The Lugano Experience

Last Monday evening, after hopelessly staring at a computer screen for several hours hoping that a spark of imagination or creativity might stab into the vacuous void called Sven’s head, I decided I needed a break.  I know, I know, I just took a weekend to Disneyland Paris, you are saying – in fact I was saying the same thing to myself.  But for anyone who has ever been to the house of Mouse will know, Disneyland is not a place where you let your creativity become rejuvenated… In fact it really has an almost opposite effect… The constant bombardment of sight and sound serves as a drain to my sensitive psyche and I usually walk away from the place fulfilled, but rather limp.

So, after careful and thoughtful deliberation for about eighty or so seconds, I thought the best thing would be to get away for a long weekend.  Sun?  Well, that would be nice, but sun and warm is quite a ways away, and much more time would be needed for a tropical outing.

I opted instead, for snow.  Lots and lots of snow.  I decided that the one thing that I needed was a big, fat dose of Switzerland.  I know, I know – I am living in Switzerland.  But, I have been taking a lot of my mini get-aways out of Switzerland (Italy, Germany, France).  And I know I live in Lugano, Switzerland, but Lugano is a far cry from that “Yodel lay Hee Ho!” that us Americans have come to know and love (and stereotype).  Lugano is much more like “Yodelini Quatro Formaggi Por Favore.”   I mean, it wants to be a Swiss town, but it just can’t quite get over the fact that it really sorta kinda wants to be Italian, too.   I guess that is one of the nice things about Switzerland: live and let live (and stop bothering us, we told you, we’re neutral).

Ok, so, I needed to find someplace that was gonna give me a big dose of Swiss (as I define it, not as the Swiss define it.)  Of course, my first thought was to visit that four-story chocolate clock with the random knife attachments jutting out at impossible angles.  But since that is really a place reserved in my happy-Swiss-land and does not actually occupy space in the real world, I pretty much ruled it out immediately. 

There was only one other logical conclusion for a dose of super-duper extra callafragilistic expealla Swiss-ness. (Yea, I know I am a juvenile)

The Matterhorn.

That’s right, the Matterhorn.  And what say’s Switzerland like that icon of icons jutting up into the air like a giant, natural, god-made phallic symbol?  (I told you I was juvenile…)

The actual place that I was heading off to is a little village called Zermatt.  Now before we get going too far, you should all understand that this is pronounced ZER mut (emphasis on the ZER and “mut” rhymed with “put”).  I had been saying zer MAT (emphasis on the Mat rhyming with Pat).  This mispronunciation got me no end of quizzical looks and corrections.  At first, I was a little peeved, I mean, you say tomato and I say … tomato.  Ok, that doesn’t work in print, but you get the idea.  But then I realized something.  If someone asked me if I had ever been to Bow Stone in the U.S., I would probably tell them “No, where the hell is Bow Stone?”  To which they might reply, “You know home of the Reed Soaks.” 

Now, at this point I would be completely confused until, well, until I finally got it and then I would tell this poor sap of a foreigner “Oh!  You mean Boston, home of the Red Sox!”  To which silly, hapless non-English speaking foreigner would say “Yea, that’s what I said, Bow Stone, home of the Reed Soaks!”

And it was at this point I realized I was the silly, hapless foreigner.  God save the queen.

Anyway, Friday rolls along (after an interminably long week), and I am off early in the morning and pleased as punch that I am going to see the Matterhorn.  (Coincidentally, my sisters and their husbands are going to Disneyland this same weekend… where they will ride the Matterhorn Bobsled ride.  The world is a funny place).

The ride from Lugano to Zermatt (did you think it in your head right?), is about 5 hours.  And most of the ride is uneventful, if you consider seeing the MOST beautiful freakin’ countryside on this planet uneventful.  I mean, seriously… Mountains and snow and valleys and rivers and waterfalls and frozen waterfalls surrounded by the quaintest little villages and big horned sheep and, well, and wow.  If I had gotten to Zermatt and immediately turned around, it would have been worth the price of admission.

