I'd seen Switzerland, but not like this

Staubbach Falls, the type of place
I find evidence of the divine.

Sure, technically I’ve been to most European countries, but not exactly in the same style. As a grungy backpacker I ate greasy kebabs and slept on the couch of a wonderfully lunatic girl I met in Prague. As a Rick Steves tour guide? Oh, we just stay in a little Alpine chalet of blond wood, homemade fondue, and a view out my window of the Staubbach Falls that starts as lace but ends as mist after falling 974 feet off the side of the preposterously scenic Lauterbrunnen Valley. No biggie.

And if that place is booked, we move to another chalet, more homemade fondue, more gorgeous views, but closer to the cable car that (Did I not mention this?) will take us up 1,568 feet from Stechelberg to Gimmelwald. Impressive? As we rise into the cloud cover and look down the Wagnerian Lauterbrunnen Valley, you bet your hintern it is!

Then from Gimmelwald, another cable car takes us up a further 768 feet to Murren, where children run, ride, and presumably ski through the early morning light to school among avalanche protection tripods and evergreen conifers that stand equanimitously tranquil in both snow and sun.

All done? Nope, the next one rises an impressively steep 3,445 feet to Birg, where the air is noticeably chillier when you step out onto the Birg Skyline Walk, where the terra firma ends long before a metal grating that lets you see the cliff dropping away below your feet, and only then do you reach the clear plexiglass that lets you look straight down, only hazily encumbered, into the vertiginous expanse of glacial geologic debauchery.

Looking out behind the Schilthorn, the direction generally considered less scenic

The exclamation mark proves they mean it.

Now to the actual destination. The last cable car rises another thousand feet or so to reach the Schilthorn. From there, at nearly 10,000 feet, you can look across the Bernese Alps to the storied peaks of the Mönch, Eiger, and Jungfrau, and walk along the ridge line, past where the marvelously redundant sign warns “You are now entering an area where hazards inherent to mountain regions may occur!” Just in case you hadn’t noticed.

Looking down at Birg from the Schilthorn, the least
spectacular of the four cable car rides to get there.

And if neither the view nor the revolving restaurant are quite enough to hold your interest? How about George Lazenby? You know, the Australian James Bond? The last one you remember on Trivia Night, and only remember when the cocky guy in the corner whispers it at top volume to his friends? Just watch On Her Majesty’s Secret Service before you come, then you’ll recognize all the scenes that were filmed here. That will make the Bond exhibit even more interesting, though even clueless, I still found the anecdotes of people losing limbs, pioneering film-making techniques, and drunkenly volunteering to ski into trees at 60 mph were pretty darn interesting. Oh, and the guy who had to hold up his own head by the hair after he broke his neck while filming. That story is excellent.

So yes, I’d been to Switzerland before. And yes, it’s totally different with a Rick Steves tour. And yes, you can come with us. And finally no, you won’t have to hold up your own broken neck on the way to the doctor. That’s what the guide is for.

In my email; or, landscape porn from Switzerland

No worries on slow response to my last email, especially since it’s now my turn to apologize for the same thing. How was the rest of your trip? And coming home? Is it weird to be surrounded by people speaking English? Did the American grocery store blow your mind?

Oh man, I was indeed nutty busy those last few days before coming over here for tour guide training, a feeling that has only intensified since. I am mostly loving it, with sinusoidal swells of fear that I won't be able to manage the 7,000 ongoing tasks of a solo guide. Also, what the hell am I going to say on the bus tomorrow? I'm supposed to talk about what it was like to live in Belgium. Do I talk about European racism? Tone it down and say “xenophobia” instead?

It seems preposterous and wonderful that people might trust me with all this, as well as ponderously primed for disaster. I take notes on paper and in gray matter all day, then get back to my room when the clocks have started over, with every intention of reviewing my scribbles, do research, and prep for tomorrow, but my eyelids have a way of punctuating all that.

Oh, and my new shoes? They stink. Swamp breath. Paris was l’inferno, and when I wasn’t walking with the group, I was hoofing it to the sights people are going to ask me about. Speaking of which, did you know art is actually pretty cool? My dominant memory from our previous trip to the Louvre was where to sit and wait it out. Turns out it’s much more fun when you’re not 7. Of course I’m super glad mom took us there, but now I can enjoy it in the present tense as well.

And how did I make it so many years without every really looking at the time? How long does it take to walk from here to there? No idea. To buy tickets? Nope. To take a metro across town? Not the foggiest.

But today at "work" I took a series of gondola/cable car/flying thingies up into the clouds of the Swiss Alps, and walked along an alpine ridge between old drifts of sliding snow and boisterous clusters of the season's first cleansing flowers, while somewhere off in the godlike shadows of glacial blue and limestone gray, the rumble of falling snow reminded us that we are insignificant here. So there's that.

Hey...I think that just wrote a blog for me, more or less. Thank you. Because these days are far too full of Doing, and empty of Sleeping, to leave me time or wavelength to write. Say hi to your lady for me, we’re headed for Germany next.

(See four other pics from the day on the vagabondurges.com version here.)