Discovering the Swiss Pyramid

or "Getting High before we get anywhere near Amsterdam"

Here's a photo album of our montane adventures. Now you know all its stories!

If there’s one thing you should do before climbing a Swiss Alp, it’s get a full night’s sleep. We didn’t.

We were up at 5:45 AM, lugging our bags towards the Bern train station to catch a ride to Mülenen. Shane, Marco, Glen, and Marty had taken a similar expedition a couple of weeks earlier and had described the town as “a gas station with a few houses.” I suspected such a small stop would be missing lockers where we could stash our backpacks, so I asked the Swiss station agent. He thought they would probably have those most convenient of amenities. I think you know where this is going.

As we approached Mülenen, an announcement in Italian, German, French, and English informed us we needed to request the stop if we wanted to get off. The announcement failed to tell us how to go about such a process. I wandered around like a chimp in a psychology experiment looking for the right button. A woman further down the train looked straight at me and mashed a white button by the door with the kind of disgust you can only muster when you have a button to mash. Thanks.

The train came to a stop at the Mülenen station which is roughly the size of my dorm room and it took about 25 seconds to establish there were no lockers to be found. Would my Munich beer stein and cans of Skyline need to ascend Mt. Niesen? We followed the signs to the Niesenbahn, the cog-railway that steadily rolls up the side of the mountain, offering a less strenuous option for getting to the top. A group of people were waiting patiently outside the door to the railway office. None of them looked particularly excited to be going up Niesen, and there didn’t seem to be any families. Then the woman who showed me how to stop the train walked through the crowd and unlocked the door. Everyone followed her in and filed up to the permanently slanted car (the seats are built so you sit on the level, but the floor slopes). I started to file in to talk to the worker checking everyone through.

In a thick Swiss accent - which is basically German spoken by an excited Swede – I was told this ride was only for employees and I needed to wait for the next round. I let him know we weren’t interested in riding up. We needed to hike. He looked shocked when he sized up our luggage and I took the moment to ask if he knew a place to throw the gear. He thought for a moment and grinned with a new idea. The storage room! After loading the vertical morning commuters, he lead us to a side room with a steeply slanted ceiling (most of the trip could be summed up with synonyms for steep) and thousands of brochures enumerating all the merits of a ride to the top.

We dropped our equipment among the boxes, packed our day packs, and I spent some time clarifying we would be able to get back into that room in nine hours. He seemed to think that was a pretty stupid question. Where would he get off to? Of course we would be able to get our backpacks. So, after basking in the glow of friendly Swiss hospitality we asked for directions to the trailhead. With an enthusiastic point towards a series of yellow signs, he wished us luck on our journey.

The first sign offered directions to the next towns, train stations, and to the summit of the mountain. Along with the names, the sign offered the distance in “Std” or “Stunden” that’s time. I don’t know who they timed for the hike, but they were deemed to have a more reliable pace than such disreputable measurement options as kilometers. We discovered we had 5 hours of hiking ahead of us. It was time to go up even though the summit of the mountain was still swathed in fog and clouds.

The trail looped through green cow pastures with quaint barns and sheds along the route. The trail would weave onto dirt roads, but quickly dropped us into the pine forest. As we slogged through the understory where the occasional ripe blackberry provided an energy boost the elevation fell away from our feet.

We stopped halfway up the slope of “The Swiss Pyramid (a 1890s tourism bureau moniker)” at one of the train station stops to enjoy our some fresh fruit, chunks of baguette, and fresh Swiss cheese (that is, cheese from Switzerland. It didn’t have any holes).

We felt very European (except for complimenting all of this with the bottomless animal crackers and the discovery that neither Tim nor Mike are fans of the carbonated bottled water we had accidentally purchased to keep us hydrated).

As we trudged upwards we could hear the distant clanging of cow bells and wove through a diversity of avalanche breaks. Occasionally a trail runner would need to squeeze by on his morning run up the mountain.

We broke through the tree line and hiked past persistent wildflowers. The landscape that was expanding around us was an unknown quantity thanks to the opaque grey. Occasionally an ephemeral window opened and we would glimpse the valley receding below us and the towns shrinking to ant colonies. As we neared the peak we hiked along a spine of rock which offered an expansive view of the glacial lakes far below us. Almost as soon as we noted then documented its presence we watched it be swallowed by the advancing clouds.

