Zurich to Luzern

August 8-9

Our second full day in Zurich we went back to the old town to explore the other bank of the River Limmat. We had only touched it the day before, when we went to the Grossmunster, the Great Cathedral.

The day started auspiciously enough. I had tipped the waiter at the hotel on Tuesday morning, so when breakfast came on Wednesday the portions were bigger. I hadn’t expected that.

When we left the tram we remembered Sprungli closes early and went for the macarons first. We bought 16 in a small box. The box came from a refrigerated case, and a label advised in three languages that the contents should be eaten immediately. 

We sat on a sidewalk bench and complied.

There were champagne macarons, chocolate, vanilla, raspberry, and other flavors we’re not sure of. We sat in the dappled shade under the trees to watch the occasional trams, infrequent automobiles, and many people walking up and down. The bright northern tip of Lake Zurich lay at the end of the road.

We went through the macarons and walked to the lake to burn off some of the sugar. We didn’t spend too much time there. The tree cover ran out and left us very hot in the sun. 

The Burkliplatz, as the section is called, had small buildings selling snacks and tickets for boat rides. A bronze of Ganymede and the Eagle was a big photo op for tourists. The hotels on the lakeshore had a definite Gilded Age feel.

After a few minutes, though, we had to retreat to some shade, which we found in a park across the highway. We also found one of the city’s many drinking fountains and took sips from it.

The River Limmat meets the lake at the Burkliplatz. The current seems to flow out of the lake.

And it is all so very clean. You can see the river bottom through the water. People swim in the Limmat.

The only bits of debris floating on the surface are fallen leaves and swan feathers. They move north, away from the lake.

We had climbed the day before to a park called Lindenhof. It’s on the highest point inside the old city of Zurich. It had been the site of fortresses from Roman times until Zurich became a free city in the Holy Roman Empire. 

The burgers passed a law forbidding the establishment of fortifications on the hilltop. They knew that whoever held the hill also commanded the city.

It is now named for the linden trees that grow there. It offers terrific views of the old city and even glimpses of the Alps. You see the tips of them, like an extra low bank of clouds, behind the towers of the Great Cathedral.

It is remarkable how much the city, especially along the Limmat, resembles Amsterdam, but with mountains. The houses don’t lean so much, but many facades and roof peaks, the colors and scale, resemble the old Dutch houses along the canals.

Marijuana is not only tolerated but is legal in Switzerland. It’s sold openly in shops throughout the old city. I understand that in the Netherlands it is tolerated but not legalized, though I’m not sure of the legal nuances of that.

Cigarette smoking is more tolerated here. People smoke at tables outside restaurants and also in the large central enclosure of the Hauptbahnhof.

In contrast, I remember Larry rolling a joint mixing hash and tobacco at a bar in Amsterdam. He left a pack of Camels on the table as he worked.

When the waitress brought us our beer, she said, “Please remove your cigarettes from the table, sir.” But go ahead rolling that joint.

We crossed the river on the Cathedral Bridge, and made our way through more of those wonderful medieval streets, past buildings put up before Columbus stumbled on the Americas.

We passed one building that had a more modern history. Cafe Voltaire was an experimental theater that lasted from mid-February to Mid-June 1916. Among other distinctions, it is considered the birthplace of the Dada art movement, the almost anarchic reaction to the social conventions that led to World War I. 

Performers at the cabaret included the founders of the Dada movement, Tristan Tzara and Jean Arp. The cabaret also exhibited works by experimental artists including Wassily Kandinksy, Max Ernst, and Paul Klee.

Quite an accomplishment for only four months.

It was reopened for a few years in the last decade, but the occupation was illegal. It has lately been opened again by a foundation of some kind and still carries on the tradition of radical art. 

It was closed when we went by, but we could see inside. There were posters covered with obscene phrases, clearly just for the mischief of it.

Joanna said she had a taste for bratwurst. It was surprisingly hard to find in a German-speaking city. 

There was plenty of schnitzel and spaetzli. We looked at the menus of quite a few halles and hofs before we found it, at the Rheinfelder Bierhalle on Biderdorfstrasse.

First we went a little farther to have a vegetable course at a nearby Chinese restaurant. There were none on the beer hall’s menu, and we were craving something green. We had some Napa cabbage cooked with garlic. Very tasty and refreshing.

The waitress spoke Cantonese. She was born in Vietnam to Cantonese parents.

The Rheinfelder offered pork sausage (schweinsbratwurst) with hash browns, Rosti in German. I had veal sausage (kalbsbratwurst) with pommes frites. I had a couple of light lagers, possibly Pilsner style, that were all right. Not a lot of flavor but a hell of a lot better than Bud.

