Visiting the annual Huttwil cheese festival was possibly one of my most memorable days yet. It started when my Ramesh, who lives in the room directly below mine, wandered through the kitchen on a Sunday morning, and I convinced him to come to Huttwil with me. Considering that I come from Sugarcreek, with the annual Swiss (Cheesy) Festival, I just had to go see the real thing.
Now, before I continue this story, I have to explain the context of how I interact with Ramesh. Our primary means of communication is me waking him up with my outrageously squeaky floor. (He lives right below me, remember?) Next, let me explain the fire escape system for the fifth floor of my apartment building. Since we’re right below the roof, there are no balconies, and thus, no means of having a legitimate fire escape. No worries. In the hall, right in front of my room’s door, there’s a trap door you can lift. Next, you calmly climb down the ladder to the fourth floor, walk up to the glass box with a key dangling inside, break the glass, retrieve the key, unlock room number 45, walk through it, go out on the balcony and climb down the fire escape. (I mentioned that I live in “affordable” housing, right?) So, when I’m sitting at the table in the communal kitchen, Ramesh’s head might pop up through the trap door to shout something to the fifth floor. I love this place.
So, we went to the festival. On the way there, Ramesh left his coat in the train (because he was too distracted by our “discussion” of American politicians), which set the tone for the rest of the day.
I ate half of ton of cheese, by sampling from every cheese stand I passed. They were competing to win the prize in one of 25 or categories of Swiss cheese. No joke.
Then I milked a plastic cow, which was, basically, the highlight of the day.

I watched people dance and sing traditional music, etc. etc. On the way back, Ramesh jumped into the train forgetting that he hadn’t yet bought a ticket. Somehow (and no one believes that we pulled this off) between him talking English in a thick Indian accent, and me talking High German at 98 mph, we managed to convince the conductors to let us get off at the next station instead of paying the outrageous fine. This left us in a tiny village, with nothing to do but look at the llamas. (?!)

Alright, so my blog pretty much died in the last month or two… or three. I’ll start by posting a plethora of mountain pictures. The mountains are, after all, the crowning jewel of Switzerland.

What’s the most exciting thing I’ve done in the past week? I donated blood for the first time in my life! I was possibly more scared than the last time I jumped out of an airplane.

Ok, back to the Alps. These are the last pictures I took, before my old camera took an unfortunate tumble from my back pack. Thankfully, I now have that camera's younger cousin, and I can continue to take pictures in bliss.

Mom, I really will learn to do this some day. Sorry. As soon as I checked off "donate blood" I added this...

I just had a discussion with my flatmates in the kitchen, claiming that Switzerland is the most beautiful country on earth. One agreed, the other doubted. Draw you're own conclusion. Switzerland gets my vote.

A Moment of Silence

And now, we call for a moment of silence for Mary Ann's Canon PowerShot S400. Yes, we all remember that moment fondly, when the Digital Elph became Mary Ann's new toy more than three years ago. She took photos of lovely sunsets, took self-aimed shots of herself and Mom, took pictures of Dad speaking and of Daniel smelling his own hairy armpit. (Just as examples.)
We reflect fonldy on D. Elph's persistence in producing high quality photos for a full year and a half after his view finder so tragically met an untimely end, imediately before taking a picture of Sabrina and Helmut on the latter's awesome motorcycle in May 2005. And now, we look at the last photographs taken, shortly after D. Elph took an unfortunate tumble from Mary Ann's backpack near the peak of the Stockhorn. Is that photo of a stunning peak reflected in a clear, alpine lake blurred due to Mary Ann's over emotional response? Is the other picture, where Mary Ann poses next to a used sink, toilet bowl, and toilet brush and a sign that says "gratis" (free) blurred because her friend Irene is laughing too hard to take a proper shot?
No, alas. The camera has croaked. It groans every time one presses the "on" button. With every use of the zoom function, new noises appear, unprecedented in D. Elph's tragically truncated existence.
Sigh.
Thank you for your respectful consideration of D. Elph's passing away. In leu of flowers, D. Elph's most immediate family requests that donations be made to the Don't-Let-the-Second-Two-Thirds-of-Mary-Ann's-Switzerland-Year-Remain-Undocumented Fund. Checks may be sent to the foundation's US headquarters in Sugarcreek, or by direct deposit to a certain Swiss bank account.

The Column

Just for fun, I’ve decided to post my newspaper column from this week online. When Julianne visited me, we ended up in Zermatt, and I felt the need to give about 10,000 people the details. Yes, I somehow began writing a weekly column for The Budget in September, which is possibly the most unique newspaper on the planet. Just think, you could subscribe and read my column, with a bonus of all the news that the 2,000 residents of Sugarcreek, Ohio can produce! The police log (“We found a stray dog and received a complaint about a speeding motorist…”) is my favorite. You can also get detailed reports from Amish communities across the US and Canada in the letters section. “The weather is cloudy, we’re canning peaches again, J.R. Yoder’s and M.S. Troyer’s visited this forenoon.” etc.

Just send a check for $42 ($48, if you’re outside Ohio), with a note that says, “I hear that Mary Ann’s column, Vantage Points, is stunningly brilliant. Please allow me to subscribe to your newspaper!” (The Budget, P.O. Box 249, Sugarcreek, OH 44681, www.thebudgetnewspaper.com)

Vantage Points

At the Foot of the Matterhorn

Editor's note: I decided that the column was acutually far too long and wordy to hog space on this blog. So, I deleted the first half, and leave you with a sample.

