Queen of Cuteness, Colmar Takes the Cake

COLMAR, FRANCE – June 10, 2006

Ah, Colmar! Another picturesque little medieval town that tugs at your heart with its can’t-help-itself charm, until it works a little soft spot in your memory. And you’ll remember it as a town that filled you with the warmth of small-town smiles, the sounds of genuine laughter, and a beauty so tangible, it managed to be spared from the destruction of World War II bombs because the Allies didn’t want to destroy a place so … well, charming.

A visit here would have been more complete had my mother been standing right alongside me; drinking in all the sights and sounds and smells. My mom and I have always been close; we both have a love for natural beauty in all its forms, and for places that just scream of old-world “cuteness.” Colmar fits the bill on the second count, and I only hope, Mom, that you and I can make it here together sometime. (That goes for so many places I’ve visited in Europe, but don’t worry, I’m keeping a running list!)

Half-timbered houses decked with filled-to-the-brim flowerboxes.... a quartet of accomplished strings musicians playing to a gathering audience in the shadowy bellows of a dome-topped stone building… a tanner’s quarter with tall, narrow buildings and strangely skewed rooftops where animal skins dried in the sun in days gone by… La Petite Venise with its meandering canals, canalside cafés with blooming umbrellas, and the occasional boat winding gently downstream (merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily)… these are the images of Colmar.

I munch on avocado and cheese sandwiches from my perch next to a lively street lined with restaurants, where I have a front-row view to the enormous cathedral rising majestically before me into the blue sky. Afterwards, I enter another holy house, a Gothic Dominican church, where, surrounded by stained glass and high vaulted ceilings, Martin Schongauer’s masterpiece, Virgin of the Rose Garden, rests in glory.
I stop at an ice cream stand and indulge myself with a two-scoop cone… and about go out of my mind when I taste the passion-fruit ice cream. It has to be the creamiest, fluffiest, most intensely exotic ice cream I have ever tasted. And leaving the charm of Colmar behind me for the gobs of giddy tourists to enjoy, I head back to the train station, content that I couldn’t have spent my day any better than here in Alsace territory, eastern France.
~Melanie

Missed Connections in Freiburg: Sailor Stefan and a Spectacular Sunset

FREIBURG, GERMANY – June 9, 2006 (rough notes only)

After a brief train ride through the countryside, I arrived in Freiburg, heart of Germany’s Schwartzwald, or “Black Forest.”

Daniel, CS/HC host, met me at the train station. Chatted over tea on the back porch of the flat he shares with two other students, surrounded by 5-story shade trees that canopied above us. You’d never know by the tranquil setting that a busy street and the main train station were literally out the front door.

Tour of the city – Freiburg’s Muenster (cathedral), complete with chicken-wire coverings to keep the pesky birds from destroying the painstaking artwork. It was market day – stalls filled the platz, selling mounds of fresh produce, breads, brats (sausages, that is!), flowers, and a variety of household goods. This was no “tourist trap” tent show – this was the real thing, where the locals came one of two days a week to get the goods at bargain prices.

Along the way, was careful to sidestep the little canals running alongside the streets. There’s a legend that says, if you’re unlucky enough to land in a canal (more like a ditch), you’re cursed to marry a local. I don’t actually know if that’s such a horrible thing, considering the charming ambience of this small German town hugged on nearly every side by the lush Black Forest mountains.

We hiked up the hillside to the city’s highest vantage point, and the location of a ruined castle. As if the steep trail leading to a high lookout weren’t enough, we continued up a cylindrical observation tower, spiralling into the sky. I lost count after 280 steps. Standing on the 2-person platform surveying the scenery below, I could feel the tower swaying slightly in the breeze. It reminded me of trips to the top of the St. Louis Arch I took as a young girl, feeling the swaying of the arch from my high perch as the winds blew outside. In either case, a bit unsettling… but the views over the rolling forested hills and the city in the valley below were worth it.

Then to the biergarten for some refreshment and conversation before continuing back down to the city. Wheat beer has a sweeter flavour, more delicate than many I’ve tasted throughout Europe. Served in ½-liter mugs that left us with no remaining thirst!