I couldn’t tell a lot of difference between the pork and veal versions of bratwurst. The pork may have been a bit more savory, but I’m not sure.

The sausages looked a foot long. They came gray with a little browning. They were good, but I would’ve liked to try them scorched a little more.  

We worked our way back to the Paradeplatz and then to the hotel.

Thursday morning was checkout. Noon, actually.

I had booked us for a train to Luzern leaving at 2:35 (14:35 in Euro reckoning) so we killed some time at the hotel. Then we took a cab to the main train station.

The driver took a slightly roundabout route. At one point, I thought he was crossing the river and asked where he was taking us. 

Turns out, it was a bridge over the railroad tracks and he was taking a faster route. We got there in good time at a reasonable fare, so he wasn’t soaking us.

I had bought our tickets online and printed them at the hotel. They were in German, and when I finally figured out how to read them, I noticed that there was no time of departure on the tickets.

I went to the information kiosk to make sure all was in order. The lady there said we had general tickets and could board any train to Luzern. That was new to me. When I’ve bought rail tickets in Europe before, they were for reserved seats on specific trains.

So Joanna and I boarded the 12:35 for Luzern.

We ate a couple of nondescript sandwiches at the station when we arrived and got directions to the hotel from the Tourist Information Office. It was less than a half kilometer, so we walked it, wheeling our bags.

The route took us along the river past an ancient bridge, more than 600 years old, and a tower just as old. Also past palatial hotels and a 400-year-old church founded by Jesuits during the Counter-Reformation.

Everything went well until we came to a long cobblestone stretch that resisted the bags’ wheels. 

The map showed us going to the end of Bahnhofstrasse to Klosterstrasse, where the hotel is. We came to the end of Bahnhofstrasse, but there was no Klosterstrasse.

I walked down the new street and it was only one block long. I came back and walked up and down the cross street. Still no luck.

I asked a lady coming out of a parking garage. It took a few seconds before she remembered the way. 

We were to take the one-block alley to the end and then we’d see our street. We did that and it worked fine. In fact, we could see the sign for our hotel, the Rothaus.

We took a break at the hotel during a heavy rain. It eventually let up and we went out to look for a place to have dinner.

We found quite a few, but some were priced ridiculously high and others didn’t have any dishes we wanted. We wound up at Restaurant Toscana practically across the street on Rutligasse.

Joanna had spaghetti with pesto. I had pizza Margherita—served Italian style, unsliced—along with a few glasses of a mild, but still flavorful Chianti.

Then I was ready to sleep the sleep of the just fed.

And so good night to all. Stay well. And don’t forget: Honor thy Dada.

Harry

Warming Up to Zurich

August 5-7

We got off to a bumpy start that put me in a sour mood.

I made an old mistake. I booked a British Airways flight through Expedia. That wasn’t the actual mistake, just the beginning.

We got to the terminal a little after one for a 5:20 departure. BA, though, didn’t even open its check-in counter till 3:15.

So we were stuck having a nondescript lunch at one of the few eateries available outside the security gates at Newark. Joanna had a crab cake, and I ate a turkey club of some kind.

Back at British Airways, people had lined up and things were moving slowly. It took us more than half an hour to find we were in the wrong place.

Sure, it’s a British Airways ticket, but see hidden down here that the flight is handled by Aer Lingus. What the fuck?

At least Aer Lingus was in the same terminal. I made a similar mistake years ago and almost missed my plane because I had to wait for the shuttle to take me from Terminal C to B. 

Aer Lingus check-in was much more efficient.

TSA, however, wasn’t.

Some students came up behind us. Can we go through? Our plane leaves for Dublin less than an hour. Which flight?

Same as ours.

I was starting to get nervous. The flights and the pay-in-advance hotel bills were covered by travel insurance—something I rarely bother with—but even so,  damn, I need a Europe fix. We haven’t been there since our trip to France a year ago April. Joanna’s OK, but I’m starting to show withdrawal symptoms.

Everybody got to the gate on time. And like the time Charlemagne stopped at Florence, there was much rejoicing.

The flight was OK, at least as far as the airline could control it. They even served an OK shepherd’s pie for dinner. 

The problem was people traveling with infants and toddlers. Kids seem to be in pain on airplanes. Hell, even at my age, I am not comfortable on an airplane.

I enjoy flying only because it is taking me someplace very else in a few hours. Don’t you love that sense of disorientation?

But the idiot in front of us—the supposed grown-up—sits down and immediately reclines his seat back into my nose. And the asshole keeps getting up and can’t just sit down. He has to plop down and bounce the seatbacks.

We had that nonsense going on for six hours.