<...>

Another hour later, our train pulled into the car-free town of Zermatt. Hundreds of tourists walked through the streets, while electric carts moved luggage and people to hotels. Occasionally, a horse-drawn carriage plodded by, taking its stylish passengers to the fanciest hotels. Zermatt is so cute, you wonder whether Walt Disney designed the wooden houses with window boxes overflowing with red geraniums.

After turning a bend in the street, we could finally see the Matterhorn. Its bare rock rose behind the smaller mountains softened by evergreens. We eyed the cable cars, but decided we would hike up the hillside. Tiny, wooden huts dotted the hillside as we slowly left Zermatt behind.

By the time we reached the second cable car station, two sweat marks on my shirt clearly showed where my backpack straps had been. Cable car after cable car swung past us, whisking tourists up the mountainside.

“This isn’t really cheating. We’ll hike back down, right?” Our decision adequately justified, we watched the valley zip by through the glass of our cable car. We exited at a restaurant that would serve hot chocolate and soup to skiers and snow boarders in a few months.

After soaking up a closer view of the Matterhorn, we began to hike toward Zermatt, whose buildings now looked like tiny specks in the distant valley. From this height, the simple mountain huts and the hotels charging $500 per night looked identical.

Just as we neared the cable car station again, the sound of singing drifted up our path. At a small café, a group of Swiss people were raising their glasses to someone and singing. Then one of them started yodeling.

Before I go any further, let me explain that yodeling is a sensitive topic for me. If I write about this, will people think that the Swiss do nothing but walk around in suspenders or frilly dresses while playing the Alphorn or the accordion? (Really, most wear jeans and work in offices.)

How many Europeans believe the stereotype of the American tourist? The American wears a t-shirt, baseball hat, and white tennis shoes, while being photographed making goofy poses in front of important cultural landmarks. (You know, pretending to hold up the tower of Pisa or standing in front of a statue while pointing at the sky, such that in the picture, your finger goes right up the statue’s nose.)

While listening to the yodeling, I thought back to how Julianne and I stood on the banister of the restaurant’s patio. We took pictures of each other “hanging” from the top of the Matterhorn, or “holding” the entire mountain in the palm of our hands. I looked down. I was wearing a t-shirt, but (phew!) no baseball cap and no white tennis shoes. My tennis shoes were light grey.


© Mary Ann Miller, 2006
First printed in The Budget, Nov. 1, 2006.

Breaking the Silence

After a long silence, she finally posts again. Doubtless you have been holding your breath when you click on this link daily… “Has she uploaded something new?! Has she?!”
Right.
At this point I would like to insert a quote from Nathan’s webpage:
"Creating your own blog is about as easy as creating your own urine, and you're about as likely to find someone else interested in it." - Lore Sjöberg

Yes. Thank you, Nathan.

Actually, I moved, which explains part of my absence from posting. My days in student housing in the only ugly high rises (see right) in the greater Bern area are past.

I now live a two-minute walk from the university buildings, in what I like to call the “artistic quarter.” By artistic, I mean that a number of youths have left their artistic works on the front of the building in the medium of spray paint. But it’s luxurious living. I have my own room, share a kitchen with two others, and a shower with nine.
When I brought my stuff to the room, I asked the person I’m subletting from, “So, why is there a plastic container below the window?”
“Well, sometimes, (but only when the wind blows from the south!) the window, um, leaks a bit.”
“And the electric heater?”
“Well, in the winter, (but only when the wind blows from the south!), it gets a bit drafty in the room.”
I love where I live though. The people are fun, the room is cozy, and (thanks to happy wireless sharing) I now have internet.

(I really do live in a nice part of town. See? This is just down the street.)

I really do study, too

Perhaps a picture of me behind a desk stacked high with old, dusty volumes might convince you guys that I'm not just on vacation. Really, despite all the other posts, I do research-related things quite often. Really. :o)

Even though I'm studying the history of the Anabaptists while I'm here, I constantly come in contact with contemporary issues, as well. (Especially with the year of events on Anabaptist history coming up.) Just now, I ran across an amazing quote on a Swiss Mennonite website, and felt the sudden urge to share it with the world:

die Grenze zwischen gut und böse geht nicht durch Länder, Klassen oder politische Parteien, sodern durch jedes Menschen Herz
Und die Linie verschiebt sich auch
www.etg.ch

the line between good and evil does not follow the lines of country, class, or political parties; it goes through each human heart
And the line shifts, too


Teaser: Julianne and I jumped in the Aare River and saw the Matterhorn in its full glory. Pictures soon to follow...

Alpine heaven

The weather forecast: Klar und wolkenlos [clear and cloud-free]. I took the only logical course of action: start the weekend a day early and head for the Alps.

My hike went from Schynigge Platte (2068m) to the peak of the Faulhorn (2686) and back down to First (2168). Nearly the entire walk was above the tree line, and the first half was entirely in snow.
Get this: I wore these amazing Lowe hiking boots for free! Why do I keep exclaiming about free stuff? After shelling out about twice as much as is my custom for everything from zucchini to stamps, finding anything free is an absolute delight. It’s a good thing I had those boots and these delightfully cheesy hiking sticks. More than once, the path followed steep drop-offs and the boots/sticks kept me afloat in the slushy snow.


I’ll stop talking now, and let you look at the pictures. These are just a few, check out the Photos link to the right for more.
Can I just say that I still can’t believe I live here?