After relocating my (momentarily) lost passport and Eurail pass (left on the floor by Daniel’s couch), I realized the day was nearly spent – too late to journey into the hills for some hiking. So I returned to central platz, where the markets were bustling just a few hours before, for some fresh strawberries, only to find the stalls had all been packed away. Fortunately, a brat stand remained, with a steady stream of customers, and €2 later, I was biting into a piping hot brat with curry ketchup, folded into a warmly toasted, round bun. Delicious!

Kickoff for 2006 World Cup was tonight, and though not in Freiburg, the city itself was buzzing with excitement from fans of every age and nationality (Freiburg is a university city, so plenty of diversity exists). During my “lockout” (Daniel had no extra key to leave me, so I was on my own until 11:30 PM when he finished his work shift), I settled into a park bench in a shady square just around the corner from him apartment, with the rather large bags of groceries I had picked up. (I was hoping to make it back to the apartment before his roommates left to go watch the game from some pub or friend’s apartment, but I was too late, so the groceries had to stay with me until the end of the evening, when my “lockout” ended.) In truth, I stopped at this particular park because I had seen an attractive man sitting on the next bench over, and figured I might as well have something enjoyable to look at while waiting out my evening.

He was tall, tanned, with blonde-brown hair that was streaked with sunshine, slicked into a pony tail at the nape of his neck. His face, though a bit rugged, with a chiselled chin and deep-set eyes, was spread with a genuine smile as he watched a young father twirl his two bare-bottomed toddlers in the grassy lawn and pretend to dip them in the chilly fountain water. We locked eyes, and moments later, I was listening to the fascinating stories of this German-born sailor, Stefan, who worked for months at a stretch, navigating the Mediterranean and Atlantic. He had been to India, had sailed around the Cope of Good Hope all the way to Kenya, and was preparing now for a journey to the northern tip of Germany, near Hamburg, to pick up a sailing vessel which he and his small crew would then deliver to the wealthy couple in the Cote d’Azur, in France, some weeks later.
We both had a few hours to kill – Stefan was stranded for nearly the same reason as I: the World Cup game was to blame. His flatmates were hosting a large party, and since sports (soccer, at least) wasn’t up there on Stefan’s list of priorities, he had opted to spend his evening elsewhere – anywhere else. As he continued telling me about his adventurous life, making mine pale lousily by comparison, he mentioned that he played an instrument, a bongo-like creation he had picked up on one of his voyages. He enjoyed it so much, he said, that sometimes when he was home between sailing gigs, he would take it down to the Muenster platz and play for crowds, who would gather around, mesmerized by the sound of his Africa-inspired beats. And people would leave him money, which he didn’t really care about, because he did it for the sole enjoyment of the music and the rhythm and the crowds, and then he said he’d go get his instrument and play it for me.

So we made a plan to meet back at the park bench after he had retrieved his instrument from his flat. Meanwhile, I was determined to find a place to stash my groceries. Realizing I was just a few minutes’ walking distance from the train station, I figured I could simply rent a left-luggage locker, and leave them there for the duration of the evening. So as soon as he left, I scribbled a note, telling him not to go anywhere, placed a few pebbles on it to keep it from blowing away in the breeze, and walked off in the direction of the train station.

I wish I could say this story had some kind of a seductively entrancing ending. Like, he serenaded me with the rhythmic beat of his bongos as we sat watching the sun set over the city below from our perch in the mountainside. And then, after some passionate kissing under the moonlight, we walked hand in hand back to town, silently, with only the sound of our breath and the shuffle of our feet rising among the sounds of the night….

But sadly, this story ends only with a missed connection. By the time I returned to the park bench, the note was gone, and so was Stefan. And so, half-heartedly, I made my way back to the lookout spot where Daniel had taken me earlier that afternoon, and watched, alone, as the sun began sinking on the horizon. Down in the city, I could hear the cheers and whoops and hollers of eager fans as, no doubt, Germany continued its plunder over the opponent. The view was superb, as the setting sun warmed the sky to a tawny yellow. But I was distracted with thoughts of sailor Stefan, wondering where the night would have taken us.

