Lake Luzern the morning after our arrival in Switzerland.
We had flown into Zurich the prior afternoon, to find Cristophe/Cristóbal/Cristopher waiting for us. This was a surprise, as we weren't expecting to see him until the end of our trip. And who is this man of three names? He is a unique specimen, one who deserves his own post, which will be coming shortly. In the meantime, I will describe him as an old friend, one I have had for over 25 years, though with about a 22 year break in between. The kind of friend though, once we had gotten back in touch, it felt like we had always been in touch. And here he was, waiting at the Zurich airport.
So we shared $20 coffees and talked about old times, waiting for the rest of our party, Marla and Brian, to arrive from Seattle. I told Cristopher that we would be in Luzern the next day and invited him to join us. The Fenskes arrived, we got on a train and voila, the next morning we were all in Luzern, boarding a boat to take us to the Rigi.
The Rigi is a mountain that is almost surrounded by three lakes - Luzern, Zug and Lauerz. The base can be reached by a delightfully pretty boat ride on delightfully pretty Lake Luzern. From there one can either hike to the top, ride the world's oldest cogwheel railway, or a combination of both. With a hearty Swiss breakfast in our bellies and cheese, meat and bread in our backpacks, we decided to hike first, and see how far we could get.
People think of Switzerland as a cold place, high in the mountains where the air is crisp and thin. And yes, at the tops of its peaks that is true. But geographically it is just North of Italy, and it is landlocked, and when you are not on its peaks, which is most of the time, and if it is summer, its air is warm and moist. It felt like Connecticut in May, which meant that our hike, which was wonderfully clear with views more beautiful at each step, got strenuous and sweaty quite quickly. After about an hour, it was time to rest.
Just then we saw it, a hand drawn sign, pointing down a lane to a house that looked pretty and well-loved but, in hindsight, also a little bit spooky. The sign offered beverages and a place to sit to enjoy the view. Ah, a rest-stop, and at just the right spot. Those Swiss, they think of everything.
Cristopher spoke with a pleasant looking young woman, who quietly ushered us around to the back of the house. On our way, we passed an immense wood pile (a very common site in Switzerland, neatly, and I mean neatly stacked next to houses everywhere). A tall, exceedingly well-chiseled man, shirtless and barefoot - barefoot - was chopping wood with precision and power. As we walked by I snuck a closer look. Judging from his face he was pushing 70 years old. His physique modeled the trees he was now chopping - gnarled, hardened, straight and ageless. The axe split the wood with a vicious "thwack!"
Next to the woodpile was a small shack with large windows. A much smaller man was inside, in the window, in his underwear, pulling a pair of pants up over his spindly little legs. We were seated at a picnic table about 10 meters in front of his shack.
More discussion between Cristopher and the young women - would we like some herbal tea? Ah, yes, indeed, just what we were looking for, and thank you. Off she went while we got settled and as we realized that indeed there was a lovely view to behold.
She was back pretty quickly and tea was served - a golden hue, somewhat disconcertingly the color of a morning's first pee, but delicious and refreshing, like a warm version of a Ricola throat lozenge. Also served was a glorious pitcher of ice water with mint and lemon.
We asked how much we owed, but were told we owed nothing. The details are unclear, but apparently the woman was unaware of the sign out front and thought the five of us had just shown up asking for tea. She was only too happy to oblige. At first I was a bit chagrined, I would never just show up and demand anything, no matter how American I might be, but she was so casual about it and the atmosphere was so tranquil, we just went with the flow.
It was a dreamlike moment - the incredible view, the rejuvenating tea, he kindness of the young woman - and then Sep entered the scene, and things started to get weird.
The man from the shack, dressed now, and all of about 5'3", Sep was standing in front of us and speaking in Swiss-German as if we could understand every word he was saying. Cristopher spoke with him and we learned his name and that he had driven a tram in Zurich for several decades before retiring up here on the Rigi, apparently in that very shack.
He went on and on in the most animated way. Speaking loudly, gesticulating, laughing at his own jokes. The atmosphere was changing, and not for the better.
Clouds were gathering. Sep's speech was getting louder and more erratic. I was suddenly keenly aware that a large, chiseled man was swinging an axe very near buy - "Whack!"
"Easy, Sep" Said our hostess, in English.
"Shall we get going?" came the question from Cristopher, with absolutely none of us doubting that indeed we shall. We weren't completely rested and our thirst was not completely slaked, but sometimes its best to stay nimble and this was one of those times.
As we were gathering our things, the axe man walked over, taking a break from slicing centuries-old hardwood like it was butter, and started speaking in perfect English with a bit of a German accent.
"So you are American?" A question that usually goes one of two ways, a 50% chance that someone likes what they know of you and a 50% chance that they don't. If they look like an all powerful forest god from ancient myth, you hope for the former.
"I was in Boston once, when I was young, and got beat up by some nasty cops."
Oh, great, we meet an axe-wielding Übermensch behind a spooky house on a remote hillside in the middle of Switzerland and his first American memory is of baton wielding cops?
"I am so sorry to hear that" said someone from our party, I don't remember who, in the most heartfelt, positive-toned, not-all-Americans-are-violent kind of voice they could muster. He went on to tell us his story, which was pretty awful. We did our best to drive home that we were from places nowhere near Boston and shared his pain at having been treated so unjustly.
Then we got out of there as quickly as politely possible, thanking our hostess, smiling reassuringly at Sep and nodding in overdone solidarity with The King of The Forest. Time to be on our way.
With another 90 minutes of steep climb ahead of us, we did what the Swiss have been doing for decades - we took the world's oldest cogwheel railway to the top.
We were greeted by a spectacular view - the lakes, the surrounding hills, the sky, all of it changing magically minute by minute as clouds raced across the sky and the sun kept moving closer to the horizon.
There is a very nice, sleekly modern lodge/restaurant/terrace at the top, and in the waning hours of the afternoon the place was mostly deserted. We availed ourselves of the restrooms, only to be chewed out by the Italian women cleaning them (a comforting sound, really) and Christopher bought a couple of bottles of the local white wine.
We perched ourselves on the terrace and recounted our edifying, exhilarating, terrifying first full day in the country. A strenuous hike, a strange house with wonderful tea and extremely colorful but probably not too dangerous inhabitants, the spectacular views and now this deliciously drinkable wine. I don't think we even talked about the days ahead. They would come soon enough.
When we finally got back down to the lake and on the last boat back to Luzern, the sun was setting and our eyelids were ready to follow. It was one of the greatest first days of a trip I have ever had.
