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?

Floating peaks

On Thursday, I took a little cog-train to the top of a hill/mini-mountain on the outskirts of Bern. It was the first day of perfect weather since I've been here. Here's a journal entry from sitting in the park at the top:

I literally gasped. What I have the amazing opportunity to look at right now is some of the most amazing scenery I have ever seen in my life. I sit on a perfect carpet of lush, green grass. To my left, a walking path winds past corn fields and pastures. I see a couple, walking a dog. A man in a wheelchair has paused to chat with a woman walking back up the hill. A father stands behind his son, pointing to and naming the peaks in the distance. Yes, the Alps. The unmistakable trio of Jungfrau, Mönch, and Eiger look too perfect against the hazy, nearly cloudless blue sky. The rain we’ve had in the past week was obviously snow at that altitude. I suspect that the trail I followed two weeks ago is covered in snow. What would I give to live in the cluster of houses up ahead? To be able to gaze upon these mountains all the time?

To my left, a man was stretched out, sleeping on the grass. His wife, who was wandering barefoot across the meadow, has come back to wake him. The clouds are moving to the left, and for the first time, I can see the north face (almost in its entirety). I can see why it is famous enough to have an entire line of outdoor outfitting/equipment named after it. A black triangle, rough around the edges, stands out against a row of peaks softened with snow.

Peaceful. Yet I’m surrounded by people. I don’t have a monopoly on this gorgeous view, but somehow, humans don’t seem invasive here. Ten minutes ago, I saw a car drive away from the village, but I couldn’t hear it. All I hear is the buzzing of a bee (he seems intrigued by my backpack and camera) and the panting of two cyclists coming up the hill. When do people get tired of looking at these mountains?

Is history really that cyclical?

The other day I was standing at the bus stop, gazing out over the main square of Bern, and deciding that if one must live in a city, it might as well have cobblestone streets and a view of the Alps. Then it happened. With absolutely no warning, this guy walked up and joined the group waiting for the bus. And he had tight-rolled his jeans and stuffed them into his socks. That alone would not have been so alarming. I mean, crazy people are everywhere. But he was wearing this distasteful remnant of the eighties with confidence. Now questioning the future safety of the world, if it is to be handed to a generation willing to go back to the eighties, I stumbled toward the bus.
With my eyes opened to the magnitude of this disaster, I could now see warning signs everywhere: Girls, my age and younger, wearing “skinny jeans,” (a far too complimentary label for these tapered, ankle-hugging trousers). In Bern’s daily evening newspaper, Heute, the “Streetstyle” section spotlighted a college-aged, otherwise normal young woman, who took the effort to modify her own jeans and sew them tighter at the cuffs.
So, get on with your life, Mary Ann, right? Here’s what I fear: If I see enough people bringing back those styles from the eighties we’ve all tried to forget, and if those people wear them confidently, I might not be able to withstand the pressure of socialization. Yes, I tied knots in the sides of my T-shirts in grade school… If I wanted the slap bracelets then, will I want the “carrot jeans” in a few months?
I remember when cropped pants came out a while back, I declared them the worst invention ever. I now own multiple pairs. How does this happen? As I type this, the over-sized sunglasses I bought two weeks ago stare at me. Are they not reminiscent of the eighties? Am I already sliding back to the decade of mismatching neon? Pardon me, I think I’ll go try to find a pair of over-sized, plastic earrings.

2 wheels are better than 4

I got a free bike today! What?! A liter of milk cost over a dollar, and I got a free bike?! So, the student housing I have the pleasure of enjoying is amazing. Sure, it’s an ugly, grey apartment building, but there’s an out-of-tune piano in the basement, I have wireless internet in my room, AND the manager collects old bikes to give to the students. After giving him a deposit, off I pedaled on an ancient bike his wife’s aunt no longer wanted. (Well, that isn’t quite true. First, I had to go buy the obligatory Swiss bicycle insurance and registration sticker. Apparently I now have insurance for doing up to 2,000,000 Swiss Francs worth of damage to others. I’m trying to imagine the skill it would take to do that on a bicycle….) The three speed shifters and the lights even work! Transportation in style.

