiful than our hotel. I so admire the pride that they take in creating such delightful, well-loved buildings.

The next morning, after another super-healthy Swiss breakfast, like the ones served all over the country, we took a bus ride up the mountain to see Mt. Santis. Hans and Esther made sure we had a front row seat next to the huge windows of the enormous bus while they took seats further behind.

Mt. Santis is a formidable mountain, and there’s been an unseasonably early snow-storm overnight, so it’s covered with snow. We line up for the gondola to go up the mountain, and at this point I am reminded again that there is a whole different dimension to Swiss mountains. Yes, we have mountains in California, we have trams and ski lifts – I’ve ridden them up and skied down for decades. But the sheer vertical climb of this tram is something else, and I am getting nervous.

We arrive on top (yay, we are still alive!). The view is stunning – high white topped mountains in every direction, as far as the eye can see. We ambulate through a little museum, and the rest of my party disappears for a few minutes while I’m looking at Swiss mountain goats perched precariously on the very edge of the mountain.

A few minutes later, Hans invites me to walk over to the restaurant. He turns to me as we are about to go out the door, and says, “But you might not want to do this.” Strange statement, I thought. Well, he was certainly right. The moment we are out the door, blizzard-like wind and snow hit my face. I’m dressed in a light jacket, wearing my new athletic shoes. No problem, I think. Well, as we venture on a little further, I see a semi-circular grated metal path suspended in the air, with crevices thousands of feet below. I walk timidly forward, only to realize that the soles of my shoes are filled with ice and becoming very slippery. Then I look to my right as best I can through the blowing snow, and I see that this small metal bridge has only one thin guardrail with plenty of room to slide right under it. What’s worse, a person cannot hold onto the guardrail because there are foot-long icicles formed sideways - horizontally! - due to the fierce winds. Okay, that’s it, I’m going to slide right under the guardrail and end up as an archeological find thousands of years from now. I’ll perish of a heart attack long before I hit the bottom of the crevice, to become Homo Turisticus Americanus, eons from now.

Somehow, I step and slide on, with my purse (in which my passport and medications are stored) swinging precariously over the guardrail. Finally, I make it to the door. Thank God! I’m in another one of those gorgeous wood-paneled Swiss restaurants, and I’m alive. I plop down at the table out of breath and shaking – I see a large bottle of Appenzeller Schnapps, and wish I could down the whole thing right there to stop shaking. I let out a sigh, “Okay, that’s it, I’ve failed, I can never be Swiss.” We all have a good laugh over that, but it’s true – I’m not rugged enough to navigate this terrain the way our cousins do. This formidable mountain’s name should not be Mt. Santis -- Spiritus Sanctus Mortis is more fitting! Esther takes my arm and tells me she will guide me back over the horrifying metal bridge. “Oh my God, is that the only way out? Surely you don’t mean to tell me that I have to do this again?” I’m laughing and frowning at the same time. Nope, no other way out. We walk side by side, and I’m thinking this time we might not be so lucky and we’ll both slide right under the guardrail. I’m more than a little embarrassed that I’m being guided like an infant, but I’m also very grateful for Esther’s Swiss expertise in navigating the dreaded path. Ah, we’re done! Back on earth! Then we take the shear tram downward (a whole new definition of vertical drop!) and we step out on flat ground. Esther turns to me and says, “We thought it best not to tell you that last week, just a few miles away, a tram broke down and they had to rescue everyone via helicopter, suspended over thousands of feet by ropes.” I’m more than a little relieved that they did not tell me this before we went up. I picture myself in a nightmare like Sylvester Stallone movie’s Cliffhanger.

We settle down at the ground-level restaurant, sipping our delicious Swiss barley soup, watching amazing Swiss snow dogs that look like large balls of snow with legs and heads. Even the dogs are hardier here. What a gorgeous day as the clouds part and bright blue sky re-appears.

Okay, it’s true, I can never be Swiss. I’m not qualified. But part of my heart remains there. What a country! I hope to return, and I’ll never quit trying to be Swiss.... leave comment here