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Switzerland is a bit of a postcard. So perfect do things work, so idyllic are their rolling green hills and dramatic snow capped mountains, and so friendly are their chubby blonde children that one begins to believe that all is not well in the land of clocks and chocolate. Just as no one suspects the butterfly, the Swiss have managed to slip under every ones radar undetected, slowly stockpiling massive amounts of multi use ergonomic knives and breeding an army of massive St. Bernard’s. Upon first meeting with a Swiss person one would hardly think these lovely people capable of such world domination. But one mention of the neighbouring Germans and the face of hatred rears its ugly head. Jokes about turtle necks and socks with sandals come flying from their mouths, and the determined and efficient looks in their beautiful blue eyes makes one understand immediately that the Swiss are not to be trifled with. Soon, the Swiss will come to dominate world politics, gradually replacing Big Macs with fondue, football jersey’s with form fitting lycra bicycle singlet’s, and regular old hills with ones that are alive with the sound of music. And though this might scare you at first,
A distant pic
of me in the air from what Dennie and I can tell from our recent visit, it might not be a bad idea to put them in charge. They seem to have things worked out pretty well.
We abandoned the dog poop infested streets of Valencia, in search of clean air and adventure sports. We flew into Basel and were welcomed immediately by our lovely couch surfing host. Anja drove us to a tiny village outside of Basil where her house sat in an orchard surrounded by blooming cherry trees. Though beautiful, the village of Nugler does not see many tourists. And as I walked the cobbled streets of the village I drew stares from suspicious locals. A group of punk kids sat on a street corner making jokes and pointing in my direction. However as I approached, they must have sensed my teacher presence and stared silently at the ground until I was a safe distance away. As I walked slowly away, I swore I heard a joke being made in Swiss German about my thumbs.
The next day we would take a train through those idyllic green hills towards the Alps and the town of Interlaken. The town stands at the
foot of the Jungfrau, Eiger and Monch Mountains and is a known weekend getaway for the rich and famous. It is also the adventure sport capital of Europe. This combination draws an eclectic crowd, as backpacker hostels partner with 4 star hotels to cater to all types. Such was the case with our accommodation. Some guests at our hostel were clients of the esteemed Matterhorn Resort and conference center, while we were guest at the ever classy Funny Farm Backpacker Party Palace. As Ferraris, Bentleys’ and Rolls Royce’ lined the streets outside of Hooters Restaurant on main street, Dennie and I decided it would be a shame not to take advantage of the myriad of adventure sports on offer. We chose tandem Paragliding and were whisked to the top of a nearby mountain only to jump off and spend 20 minutes gliding down to earth. Though exhilarating, stunningly beautiful, and definitely worth the money, be warned that regardless of the beautiful weather on the ground, a few thousand feet in the air the temperature drops dramatically. Upon landing in the park in the center of town, my most vivid memory is of my freezing cold fingers.
The next day
we would climb 2 and a half hours up Harder Klum mountain to the panoramic restaurant at the top. Dennie would slide down a giant slide, we would see cows with bells around their necks, and pet mountain goats. We rode the funicular railway down the mountain and declared the day to be very Swiss.
Finally on our final day in Interlaken we would spend 3 hours completing a high ropes course outside of town. Zip lines, piratesque lunges on ropes, and one or two terrifying moments typified the morning. We competed the Grasshopper, Flying Fox, Squirrel, and Woodpecker courses with ease. The final and most difficult course, The Eagle was for experienced climbers only, but riding on an adrenaline high we decided to make an attempt. Unfortunately once up 20 Meters in the trees you can not back down. My initial overconfidence was quickly humbled by a series of giant rings that seemed to require every ounce of my dwindling upper body strength to cross. Exhausted and only 1/4th finished the course, I doubted whether we would ever get down from the trees. It might not be so bad, I thought, as I caught my breath on one
of the many platforms. The Ewoks seemed like happy little guys and they lived in similar accommodation. ‘Do or do not there is no try’ I heard a voice in my head whisper, and as if guided by an invisible force I carried on through the trees like some JedI master. Though Dennie would refuse to put her hair into side buns, or to call me Luke, I felt that some how completing the challenging course had put me on a higher plain of existence. For the reminder of the trip I would secretly stare at cutlery at every restaurant we would go into, trying to use my mind to will them to move or bend, or assist me with eating.
A night on the town in Basil would follow where we found our selves singing along to ‘Any Man of Mine’ by Shania Twain with our couch surfer and her friends in an Irish pub. I´m pretty sure I saw Julie Andrews drownding her sorrows in a pint of Guinness. I guess she can´t be that happy all the time. Man, she´s looking rough.
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