Only 4 hours after starting our journey we glimpsed the terminal train station and the observation platform at the peak. We’d done it. We had climbed an Alp (with an hour left which made me wonder if there were multiple peaks or, gasp, the Swiss had screwed up their timing).


We basked in our glory by studying the maps of the mountains we would be able to see on a clear day.

We ate more of our European lunch and let our legs take a break by sitting on massive wooden recliners. The peak has been host to a spa and hotel since the 1870s and it continues to draw people who want a night on an Alp. Someday.

The hike down challenged our thighs, eventually reducing them to quivering jelly. But we pushed on. The sky started to clear and we were able to take in the incredible view that made Switzerland the original tourist destination.

We opted for a different route to the bottom then we had taken to get up. The trail was well marked and we had a basic map. Again, you know where this is going.

The path lead to a cow shed and seemed to end. The farmer’s truck was parked by the shed and lines of newly strung electric fence traced over the hillside. A hand painted sign down slope directed us onto a sliver of mud that served as a trail for boots and hooves. Over barbed wire and onto a steep pasture. Suddenly we froze. Three cows stood staring at us. We were on their path and they clearly couldn’t turn around. If we stepped off our track, we could loose the trail or our footing. We stood our ground in a game of mountaineering chicken with a trio of bovids, no one giving ground.

We blinked. We decided to pick our way down the slope towards fresh electrified fence. Always the best direction to set out in.

As I creped closer to the fence I heard someone moving. It was Herr Farmer.

“Guten Tag! Uh, ist diese die weg? “ (Good day. Is this the way? It’s important to note I guessed on the gender of “way”. Usually I clip my die, der, or das to a simple d-. I let the native speaker assume they heard everything that agrees with my noun's gender).

“Ja, natürlich.” Yes, of course.

“Und hat diese…Hindernis…Sturm…Strom…uh” And does this…barrier…have charge…voltage..I may not be saying anything intelligible?

“Kein Strom.” No current, moron.

“Ah, danke.” Thanks.

So we could cross it. I told Mike and Tim as much and briefly sized up my spot. The fence rose slightly in front of me. I saw the farmer was attaching it, and didn’t want to brush it by straddling it on the slope. So I hopped.

In case you ever thought it would be a good idea to jump a low fence on a steep Alpine hill, I’m here to tell you it isn’t. I landed on a loose clod of earth that gave way under my weakened legs. The clod went down slope. So did my ankle.

Pain. Lots of pain. But I had to get off the mountain. Mike asked if I was okay as I gingerly limped down slope. They both could tell I had made a pretty stupid decision to go airborne, but thankfully didn’t rub it in. I would have been kicking myself if my legs could still kick.

Finally we were on the gradual grade to the bottom. We found the sign that had directed us to the peak and retrieved our bags from the storage room. We had time left in our day and it was time for dinner. We pushed the button at the station that would tell our train to stop in the booming town of Mülenen for a few dirty, tired hikers and tried to spruce ourselves up a bit and switch our shoes around.

We rode the train to Spiez, a small town on Lake Thun with a theoretically commanding view of the mountain we had just climbed. It also had a castle.

We set off from the train station as storm clouds gathered. The place was dead thanks to the depressing weather. People just weren’t in a mood to dwaddle in cute towns when weather was brewing. We found a restaurant near the lake front that served röstie, or Swiss hash browns. It was delicious and went down well with a well-earned beer. Then I tried to stand up. My ankle didn’t like the idea. In the time we had been sitting, it had swollen to twice it’s normal, stocky size. Then the heavens decided to open.

Mike and Tim opted to stay under the shelter to see if the rain would taper off a bit. I had to start hiking. I wasn’t sure I would make it back to the train station. The rain pelted my hobbling figure, the wet pooled in my pockets, and I swore with every step. I think it helped. Briefly the sky seemed to clear and the shadowy outline of Niesen appeared to offer encouragement.

At the station we were reunited. I stubbornly fought to carry my bags as punishment for my idiocy. Mike and Tim wouldn’t stand for it. On the train Michael went in search of the dining car to get some ice for my ankle. But, this is Europe. They don’t have ice. A chilled can of Coke would have to do. I slapped it onto my swollen foot which caused the gentlemen across from me to stare at my accessory like I had just grown a new limb.

