Prior to my adventures in Auland, Austria, I spent some time in Switzerland. Ah … Switzerland. Noted for its chocolate, clocks, chocolate, banks, chocolate, Heidi, chocolate, yodeling, and — lest we forget — chocolate.
My father’s paternal grandfather, Kasimer Lichty (originally spelled “Liechte”), came to the U.S. from Zurich, Switzerland in 1863 at the age of three, along with his parents and brother, Anthony. When indulging in a little genealogical research, I discovered that anyone of Swiss descent, no matter where they were born, can apply for dual Swiss citizenship. The catch is that they have to do so before they turn 21, and they have to be able to prove their ancestry. Unfortunately, I was over 21 when I found this out. Too bad. Sometimes I think that a Swiss passport might come in handy. But then I would probably have to know some German to be convincing.
Our first stop in Switzerland had been Basel, which is at the intersection of France, Switzerland and Germany on the Rhine River. From there we drove on to Lucerne. It was en route to Lucerne that we first came upon the Alps. I had never seen a mountain from the ground up before in my life. I had flown over the Rockies on my way to Los Angeles and had looked down on a few craggy peaks. But I had never looked up at one prior to the Swiss Alps. I was awe-struck. Right then and there I decided that I loved mountains.
Lucerne is a quaint, picturesque town with some of oldest streetcars in Europe. Surrounded by mountains, Lucerne is also on a river, which is traversed by an old, medieval, wooden bridge. On the ceiling of the bridge are paintings as old as the bridge itself. There is also a 10th century monastery to explore as well as a beautiful painted church. These are in the older part of the town. A more modern commercial area exists across the river.
Instead of staying within Lucerne, we stayed in a tiny village not too far away called Stans. Here was another small chalet-type hotel. Just outside of my window grazed a cow — a friendly cow. She simply chewed her cud and occasionally smiled or nodded in my direction.
After dinner the first evening there, my mother and I decided to take a walk. We hadn’t gone very far when we encountered a group of children wearing brown shirts and shorts, carrying torches, chanting something in German while parading down the main street. The combination of brown shirts, torches, German and parades doesn’t have the greatest connotation in the world to either of us. So, we hot-footed it back to the hotel.
Trying to be nonchalant, we asked the proprietor what whose kids were doing. He explained that they were some sort of scouting organization. I don’t know about you, but I never marched around carrying torches when I was a Girl Scout. The last thing the scouting masters would have done was to trust any of us with fire.
The next day, however, we went on the real adventure of this particular leg of the trip. Now, I have a major fear of heights. It’s really of falling from the height. I had previously declined to go up into the torch of the Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor or the whispering gallery of St Paul’s Cathedral in London. I still won’t take an open down escalator from several stories up in the Mall of America. My mom wasn’t much more of a fan of heights than me. Despite all of this, we had decided to travel to the top of Mount Titlis — 10,000 feet above sea level. We figured that it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. So I was determined to conquer my fear and do it. A group of about 20 of us met at about 10:00am on a Sunday morning to say our prayers and begin our journey.
The first part involved a specially constructed small train that ran straight up the side of the mountain. So far, so good. The next leg of the journey, however, was inside a small, open gondola traveling along a slender cable. One could either sit along the outside of the car watching the ground falling away below, or stand in the center or the car, holding onto the pole located there. Mom and I chose the latter. The car was small enough (each car held about ten people) that I could still see the ground falling away unless I closed my eyes, but at least I felt I had something fairly solid to hold onto. Silly me. Then we transferred to a second gondola.
By this time we were far enough up the mountain that the ground below us was covered with snow. We soon found ourselves gliding past a large glacier. The air was getting colder and the wind was picking up. I had pulled on a jacket, muffler, hat and gloves — which wasn’t easy to do while holding onto the pole. As the car attempted to dock for the transfer to a third gondola, it had some difficulty slipping into the slot that had been designed for it. Each time it would back up and try again, the gondola would sway a bit. This did not make me at all happy. I gritted my teeth, wrapped my fingers even more tightly around the pole and said my prayers.
After four or five attempts, we finally docked. My fingers were pried from the pole and we climbed the steps to the third gondola. At least the others climbed — I crawled. My legs had the same rubbery consistency as Spencer Tracy’s had in the original film version of “Father of the Bride” when he had that nightmare about trying to walk down the aisle at his daughter’s wedding. Ricardo, our Italian Tour Director, looked at me and commented, “Your face … she’s as white as a sheet.” He pronounced the word “sheet” differently. I felt pretty much the way he pronounced it.
We were above the glaciers now and the wind and snow were blowing strongly around and through the dangling car. When the gondola would begin to sway too much, it would stop moving along the cable. I was certain my knuckles were tensely white beneath my gloves and my hands felt as if they were frozen to the pole. I began to think about the fact that, should the gondola actually dislodge from the cable, the pole was not really going to be of much use to me in a plunge of several thousand feet into the frozen tundra. I began to imagine being found 3,000 years from now, frozen solid, my hands still wrapped around the pole and my mother’s hands still wrapped around my neck. It had been I who had talked her into this.
I realized that, at the moment I had made the decision to ascend this mountain, I had obviously been suffering from temporary insanity. It might have been kinder to have locked me up for about 24 hours at that point — straight jacket and all. [NOTE: I wore a straight jacket in a play once. It was actually rather comfortable.] At least this gondola had no trouble docking and we were all quite relieved to climb out of it.
We were at the top of the mountain. It seemed like the top of the world. There was a small restaurant and gift shop there. The rest of the group staggered into the restaurant and ordered a round of drinks. Still in the grip of lunacy, I noticed a door that led outside onto a stone terrace. I opened it and stepped outside.
The snow was blowing fiercely, but the view was spectacular. I pulled out my camera and took several shots of the Swiss Alps from the top. Looking down upon the nearby snowcapped peaks was a thrill. I heard the door behind me opening and someone else stepped out onto the terrace. I took that as my cue to go back inside. I was glad now that I had gone through with it. Back inside in the gift shop, I bought a small cow bell inscribed with the words “Titlis — 3020M — 10,000 ft” for six Swiss francs.
Fortunately, the trip down was uneventful. I even pulled out my camera again and took pictures of what we saw on the way down. The next day we left for Liechtenstein (of which I have always been rather fond due to the similarity to my own name), followed by Austria. Now you know why I needed that rest in Auland.