Now the train ride was great, but I must admit there was one moment on the train when I thought there would be bloodshed.  In Brig (pronounced Brig), a younger couple hops on the train (late 20s early 30s… I can’t believe I consider that a younger couple these days <sigh>).  They are American, and they are sitting a few rows ahead of me.  Now, normally, I would relish the chance to eavesdrop on a conversation in English.  Don’t get me wrong, I don’t care much about what people say, it is just nice to be able to understand something now and again.

In this particular case, several minutes into the ride from Brig, I am scanning the floor for something long and sharp to gouge at my ear drums.  Somebody please make it stop!!  The woman has this high-pitched, incredibly loud and obnoxious voice, and she must be hard of hearing (or simply American) because she seems to have the need to talk loud enough that everyone in the car hears her conversation…  No, not merely everyone in the car, Sven, but also the Conductor.  No, Sven, not merely the conductor, but the conductors on the passing trains. (I could do this for hours, but you get the point).   So, as people are politely shuffling and looking around to try to show that she is being too loud and too irritating, I am growing increasingly embarrassed for this young lady who then begins to talk about how she has not broken out yet in zits or herpes… Yes, that is correct and NO, this is not one of my exaggerations… She is literally talking in full volume about her freakin herpes.  It is at this point that I am praying that nobody else can speak English on this or the passing trains (knowing full well that is a vain hope).  It is also at this point that I vow to speak only Russian until I am safely far, far away from this couple so as not to be deemed guilty by association of language…

Now, I am either too tired or too shell-shocked to get up and go to another seat (although I am pretty confident, as previously mentioned, that all the cars could hear this woman) and quite frankly I cannot seem to tear myself away from the conversation - like watching the Anna Nicole show, once you start there is no stopping to see how bad the train-wreck is going to get… She then proceeds to tell her friend (boyfriend - they got into a fight last week over Sarah (whoever that is) but have now made up) how on the plane ride over she was surprised that the plane was going so fast that it went past the moon… I kid you not.

It is about this time that I am thinking that there is no jury anywhere that will convict me of homicide in this situation - it is decidedly self-defense… And I have a train full of witnesses that will back me up (I think her boyfriend included), but luckily for me they get off the train…

Quiet.  Blessed, blessed quiet…

The rest of the train ride into Zermatt is uneventful and beautiful, and I soak in the view of the several glaciers that we pass along the way.  Zermatt itself is a wonderful town - this is the overdose of Switzerland that I was hoping to find.  As I exited the train, I really expected to hear over the loudspeakers “Permanecer Sentados por favor” but no such luck. 

There are no cars allowed in the town - only electric taxis.  Now I have been in cabs in Rome, Moscow, Seoul, New York City and Los Angeles in rush hour.  Not trying to brag, but merely pointing out that I have seen some pretty damned crazy driving…  But nothing prepared me for the complete and utter psychos that were bonsai-ing around in the electric cabs in this otherwise peaceful mountain town… Luckily their little cars topped out at around 30 or so which meant they only maimed rather than slaughtered anyone foolish enough to not leap from their path.  The way they wipped in and around pedestrians and other cars - all on ICE (the roads were a mix of packed snow and ice), was absolutely insane.  Not once or twice, but three times I really, honest-to-god thought I was going to get pummeled only to watch maniacal-cabby-man pull some formula 1 racing trick out of thin air (or a danker, muskier place) and maneuver his way past me.  Needless to say, that I felt a lot safer hurdling down the side of a cliff with two boards strapped to my feet than I did walking the streets of Zermatt at 5 PM when the cabbies were in full force.

Well, I made it to the hotel in one piece - I am a quick study and learned oh-so-fast that if I was to survive the weekend I would get the hell outa the way of the electric taxis.  And this is where I go into “gushy” mode.  The Hotel Parnass is GREAT.  People were friendly, accommodating and sincere.  They made a special meal for me that was vegetarian (that was quite honestly one of the best salads I have had in years).  The room was small (welcome to Europe), but clean and nice.  The price was CHEAP.  And the view… The MATTERHORN.  I was in a little piece of heaven.  If you go to Zermatt, and you want a place in the middle of town with a great view, nice people and a reasonable price, look no further than Parnass.