We hopped off the train in Basel and boarded our night train, bound for Cologne. We were slowly drying from Switzerland’s final good-bye drenching and settled into our sleeper chairs. I had made the executive decision not to spring for a sleeping cabin or cot, so we were assigned lightly padded recliners. They could lean back pretty far and a welding visor-like contraption covered our heads and provided small reading lights. We drank the celebratory wine we had purchased back in Luzern and enjoyed the wonderful flavors of Erdnuss Flips (peanut butter flavored puffed snacks). I propped up my foot, downed some ibuprofen and prayed it would all be better in the morning. The very early morning.

A chattery group of French students threatened to keep us awake, but a cranky old man gave them a sharp admonishment to shut up. This saved me from being the cranky young man. It was time to drift off into dreams of castles and ankle-snapping cows. For the third morning in a row, our day would begin before 6AM, but this time we would be in familiar territory…

See you at the Dom!

Tschüss!

The last time you'll see this photo album.

Soggy Switzerland

The photo album again. By tomorrow you'll know all the stories that go with all the images. Your excitement is palpable.

Up with the dawn. This would become a theme. We were also up with the rainclouds. The steady drizzle accompanied us to the Munich underground and wouldn't really stop until after dinner that evening. There’s nothing like a sunny June in Europe.

With our rail passes bearing a sufficient number of German stamps we climbed aboard our first long distance train of the trip. Riding southwest across the country, Tim and Michael discovered the beautiful relaxation of the rails. We wrote in our journals, snacked, chatted, and snoozed.

Unfortunately they also learned a few of the stressors of the rails as we caught connections that zigzagged over the border. Our passes only covered Germany, Switzerland, and Benelux (a contraction of Belgium, The Netherlands, and Luxembourg) so we had to avoid dipping into the Austrian pan-handle, making for a lot of up, down, and transfers (though we did get a passing glimpse of the Rhine Falls, the Niagara Falls of the German World thanks to our goofy path). The whole time we prayed for sunny skies. They were not heard.

Luzern is the capital of the canton of Luzern (go figure) and is a touristic hub of the country because it sits right in the center of the Switzerland. Theoretically the town is overshadowed by the imposing Mt. Pilatus, but the cloud banks and drizzle prevented us from getting much of a view. Instead, we had plenty of time to size up the man-made attractions of the city.

The city rests on the banks of the Reuss River which dumps into Lake Luzern. There was a lot of river traffic in the area and a lot of people wanted the city for their own, so the citizens built the Wasserturm (Water Tower) and Kapellbrücke (Chapel Bridge) over the river to help defend the town. Now, lined with flower boxes and decorated with images of Luzern’s past, the combo of the bridge and tower make an iconic image.

The bridge (superlative alert) is the oldest wooden bridge in Europe, but in 1993 a fire nearly burned the whole structure to the level of the river. It was quickly rebuilt and new sprinklers installed to prevent the icon from going up ever again.

On the other side of the bridge we followed the recommendations of several guidebooks to a microbrewery on the banks of the river. Despite grey skies and overpriced pretzel sandwiches (but what isn’t overpriced in Switzerland) we enjoyed the experience of sipping cold beer under a stone balcony with a view of the medieval bridge and Baroque churches (if not mountains).

We crossed back over the river and popped into the Jesuitenkirche (Jesuit Church) so we could check out the ornate, Rococo interior and dry out a bit. The church was dedicated to St Francis Xavier, one of the great badass missionaries of the early Jesuits (and patron of my high school). He ventured across Asia, particularly focusing on Japan, Indonesia, and India. His dream was to proselytize in China, but he died on a Chinese island, waiting for a ship to the mainland.

The church was dedicated by the Pope in 1574 as a bastion against the rising Protestantism of Switzerland. In 1666 it was dedicated to Xavier. The ceiling of the interior is decorated with images from Xavier’s life and travels including his ride to heaven in a chariot pulled by an elephant, a camel, and a leopard as symbols of his missions. Somehow I don’t think such a chariot would get very far, but I guess when you’re on your way to heaven the animals can learn to play nice. The rest of the interor showcased the pyrotechnics of the counter-reformation where ornate marble (it’s fake) and gold leaf (real) were meant to inspire awe in all who entered.

Out into the weather and over another wooden bridge. This one has mill wheels attached to the base and the paintings feature the Dance of Death. Nuns, farmers, mayors, brides, and merchants are dogged by the leering skeletal face of Death. Cheery imagery for our tour of Luzern.

We started to wander through the shopping district, but changed our course when we saw signs for the city walls and defense towers. We weren’t in Amsterdam yet, but we wanted to get high. Up the steeply sloping streets, and up a narrow flight of stairs. We had an impressive view of the city and lake, obstructed only by wide chicken wire. When smoking was made illegal in town a couple centuries ago, the soldiers would hide in the towers to get their nicotine fix.

