Writing about travel, because it broadens the mind and deepens the story.
If David Sedaris can do confessional, so can I. This all starts with a visit to my doctor, a stand-up kinda guy. I haul out the six different remedies for my sluggish digestion for show and tell, and he sets me straight. Exercise induces peristalsis. That, and fibre. Additionally, he suggests artichoke -based drops for my gallbladder.
I already eat a fairly healthy diet, thanks to the editor-spouse, who works from home and relaxes by making huge dinners. However, I do indulge in fatty foods, and I’ve slacked off on the exercise since I came back from Annapurna Base Camp last year. So the artichoke drops don’t have to work even harder, I resolve to eat less fatty food. I plan a five-hour hike across the Rossberg’s three different peaks in Canton Schwyz. (see last week’s post for more on Schwyz).
The night before, I arrive a little before ten at night in my hotel, in the pretty little town of Rapperswil, on Lake Zurich. I’m tempted by the sumptous array of cheeses I see, and order a small plate. Turns out I’m supposed to choose my own. After intensive descriptions of five, my head is spinning. “Just chose one of each type. One kind of blue cheese, one soft cheese, and one hard cheese,” I say.
I’m sitting down, reading Tana French and sipping a nice Yvorne, a Swiss white wine from the Valais, when a shadow falls across the table. The cheese plate.
I’ve borrowed a photo from Pixabay, because I didn’t have the presence of mind to take one. Multiply what’s on the photo times six. Yes, the thirty or so morsels are only thumb size, but that’s a hell of a lot of cheese. I point that out. “You said you wanted one of each,” the implacable young man says. “
“No, I wanted one of each type,” I wail. He doesn’t answer. His gaze is on me, intent, still fairly friendly. A lot of the cheese is soft and runny. I imagine the effort it must have taken to cut it; to arrange it on the wooden board.
I’m going to need another glass of wine to get that down. But tomorrow, I’ll hike five hours.
The next day the market is in full swing outside the hotel. There’s lots of greenery, but I can’t very well travel with a backpack full of salad. I chose a nut croissant,
I’ll be hiking five hours after all.
Except that I don’t follow routes that well. I make it to the top of the first ridge, enjoy the view, eat only half my croissant (oh I’m so good) and proceed to the next peak. Or maybe not. Somehow, I’m going back down. By the time I realize this, I don’t see another path up, and I hate retracing my steps.
Then I come to the metaphorical crossroad, so to speak. I see a path going back up. Way back up. I also see a sign informing me that the farmhouse five-minutes away has homemade ice cream.
I’ll give you three guesses on what wins out.
At least I’m supporting local farmers. Mrs. Gehren invites me into her kitchen, as it’s getting cooler. As I eat my ice cream, made with milk from the neighbor’s cows, an elderly biker comes in. He orders a coffee and asks Mrs. Gehren for a nut croissant (Nussgipfel). Since she doesn’t have one, I give him mine. That saves me the guilt from throwing away the uneaten portion, since I’m now consuming ice cream. Typical Swiss fairness—he offers to pay me for it, which I decline. In meantime, she comes back with a big portion of strawberry cake, which she discovered. He eats that too. He’s all skin and muscle. When I ask him about his Swiss Alpine Club pin, he says he used to do a lot of hiking, but now his knees are not up to it, so he took up biking. He’s seventy-nine. Yeah, when you’re like that, you can eat two desserts, and he probably doesn’t need artichoke drops either.
When the world ends, the hardy Swiss will still be puttering away in their all-weather gear, taking refuge in the alps, and building gadgets from scratch. In the apocalypse, my money is on them.
In meantime, I head back to the railway station, grazing on cherries from the orchards. I make a quick stop to buy some honey from a roadside box. But I’m saving that caloric expenditure for another day.