I headed up the hill to ski on Saturday.  The mountain there, as one might expect, is quite spectacular.  It is at this point where things could very well become boring for you, my loyal reader, as I have nothing to bitch about.  Not one darned thing.  It was all great.  Snow was great, the scenery was spectacular and I didn’t break myself.  The last of those tidbits is quite surprising, really, since I am a very novice skier.  In my youth, I got by with a lot of daring (which I now would call stupidity), and limberness… which has long left my body… But, I managed to get down the hills without falling (I chose only the beginner runs) or straining anything too badly. 

I will say, that there were a few runs in which I object to anyone calling “beginner.”  There was one run where, had I tried making a turn on this “hill” (most sane people would call it a cliff face), there would have been little Sven parts flying in several directions - or a ski pole lodged strategically in a very un-strategic place.  So, being the sane gentleman that I am, I decided not to tempt fate by turning.  Rather, I pointed my skis straight down the hill, tucked, and went for broke.  It seemed like the sanest thing to do at the time.  Luckily nobody dared get in my way (it was, I am sure, obvious that turning was not in my playbook), and I made it to the bottom in tact although in trauma…  Of course, not so traumatized that I didn’t give it another go…

After a day of ski fun, I went back to the hotel and had a tall cup of hot chocolate (I like to think it was Swiss Miss, Instant Cocoa).

And I was out.

Sunday rolled around rather early, and I had planned to hop on the morning train and get on back.  However, something inside told me I had better make a run on the Matterhorn Bobsleds before I got off this mountain or I would regret it. 

First, I should clarify… This is not really a bobsled (as in Olympic), it is a sled, as in your 8 year old… But it sounds a lot cooler when you say bobsled, so stick with me on that.  Second, this is not the sled of an 8 year old… This is a serious device and the track is not some straight 100 meter run that you walk back up when you are finished.  The track is about 15 feet wide with bends and turns and 70 degree drops with 80 degree berms.   The track has several spots where, if you leave it “unexpected like”, you are likely to tumble several hundred feet before your bruised and bloodied carcass comes to its (possibly final) resting place.   AND, it is LONG… Like a good 3 minutes to go down the run (and when you are threatening to break the land speed record, three minutes translates to a LONG way)…  I managed to not break my leg - a feat considering that I crashed a good 10 or so times jumping off the side of a berm that I just had too much speed to be able to take (digging yourself out of six feet of snow when you are head first is quite a challenge if you wanted to know).  I must admit, that I cackled and laughed like a complete and utter lunatic for a solid four hours going down this run… It was an absolute hoot and I recommend it to everyone - sledding (or SLOOGING as the Germans might say) has become a new favorite past time.

And then, as soon as it started it ended.  I dragged myself off the hill and ran over to catch the train before I got stranded (although I was sort of hoping I would be).  In Brig we picked up another car full of loud people… But this time, it was the Irish!!  A whole freakin train load of them!  There must have been a good 30 or so Irish men and women (all in a group, mind you) that swarmed onto the train.  I was in heaven.  They were drinkin and cursin and laughin and carrying on like it was a mini St. Patrick’s day.  They were the nicest, most friendly bunch and there wasn’t a tenth of a second where you couldn’t hear someone laughing on the train.  It was brilliant.  Of course, all I could think about was asking them to say, ”They’re magically delicious” (I know I am going to hell for it, but there you go)… I resisted the urge, but I would have paid good money if one of them would have indulged me.  I did get a couple of odd looks when I busted into laughter myself for no apparent reason, but I think that actually endeared me to these fine folks… 

Then the Irish got off in Fiesch - population 400… That poor town never knew what hit it.  Alone again with my thoughts,  I spent the remainder of the train ride back to Lugano planning my next trip to the Matterhorn.