Today tourists heave themselves up the ladder-like stairs to leave graffiti mementos then contemplate the treacherous walk back down.

From the old wall we had to figure out the most efficient route to Luzern’s most popular attraction: the Lion of Luzern.

The monument is carved directly into the rock and shows a dying lion with a spear point sticking out of his side, tears on his anguished face, and his head resting on a French shield. Just because the Swiss don’t get involved in wars as a nation, doesn’t mean their citizens don’t like to fight. Swiss mercenaries were the best soldiers money could buy. They were the guards of Europe’s emperors, kings, and pope. In 1792, a mob of French Revolutionaries charged the royal palace in Paris, massacring hundreds of mercenaries who ran low on ammunition and just couldn’t deal with the massive hoards. After surrendering the palace, hundreds died in prison or were slaughtered during the September Massacres when the mobs of Paris killed half the prison population of the city. Not a great moment in history, so the lion is understandably tragic.

Michael reflected that it was hard to see the memorial as completely noble. These were mercenaries. They sold their loyalty and died defending a foreign king against his citizens for no reason beyond the cash in their pockets. I don’t know if that’s completely fair. The Swiss Guard had been employed in France since the 16th century. Many of the soldiers were arguably more French then Swiss by the 18th. They were fighting for their king just as the Vatican’s Swiss Guard takes their loyalty to the Pope as seriously as the Secret Service takes their defense of the U.S. President.

With the rain steadily falling we had a quiet moment to spend with the dying lion before retreating to the Hofkirche. Again, the façade was impressive, but we just needed a place to dry for a bit. As the main church of the city it was once the home of the Papal Nuncio. Now it’s decorated with all the filigree and wrought iron that you might expect in an important church with a more reserved Swiss attitude towards decoration.

Back to the station and a short ride to Bern, the capital of Switzerland. I visited on a much sunnier day back in April so I was able to confidently lead us to our first hostel, the clean and quiet Hotel Glocke. We dropped our bags, shook off the wet, then went into the streets for a brief walk around the Old Town and a hunt for food. My first destination was the bear pits. The bears are the symbol of the city (Bern=bear) and a pit stop is essential. We crossed the soaring stone bridge over the Aar River and were confronted with this sign:

It reads “Pedro is dead.” The old bear who was donated by the city of Barcelona (thus the Iberian name) died April 30th after his arthritis, which they had been treating for two years, became unbearable (pun un-intended). Poor Pedro.

Back over the bridge and past the Münster (Cathedral) that was gutted by zealous iconoclasts during the Swiss Reformation...

and on to the Parliament building where the fountain ignored the fact it was raining. Kids with umbrellas and too much time dodged through the water, gasping in shock when the erupting jets caught the inside of the umbrella and drenched them.

Near parliament was a street festival that required some kind of cover charge. As we walked by we could hear a classic rock cover band blasting from the stage with only two people on the ground watching. A tragic image, but we couldn’t beef the numbers. We needed food and an early night so we could get up at the crack of dawn to climb a mountain the next morning. We walked by an Italian place and sized up the menu. The Swiss prices pushed us on. Slowly we realized we would find nothing cheaper or drier so we sheepishly went back to the restaurant and were lead to a seat in the middle of the dining room.

We ordered pizza (always the cheapest option) and Tim and Michael learned the muscular art of eating a crisp pizza crust with a fork and knife. By the end Michael was complaining of tennis elbow from all the sawing. When it was time to pay we looked for our Italian? Russian? waiter who had seemed overwhelmed by our bad pronunciation and drink orders (is “Bier, bitte” really that hard to sort out?). He was nowhere to be found. Ah, there he is, “Enschul…” Nothing. Every time he swept by, we fought for his attention. We sat and waved for the better part of a half-hour. We started pooling our pennies (or Franks) to just leave on the table in frustration when if finally dragged himself to our table to collect our patronage. I’ll admit that I’m looking forward to attentive service on the other side of the pond.

Finally we were free to go, gawk at a fountain I had somehow missed in April that features a giant devouring naked children, and call it a night. We needed our rest. We had a mountain waiting for us.

I hope your barbecues, block parties, and fireworks were a literal blast, and stay tuned for the continuing adventures of the Blazing Buckeyes!

Tschuss!

The pictures.

