The Land of Chocolate and Cheese - 9/2

***We havent had internet since Paris, but I've been writing everyday so bear with me, here come a few posts all at once***

Europe insists on unveiling unforgettable moment after unforgettable moment.


This morning the French countryside slipped off her nightgown as we sped silently along the sunrise rail toward the German border. The rolling green hills pock-marked with self-contained villages were stolen straight from my imagination. By the time the Swiss border patrol asked for our passports, I was having trouble coming up with new images of what Europe could look like. And then, as she had done countless times since Monday, Europe slapped us in the face with pure beauty: Switzerland.

Take North Conway, New Hampshire with its imitation chalets and dwarfed-by-comparison mountain range, pump it full of whatever Barry Bonds used to make his head so circus-freakishly large, then triple it, cover it in chocolate, dip it in fondue and you have the Swiss Alps.

From Interlaken, we took a quick train ride up to touristy Grindelwald. We’re saving the hiking and the top of Europe (the Jungfrau) for tomorrow. The chalets, complete with Bernese Mountain Dogs frolicking in fields, nestled in clusters in a sprawling green basin at the foot of sheer rock faces that stretched high into a sky as blue as the homogenous local eye color.

We ate dinner at a restaurant on the ridge (I found my new favorite beer – Rugen Brau Dunkel, dark beer brewed locally in Interlaken – think Kappy’s will order me a case?). Upon return to Interlaken, Europe tossed me an easy one, one of those unforgettable memories that will be my favorite – until tomorrow when I get a new one.

Danielle and I closed out our day at Des Alpes outdoor café, munching on fresh apple strudel and sipping espresso. The people are friendly and jovial – if you take the French and you stuff them with Chocolate and Cheese (both physically and in persona – they’re still a beautiful people, though a bit heftier, a more sturdy people, and plenty more approachable), throw in some Munich-style, stein-clinking German hospitality and you’ve got the Swiss.

On Des Alpes’ patio a local 9-piece big band – the Groove Connection was their name – played away the day, clanging into a rousing version of the Pink Panther Theme Song as the sunlight evaporated behind the behemoth mountains. After what seemed like an endless string of songs that sounded suspiciously like 70s tv theme songs, that took us well into the night, they ended with an appropriate and upbeat, “My Favorite Things.” The Land of Chocolate and Cheese: my favorite things indeed.

Stupid Tourists: 4 – This is a special entry because once Danielle reads it, it could be the last thing I ever write. This morning, September 2, 2010, 6am Paris time my wife committed her first stupid tourist atrocity. That’s not to say I haven’t given her the, “really, Danielle?” stare once or twice since we’ve been here (e.g. tonight when she took a picture and immediately sounded the alarm that our camera was broken, only to be told that there was a tree in her way, that’s why the photo didn’t come out). I do cut her some slack because attempting to catch a 6:20am international train from Paris is not an easy task. Let me step back for those of you who have never been to France or do not ride public transportation often (shame on you, the environment hates you). The regular ticket taker machine has a turnstile and electronically opening slider doors that open as you go through the turnstile. It woks much the same as the D.C. Metro or any other modern subway entry, with a little extra French flare. Danielle and I are traveling each with a large backpack/roller bag and a small backpack. This morning there was one other traveler in the Paris Metro and she too carried a large piece of luggage. After watching that one other traveler sneak around the regular turnstile and slip through the handicap ticket entrance with ease, my wife – a phD candidate who turned down Harvard – forgot her common sense. She ignored the aforementioned example, slipped her ticket in, proceeded through the turnstile and as they say in Paris, voila! her large roller bag wedged into the turnstile. She then stopped short and the sliding doors slammed shut. Leaving the love of my life, radiant with newlywed glow, stuck between the turnstile and the now shut sliding doors. I’m not going to elaborate on what was said in the immediate aftermath but let’s just say the attendants opened the sliders manually, I pushed hers and my bags through the turnstile and we strolled away in silence. Do I dare label this one as a “Stupid Tourist” occurrence? I think it’s only fair. Stupid Tourist.