~Melanie

Return to Italy!! Stresa and the Borromese Islands

STRESA, ITALY – June 8, 2006 (rough notes only)

6AM train and a few well-timed connections brough me to Stresa, Italy, along the western banks of Lake Maggiore, this morning

This is such a meaningful bonus for me, I owe to Thomas – I had wanted to visit here last month when in Menaggio, but ran out of time before my train left for Paris. Being here today was something I really savored.

Lake Maggiore has a sprinkling of tiny walk- from-one- edge-to-the- other-in-15- minutes island which were once owned by the wealthy Borromeo family. Isola Bella, Superiore dei Pescatori, and Madre were transformed into beautiful island hideaways with palatial villas, elegant terraced gardens and magnificent views across the lake.

I popped from one island to the next, wandered through the villa and gardens of Isola Bella (named from the wife of Charles Borromeo, Isabella), which included a puppetry room and underground grotto (perfect for a retreat from the summer heat).
The terraced Baroque gardens, which give the island the look of a stepped pyramid from the water, are topped with a nautically themed wall and a rearing unicorn – the symbol of the Borromeo family. Peacock strutting in one of the gardens.

Met a cute couple of old ladies from England. “Dare I say, Have a good day.”
On the afternoon boat, a captain insisted I wear his cap as he snatched a photo of me

Sunbathed on the rocks of Isola Madre

~Melanie

Mount Rigi: Walking the Ridge of the Swiss Alps

LUZERN & RIGI, SWITZERLAND – June 7, 2006
(rough notes only)

(this was my “consolation prize” from missing my 5AM wakeup call and the “Bernina Express” Swiss train adventure… what a hard life)

Ferry to Vitnau, one stop after Wessig, small little town with a well-kept secret: from here, a steely climbing train cradled you in a swathe of gleaming metal as it carried you safety up to the heights of Rigi Kulm, all the while flashing panoramic lake-and-mountain vistas at you like cards in a deck being shuffled my a master hand. Each one seemed to outdo the next as we climbed the steep mountainside.

The scenery changed with every glance, and you never had quite long enough to look before the train chugged through a blacker-than-black tunnel or passed through a cluster of trees. But, there was always the thrill of knowing you would eventually emerge on the other side to another picturesque view.

But what was more spectacular yet with the hike down from Kulm to the mountain station lying just shy of an hour’s walk downhill. As I walked along the ridge, I was blown away by the view to my left and to my right. It’s moments like these, surrounded by natural beauty that defies description, beauty that I can’t even begin to capture through the eye of my camera, that my heart bulges until emotion spills out my eyes. I sat in a shadowy overlook on a bench hewn from a mammoth oak, and felt tears rising to the surface, amid the stillness that surrounded me. Beautiful moment.

~Melanie

Heads or Tails: Switzerland or Italy?

LOCARNO & LUGANO, SWITZERLAND – June 6, 2006
(rough notes)

Realizing I was only a few hours from the Italian quarter of Switzerland (where it meets with Northern Italy), I decided to swing on down for the day (ah, you gotta love the ease with which you can travel from one region/country to the next). And don’t be fooled – just because this is still officially Switzerland doesn’t mean anyone “acts” Swiss. I’m not quite sure what “acting Swiss” is supposed to mean, but here in the south of Switzerland, you’d have to look hard for any evidence that you’re really not in the land of vita bella.

I arrived in Locarno via the William (“Wilhelm” in Swiss- Deutch) Tell Express, another one of those famous Swiss train rides. This one gets its name from the fabled story of the man who was forced to shoot an apple of his son’s head after refusing to bow to the Hapsburg Hat. Whether all legend, or based in some element of truth, this story picked up enough speed among the working class to help inspire them to rebel against their Hapsburg rulers.

This train ride crosses through the place where the first Swiss Cantons pledged “all for one and one for all,” that is, the birthplace of Confederate Helvetica. (So if you happen to browse to a Swiss website, like I did, and wonder, like I did, why the address is “.ch” and not something more blatantly obvious like “.sw”, now you know the secret!) This scenic ride takes you through the southern Alps – more rounded than their northerly brothers, and covered with evergreens.

I left the clouds behind in central Switzerland and, as I neared Locarno, I emerged from one mountain pass to greet blue skies awaiting me on the other side. And they stayed with me, all day long.