Bernese Oberland (soggy, but beautiful)

I had been in Switzerland for four full days, and still hadn’t been to the alps. This had to change. On Sunday, I headed for the snow-capped peaks in all their glory. Here are a few things I learned:

1) Hiking above the tree line to the edge of glaciers in the alps should probably be planned more than one hour before going to bed the night before.
2) When one finds weather reports predicting rain, one should not simply keep looking at different websites until one finds one that promises at least partial sunshine.
3) When gearing up for a hike, (and this, again, can only be done through advanced planning) it is advisable to purchase some water barrier (i.e. jacket) before landing in Grindelwald, possibly the most expensive town on earth. (But I do have a really cool, breathable, and definitely water proof jacket now. I'm not sure it was worth a month of groceries...)
4) When hiking up a steep incline for three or four continuous hours, one should not try to keep up with a tall Polish guy, whose stride is twice as long as one's, even if he is an economics teacher and can hold an interesting conversation in excellent English (or German). 5) When one arrives at the peak of the planned hike, one might want to consider a bit more carefully if one should branch off the well-marked path to go to the edge of a glacier, even if it is the Eiger's glacier. One should also consider that what appears to be "just over the next hill" might actually involve a climb with an additional 1,000 altitute gain.
6) Short cuts usually increase the total distance traveled and time spent and effort exerted.
7) The rationale "if a cow can come up this trail, surely I can go down it" might be poor justification for refusing to backtrack when one loses the well-marked Swiss hiking trail and instead attempts an impossible trail at the very brink of the edge of a 30 foot drop-off. Half-way down, one might find goat droppings, suggesting that large cows never attempt this “short cut.” One might watch a rescue helicopter zoom away to someone else, and wonder if it will soon have a reason to return. One might realize that due to altitude and fatigue, one's calves and quads are going through involuntary tremors, while one’s non-trail-running shoes are but an inch from the drop off. One might cling to a tree branch, and one might feel frightened.
8) A large chunk of brie cheese is not the best hiking food, even if one thinks one packaged it well, and even if it was the only thing one had in the fridge.
9) Taking one's journal on a hike because "hey, I might be inspired," is not advisable when your pack is not water tight.
10) The Swiss Alps are absolutely the most gorgeous mountains I have ever seen in my life.

Trek: Grindelwald – Kleine Scheidegg – Eigergletscher – Wengen

The skies opened about seventeen seconds after I started walking and the rain kept up until I was nearly at the top of the pass. Dragging my soggy self and my soggy backpack to the top made me appreciate the views all the more. The mountains were only cloud-free for about 30 minutes all day, and these happened to take place exactly as I was eating lunch with a full view of the Jungfrau, Mönch, and Eiger. I wish the pictures could do this justice...




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Schwyzertütsch!

Schwyzertütsch = Schweizer Deutsch = Swiss German

As soon as I arrived in Switzerland, I realized that I, in fact, do not speak the language. Sure, I’m fluent in German, but Swiss German shares little more than a similar name. No joke: In the first few days, I would hear people talking on the street and on the train and think, “Are they speaking French? Swedish? Japanese?”
The second day I was here, I was talking with a Swiss student on my floor in the communal kitchen. “Yeah, some people say it sounds like a throat disease…” Well, that’s a flattering way to describe the constant interjection of throaty “ch” sounds in every other word. Ah hah! Maybe that’s why Switzerland’s country abbreviation is “CH.” (Truth: It actually is an abbreviation of Confoederatio Helvetica, the Latin name of the Swiss Confederation.)
It’s such a charming language, though. Imagine someone speaking German, but with a softer, more sing-songy quality. Today I considered it a small success when I could understand about half of the words the guy at the cell-phone store said. Yes, I was complaining because my cell-phone refused to connect with its network. His first three words were in High German, then I think he slid into the local dialect to keep me from continuing my complaint. It worked. I smiled, nodded, and left.

(Later note: The cell-phone works now, all is well with the world. Shameless advert: Get skype! PC to PC calls are free and the sound quality is just as good. Yay for around-the-world conversations for free!)

A snapshot of downtown Bern. Can you believe that this is a capital city? UNESCO also officially calls it "pretty cool," meaning the medieval downtown is a World Heritage Site.

Side note: I live in an ugly, concrete apartment in the high-rise suburbs, but still, I'm only a 5 minute train ride from this!