Swiss Time

A photo album of the Swiss adventures of the Borths family. I promise I didn't scan any postcards and claim the images as my own. Switzerland is just that gorgeous.

After driving North, my parents settled into their 12th century castle/hotel while I returned to the lab to churn out an abstract for next year’s Society for Vertebrate Paleontology meeting. While I plugged away on Jurassic mammals, my parents explored Rhineish castles including a magnificent, Romantic vision of towers and stone that is still owned by the family that built it in the twelfth century. They also explored Bonn (Rick Steves’s claim that it’s one of the best pedestrian shopping districts in Europe encouraged them to linger in the former capital longer than last time everyone visited). They also saw the Cologne cathedral in the daylight (a must to appreciate the stained-glass) and saw the Roman mosaics. We then gathered downtown and ate at one of Bonn’s kölsch brew houses and said good-bye to Germany for a couple of days.

Lake Tun ready to unveil a lake monster.

We drove south to Basel, a city on the French/Swiss border. We dropped off the car and caught a train to Interlaken in the heart of the Swiss Alps. I knew the Swiss portion of the trip would involve a great deal of train-time and I was looking forward to getting some serious reading, journaling, and blogging done. Unfortunately none of this came to pass. Once we crossed into Switzerland, it seemed like a crime to look away from the windows (which they keep impeccably clean). The castles and placid lakes marched by, followed by vineyards and finally the mountains. This is the fourth time I’ve seen them in the last year and they never fail to astound me. Other mountains – the Sierra Nevadas, the Alaskan ranges, the Wasatch – are impressive, but the Alps exude a special majesty. They sit at the cross-roads of Europe. People have been exploring their forests and peaks since cavemen were wandering the continent. The villages and trains that nestle into their slopes reinforce the massive scale of the landscape.

Traveling through Switzerland is a testament to the creative and technical power of Engineering over the last century. Tunnels that slice through unclimbable mountains, bridges that span impossible chasms, and cog-railways that drag the train uphill are regular features of any commute across the small, mountainous country. While the place has been neutral since all that construction work began, the Swiss engineers built with war in mind, ensuring every tunnel and bridge is equipped with explosives that could turn the entire country into an impenetrable mountain fortress at the touch of a button. The Swiss Army, famous for their practical cutlery, has jet hangers bored into mountain sides, and artillery hidden in barns along the border. Got to protect those banks.


Our first meal in Interlaken was eaten early since we’d skipped a solid lunch on our drive to get to Switzerland quickly. Mr. Steves recommended a smoky dive that offered authentic Swiss cuisine. They served fondu, but we were hoping for rochlette. Then I saw the meat options. They served “Pferdesteak” that is “Horse Steak.” I love horses. I dream of riding through the badlands on a sturdy, dependable animal who wants nothing more than to run through the grass.

But I’ve always been curious about their flavor. Now I know. The steak was served rare with a “hot stone,” a slab of granite that was stored in the oven until they served it to me over the head of a local artist and this friend the town drunk. You cut off pieces of the steak and cooked it to perfection on the stone. It was accompanied by four condiments: a herb butter, garlic sauce, cocktail sauce, and a curry sauce. I tried them all, but none was necessary. The meat tasted like lean, grass-fed beef. There wasn’t a trace of white fat, but the muscle had plenty of juice to make it one of the best pieces of meat I have ever consumed. It was all washed down by half a liter of Raugaubrau, the Interlaken blonde beer.

Lord Byron was a fan. So am I. I don't think the guys locked in the dungeon would have appreciated the view though.

The next day we ventured first to Lake Geneva and the Château du Chillion, a 13th century castle that still sits on a small peninsula in the lake, making it nearly impossible to conquer. Much of the interior has been maintained faithfully with only minimal interference from those meddling Romantics. We then traveled across the small country and high into the mountains to Zermatt where we saw a perfect profile of the Matterhorn, the mountain that defined the idea of “craggy peak.” It’s almost unnatural, more an imaginative fantasy than a real geological formation.

A Medieval tapestry of the gospels giving the great hall a little historical context.

Personally I think it looks more like a tooth than a horn, but that could just be the mammalian paleontologist in me talking.

We ate a cheese plate, drank Swiss wine and took in the view. The next day we rode to the top of two of the tallest mountains in the region. We enjoyed breakfast at the Schilhorn in a rotating restaurant. Unfortunately, the view was wasted on us since the clouds and rain decided to follow us uphill. As we rode the cable cars and cog railway up and down we caught glimpses of the magnificent view shrouded in cloud. In a panoramic theater in the restaurant they showed clips from “On Her Majesty's Secret Service” a Bond flick shot in the mountain lair that became the restaurant in 1969.