-- Hiked my way up the steep hillside to Santuarios della Madonna del Sasso, an impressive chapel and monastery complex with lush views of the lake below

-- A group of primary school children (age 9?) were inside the chapel, their shoes piled outside the doorway, practicing some kind of theatrical dance on the hard wooden floor. I peeked inside to watch for a few minutes. Their giggles echoed off the high, domed ceiling and the teacher tried eagerly, patiently, to correct their misshapen bodies and missteps as they posed, twirled, and stepped softly from one formation to the next.

-- While enjoying my baguette and cream cheese brunch from a sunny bench in the chapel’s courtyard, I was joined by 20-something 9-year-olds, finished with their practice and bursting with noisy energy. They hoisted their bodies halfway over the cement railing to peek over the too-tall edge, then screamed with delight as one after another, they catapulted their banana peels over the wall to the cement floor far below. Kid will be kids, in any country!

--Wandered through the city’s old quarter, and the Piazza Grande, its main square at the heart of the town. It is here that the International Film Festival takes place every August.

--Walked by Castello Visconteo, 10th century castle of the Visconti family

-- Took a train to Lugano – was much more taken with this charming lakeside town. A steep climb from the tracks down to the shore revealed a lovely tree-and-flower-lined promenade, with paddleboats for rent (and smiling customers churning white water trails behind them), gaggles of ducks and swans, a harbour chock full of sailing vessels, and even a slender elbow of sandy beach. Oh, how I wish I had brought a change of clothes to join the sunbathers!

~Melanie

Interlaken Carousel: Merry-Go-Round in the Swiss Alps

GRINDELWALD, KLEINE SCHEIDEGG, & LAUTERBRUNNEN, SWITZERLAND – June 5, 2006
(rough notes only)

Morning train via the “Golden Pass,” one of Switzer- land’s most scenic rail journeys, to Interlaken, jumping-off point for a litany of alpine adventures, pleasantly situated between Lakes Brienz and Thun (get it? Inter-lake-n)

Bought a day pass on the private rail, looping through the Jungfrau region. It is from this area that you can take a cable care to the “Top of Europe,” Jungfraujoch, which towers at 3454 meters.

Kleine Scheidegg – mountains hidden behind thick layers of white, liking trying to see through a glass of milk

Hiked to the observation tower through clumps of snow and pulled my jacket tighter against my body to ward off the harsh winds whipping across the high mountain plains

Descended to Lauterbrunnen, train snaking through steep mountainside. I spotted the underbellies of a herd of goats as they snack on grassy patches in an open field, our train descending sharply as we disappeared around a bend beneath them

Here and there, slender rivulets of falling water cascaded over mountain- top ledges, their downward path quivering back and forth as though they couldn’t make up their minds which journey was the quickest to the valley floor.

Chapel and graveyard, tombstones with wooden crosses.

Everything is wood – design, decoration (tudor-style, half-timbered houses), resourcefulness (park benches, fresh mountain water collecting in hewn tree trunks carved out as giant bowls)

Cows in a field, their necks each displaying a shiny bell that tinkled as they moved around the field

~Melanie

French Switzerland: Charging the Chateau Chillon

MONTREUX, SWITZERLAND – June 4, 2006
(rough notes only)

This is French Switzerland! Everyone speaks, writes French!

After taking a lovely morning walk along the banks of Lake Geneva, I arrived at the Chateau ChillonChillon was made famous in the writings of Lord Byron, who was so moved by the fate of Bonivard, Prior of St. Victor’s, Geneva.

Because Bonivard favored the independence of Geneva, he was chained in the prison cellar to a pillar for five years. Byron himself carved his name in one of the pillars as an expression of his remorse for Bonivard’s imprisonment.

Explored the rooms of htis 11th century castle, filled with armour, tapestries, banquet halls still decked with covered tables, carved solid-wood chairs, cupboards of metal utentils, glistening chandelierMoat and drawbridge, courtyards, watch tower with steep wooden-slat steps (can walk the ramparts), a prison, underground vaults, a crypt containing a small underground chapel

Was made all the more medieval by secondary school musical group, playing oboes, flutes, to the tune of period music

~Melanie