Reform School

August 14-15

We would be leaving for Geneva on Wednesday, so Tuesday I tried to buy train tickets online because it can save a few bucks. Then I found that you can’t get there from here. Better go straight to the Bahnhof to buy the tickets from a living person.

What I learned is that we had to take a train from Luzern to Olten, apparently an important rail hub, and change to a line that would take us to Geneva. So far, so good.

We stopped at Tibits, the buffet upstairs at the station, because it’s largely, or maybe only, vegetables, something that Joanna was craving. They’re not always easy to get.

With her diet in balance, Joanna and I stopped again at the Franciscan Church. I wanted to check a detail that I had forgotten. An altar in one of the chapels has a glass front displaying skeletal remains of a saint dressed in a crown and holding a sword. 

I couldn’t remember the name on the plaque above the window. 

He is identified as Sanctus Coelestinus, Martyr. When I looked up the name later, I couldn’t find anything about a martyr named Coelestinus or Celestine from this region, or anywhere else in Europe.

When you search for “St. Celestine Martyr,” just about all you get are hits for popes named Celestine, none of whom was martyred. 

I had one hit for an obscure, possibly unhistorical, martyr of that name in Africa, but nothing is known about him.

Later we went in search of the Weinmarkt to see the mural of the Wedding at Cana. We had been there before but not realized it was the wine market square. Many of the frescoes on the buildings there are spectacular.

The Wedding at Cana is high up the side of a building. It shows Jesus, prominent in his white robes, sitting at a table as attendants bring water jugs and set them at his feet. The wedding guests are looking on in amused curiosity.

We made it back to the Cafe Suisse when it was open for dinner. The tables were half full when we got there and were packed full a short time later. 

We found out afterwards, from a lady who joined us for a while from another table, that everyone was out having a good time because it was the eve of a public holiday.

This was the evening of August 14, and tomorrow was the Feast of the Assumption. This is a feast day celebrating the bodily rising of the Virgin Mary into heaven, physically similar to the Ascension of Jesus, as described in the Acts of the Apostles.

The Assumption of the Virgin, though, is not mentioned in canonical scriptures, so the Protestants do not commemorate it. But this Lutheran was glad to be reminded of it. 

I am eager to take part in any tradition involving the Blessed Virgin, or any of her spiritual sisters in other religions—Kuan Yin, Inanna, Isis, or any other.

The Assumption is an ancient tradition. The Roman Catholic and the Orthodox churches observe it, although with some difference of details. I don’t know about Copts, Armenians, and other ancient churches.

The Roman church teaches that the Virgin never died, and was assumed into heaven alive. The Orthodox say she did indeed die, an event they call the Dormition, before the Assumption.

Two young men joined us at our table. Neither of them smoked, so all was fine. We were also joined by a white-haired lady from an adjoining table who wanted to practice her English. 

She was a lovely conversationalist who told us she had been an actress at one of the cabarets in Luzern. Apparently part of her job was to learn how to greet people in various languages.

She asked if Joanna spoke any German. Joanna said no. I stepped in and said, “The lady speaks English, Cantonese, and a little Mandarin. Our new friend looked at Joanna and said, “Nei ho ma? Ngo ho.” 

Joanna was delighted. “Did you hear that?” she asked. Hear what?

The lady repeated it. I still didn’t quite make it out. Then Joanna said it.

Nei ho ma? Ngo ho. “How are you? I’m well.”

The lady apologized later for talking too much. “I’m a little bit drunk.” No need to apologize. This is why we hang around in bars.

We were also joined by a retired bank employee who lived for a while in Summit, N.J., when he worked for a time for the New York office of a Swiss bank. He was drinking something from a small glass. I don’t know what, but was clearly enjoying himself.

He told Joanna, “I will get home late; if my wife complains, I will tell her I tried but it was raining.” Indeed, it was raining at the time.

The two guys at the table were wolfing down their Cordon Bleu, and we were able to talk to them over a small language barrier. The place was busy by then and very loud. With my bad hearing I missed a lot, and Joanna filled me in when necessary.

The guys were interested in my accent. Yeah, it is kind of weird, Philadelphia suburbs with heavy overlays of North Jersey. For some reason I can’t fathom, though, it seemed to remind them of the English accent they had studied in school.

