We had been up to Schilthorn, an ascent of 8,000 feet from our home base of Lauterbrunnen, and we were making our way down. Having used mechanized transportation most of the day (trams, trains, etc.) it was time to do some walking.
So we took to our feet, making our way from Murren, in the middle of a pleasant Alpine day. We had eaten a big ol' Swiss breakfast, with ham, cheese, meusli, boiled egg, fruit, toast and coffee (one post I will do some day will be about how to make the most out of travelling almost anywhere by finding the places to stay that not only feed you breakfast, they let you feed yourself for breakfast.) but it was getting past noon now. Since we had trail mix and water, though, we pressed on.
The scenery between Shilthorn and Lauterbrunnen is, of course, stunning, and we wound our way down down with jaws open, in awe at every new sublime vista that came into view. The air was fresh and moist, the sky somewhat overcast with a thin layer of clouds.
As we came around one particular bend, large shadows, like the wingspans of great birds, quickly slipped across us. More silent than actual birds, paragliders were taking off from the hillside above us. Most actually held a pair, the professional in back, silent, slightly bored, steering the craft into the yawning void of the gorge below, the customer in front, sometimes squealing with a mixture of fear and delight, sometimes silent and, I imagine, scared to death.
Off they went, floating above the seemingly bottomless chasm, circling and circling like hawks looking for prey.
It was idyllic, our little Swiss hillside, and we walked and walked, slipping through quiet little towns, empty in summer (much different than the winter, when beautiful people on skis and in parkas would be shooshing along the same route we were taking now.) However, we really were starting to get hungry, and quickly. The altitude, the walking, the fresh air, the fact that breakfast had happened hours ago - it was all coming together to make for four hungry Americans in the Swiss mountains.
And then we saw her.
A sausage vendor, with freshly cooked bratwurst. There they were on the grill, their plump bodies twitching and their pale skin glistening, like Minnesotan coeds on their first Spring Break in Mexico.
There really was nothing else to do but devour them with glee, grease and mustard dribbling down our chins as we struggled to open our mouths wide enough. It is times like these you wish your jaw could unhinge like a python's.
OH MY GOD THIS SAUSAGE IS SO GOOD!
It was one of those long, meandering days that mark the best of time away. Nothing was overly planned but everything went as smoothly as could be hoped. We saw beautiful things and enjoyed each other's company. We got some exercise. And we ate something that, no matter how hard we try, how good the ingredients or where we go to get them, we will never be able to recreate. Instead it will live in our memories and occasionally bring a soft smile to our lips and a faraway look in our eye.
God bless you, sausage lady.