Dad feeling like a Bond villain on the Schilhorn. There's a view out there, you just need to be patient, or rig up a weather altering machine that may also lend you world-dominating power.

Then we rode into the valley, up the mountain meadows and through the Eiger to the Jungfrau which features the highest train station in the world and an opportunity to check out one of the largest glaciers on Earth. More views. I was kind of OD-ing on impressive heights and quaint towns. The best part of this adventure was getting to walk across the glacier, letting the observation station disappear into the distance until the sound of crunching snow and ice and the white expanse dominated my senses.

The view from inside the Eiger (Ogre), one of the most difficult ascents in Europe (if you're on the outside without the assistance of a cog railway).

An astronomical observation station at the peak of Europe.

Dinner was in Grindelwald, an Alpine town that is home to hundreds of ski instructors who boisterously rode down the mountain with us, heedlessly shattering the Teutonic mass-transport code of silence. Their work ended the weekend we were in town so they were celebrating at a street festival with cheap beer while we consumed more cheese, wine and röstti (Swiss hash browns) at a tavern with yet more incredible mountain views.

Bern in all her quaint glory.

On Sunday we left the Alps for Bern and Zurich. Bern is one of the best-preserved and most beautiful medieval towns in Europe. It’s also the Swiss capital. It was a bit of a trip down memory lane for my Mom and Dad since he worked there about a decade ago. Mom, Josh, and I visited when I was in second grade. My primary memories involve sliding down a glacier in my snow pants, seeing a freeze-dried baby mammoth, and feeding the Bern bears. The bears are the official mascots of the Swiss capital (“Bern” as a word is related to the German word “Bär”) who contentedly sit in a pit along the banks for the Aar river, catching vegetables thrown by tourists and locals. It could be a sad scene as you watch the caged wild animals gaze up at the ogling humans, but they seem to have plenty of obstacles in their cages to keep themselves occupied, and no one taunts or injures the creatures.


We also spent some time by the Aar at a microbrewery after watching a presentation on the history of Bern, complete with a rotating relief map and audio-animatronic, French soldiers. We stopped by the Gothic church that was stripped of its figures and saints during the Reformation, then caught our train to Zurich.

We dropped our gear off at the hotel and headed for the National Museum, which I previously visited in November. Knowing we didn’t have a ton of time, I gave a whirlwind tour of what I thought of as the highlights (the oldest wheel, Roman gold, and a battle diarama). The tour was cut even shorter by a temporary exhibit that seemed to explore Swiss popular culture. It involved TVs and books set up in historic rooms playing the Swiss equivalents of Howdy Doody and Johnny Carson. We didn’t get it, and most of the permanent exhibits on the last 500 years of Swiss history were cluttered with the temporary exhibit. So the Borths family headed out after maybe 40 minutes in a museum. I think this is the exception that proves a rule.

We then stopped by the Fraumünster church to spend some time with a series of ethereal stained glass windows created by Marc Chagall depicting Creation, Jewish patriarchs, and the Crucifixion then visited the Grossmünster, the church across the river from the Fraumünster, where we contemplated the explosive personality of Huldrych Zwingli, a Swiss Reformation leader who began his ministry in the twin-domed Grossmünster.

Our final stop was the Restaurant Kronenhalle, a Zurich institution established by a bustling Frau and her art collector son. The restaurant became a favorite stop for artists such as Chagall, Picasso, and Miro. Their work now decorates the restaurant’s walls. There is a lot to be said for spending more than a few seconds with a work of art. As I ate my mean, I contemplated the images in my view while re-hashing the trip with Mom and Dad. The combination of our attentive, personable waitress, fantastic food (including fresh chocolate mousse scooped from a foil-covered bowl), and art made it one of the best dining experiences in a trip dominated by fantastic food and drink.

Marching bands celebrating spring really should barge in to more establishments.

As the sun set, we walked back along Lake Zurich to the hotel and sampled the hotel bar’s options, declaring the trip a success. The next morning my parents caught their plane back across the Atlantic. I'll see them again in another couple of months, though this likely marks the last time we will spend so much quality time together for a very long time. I traveled the familiar train tracks north to Germany where claws, and further adventures awaited my attention...

The photos of lovely Switzerland again.