I had a couple of glasses of wine by then, and maybe I was a little bit drunk like the white-haired lady, but I started telling stories. First about my great-grandfather who was run out of Finland for criticizing the Czar. 

People used to tease the kids of immigrants. Your father was run out of Scotland for sheep stealing. Stuff like that.

Well, my ancestor was run out. I am proud of him.

When we were kids, they told us he was complaining about the reopening of taverns. Temperance is a pretty alien idea in my family.

What nobody said is that Jacob was a member of a Democratic Socialist Party that considered drink the curse of the working class.

I also got started talking about Stonewall Jackson. Then it hit me that none of these people knew anything about the American mythology of the Civil War. I tried to explain—slave states, Mason and Dixon, the Confederacy—and then gave them a well-deserved break and shut up.

Joanna and I had the same dinner, the special of the week, rahmschnitzel with noodles. This was a pork chop breaded and fried served with gravy and linguine on the side. Very tasty.

I was drinking a white wine whose name sounded like “lagos,” but I really don’t know. For a white, it was pretty good.

The crowd started to break up at the cafe, so we left before I was ready to call it a night.

We stopped at Taube, not far from the hotel. I had three wines there. One was a Swiss wine, which was OK. Joanna called it the Corona of wines. I thought a little better of it than that. 

The second, a Sangiovese, was better than the first. It simply had more flavor.

The third was time to quit. I don’t recall that one at all.

Despite all my wine consumption of the night before, we got to the train station early on Wednesday. Joanna had time for another plate of vegetables. I bought a couple of short bottles of wine and a sandwich for the train ride.

First leg of the trip, to Olten, was as efficient as I’d expect of the Swiss.

At Olten, a major hub, there was a low platform. Down three steps wasn’t too bad for handling the bags, but when we stepped onto the platform, there were no elevators or escalators. Not even a ramp. That was bad. 

This was like southern Italy. We had to drag our bags down one flight of stairs, then up another to the next platform.

When we boarded the train to Geneva, we were in for another surprise. The coach was almost full. Not because there were people in all the seats. There was no place for luggage, so anyone with a suitcase had it in the seating area. One person with a suitcase could take up four seats.

Who designs an intercity rail service with no provision for handling luggage? So far, in my experience, it is the Italians, the Americans, and the Swiss. 

We piled our bags on two seats of a four-seat arrangement. A lady was already there. Joanna took the remaining open seat and I went to another part of the car.

Later, the lady next to me left. Joanna joined me to share the sandwich and one of the bottles. Rioja, not bad at all.

The ride is about two hours from Olten to Geneva. One stretch had a long ridge on the east side of the train and fairly flat (for Switzerland) rolling country on the west.

As the train got closer to Geneva, more people got off. For the last hour or so, Joanna and I were able to sit in the four-seater with our bags.

The Geneva station at least had a ramp to wheel the bags down. We’ll allow ourselves plenty of time when we leave on Sunday. 

We took a cab to the hotel, dropped our stuff in the room, and then went to town.

The hotel issued us travel passes, so we can ride buses and trams free of charge.

We took the D line bus to the end, at a stop called Bel Air, next to a Rothschild bank building. It’s about a block to the art museum and also to the park with the Reformation Wall, which gave me the photo of the day.

These are leading Protestant reformers, and they are some scary guys. You can see a bit of John Calvin, second from the left of the group of four. That’s John Knox on the right of that group. They were both pretty angry protesters.

The smaller guy off by himself with the Pilgrim hat is Roger Williams, who wasn’t too scary, so the Puritans threw him out. The nearest figure is Oliver Cromwell, perhaps the scariest protester of all, who killed an overreaching king so he could become a tyrant.

Oversize chess seems to be a big pastime in Switzerland. There were several games in progress in the park by the Reformation Wall. We had seen a couple of large chess layouts at the Lindenhof in Zurich, too.

We came back to the hotel to find the restaurant closed, maybe for the holiday.

We ate at a very good Italian restaurant called Molino next door. I had a pizza Margherita and a couple of glasses of a mild but tasty Chianti. Joanna, bless her nearly vegan heart, had a plate of grilled vegetables.

I came back to the room and finished the second quarter-liter bottle of wine that I bought in Luzern. Then I slept well indeed.

That’s all for now. 

Good night, all, and stay well. And remember, don’t worry if the lady or anyone else doth protest too much, youthinks.

Harry