I’ve read articles about flight rage. This throwback could be one of the causes.

We got to Dublin early and, as usual to change planes, had to cross most of the airport to make our connection. We had to ride a bus to another terminal to get out of there.

Of course, we couldn’t do that right away. We had to kill an hour or more before the gate for our plane was even posted. 

I drank a bottle of Bulmer’s cider for breakfast. It was about as strong as a Budweiser and isn’t going to be a favorite of mine. There just wasn’t a lot of flavor. Strongbow and Magners are better.

We found our way to the gate. The bouncing fool wasn’t in front of us this time, so we got to Zurich without need for any violence.

We stopped at the rest room on the way to baggage check, and just before we got to the carousel for our flight, Joanna recognized her suitcase on a cart being trucked somewhere. They don’t give you much time in Zurich, so make sure you use the facilities on the plane before it lands.

We took a cab to the H+ Hotel on Badenerstrasse. It’s clean and comfortable enough, although the room is small. 

We hadn’t slept much on either flight, so the first order of business after check-in was a long nap.

Once we were conscious again, we needed exercise, a walk to explore the neighborhood.

The hotel is in a mixed commercial and residential section of town about two miles from the old city. The tram runs down the middle of Badenerstrasse so it’s a short walk to the station and maybe a 10-minute ride to the middle of things.

To my inexpert eye, several buildings may date to the 19th century, or maybe they’re much newer and built to look antique. There are two BMW dealers and a Mini franchise within five minutes of the door, so if the urge to buy a car hits us, we are all set.

There is a pizzeria across the street and not far away a restaurant called Singapore that offers “Asiatic Specialties.” There is also Barkat Cash & Carry, a greengrocer with a tarp covering the front of the store.

We stopped at Aldi, a discount supermarket, for some snacks to keep in the room. For a discount store, it has an amazing variety of wine. Prices are definitely not American. 

They had a Chateauneuf du Pape for about $20. The cheapest bottle back home is $30.

I resisted the urge to buy a bottle of everything, and we left carrying a bag of dried figs and sleeve of digestive biscuits.

It was probably close to seven when we finally got around to having dinner. We walked in the direction toward Central, to another of the mid-price hotels I had considered, the Mercure Hotel Stoller. It’s about a kilometer closer to the old city.

It has a good restaurant that we decided to try for dinner. I had a plate of veal and mushrooms in a tasty gravy served with hash browns. Joanna had salmon with saffron rice garnished with vegetables including leek and zucchini.

It had been a long time since our shepherd’s pie over the Atlantic, so we were eager to eat. The food was so savory, though, that I expect we would have enjoyed it just as much even if we weren’t famished.

I forget the origin of the wines I had with dinner. I think they were Swiss reds. They were very pleasant going down, smooth and not acidic.

Next morning or, more accurately, afternoon we boarded the trolley, which took us to Paradeplatz, a square with an elephant balancing on its trunk in Central Zurich. The plaza is one of the sights on the city map’s walking tour, where it is described as “world-famous financial center on Bahnhofstrasse.”

By this time, I was feeling much better about life in general and Zurich in particular.  

When we got to breakfast a little after 10 a.m. I realized that I hadn’t had any caffeine for almost 48 hours. That was strange because I didn’t have a driving headache, chills, or any other discomfort.

I was just pissed off at the world: Late openings and misdirection from airlines, the Newark work ethic, dimwits in airplanes. 

Then there was another insult. We had gone to a UBS geldautomat at the airport and the screen said the bank was going to soak me 4 percent on the exchange. I had never been charged like that before in Europe. $212 deducted from my account for $202 worth of Swiss francs. What was this?

I had one cup of coffee with breakfast, and my whole outlook changed. An extra ten bucks isn’t going to break the bank. A $60 cab ride from the airport isn’t outrageous. You’ll spend less time in hell when you die because you didn’t get into a fight on the plane.

Back in the room I checked my bank accounts online, as I do every day. The UBS withdrawal was $201 and change, the exact exchange rate for Swiss francs, according to XE.com.

Things are getting better all the time.

Joanna must have heard me. All right, HH.

I must have been really misbehaving, because I could hear the relief in her voice.

The tram ride was very interesting, passing through blocks filled with bars and restaurants worth checking, though we we won’t have time for now. Maybe when we come back.

We left the tram near the elephant. Sprungli, a sweet shop and cafe that rates a mention in Rick Steeves’s Switzerland guide book, was right in front of us when we stepped out of the trolley car. The macarons are supposed to be outstanding.

We followed the city walk on the town map, but in reverse. We needed to go to the Hauptbahnhof, the chief rail station, at the head of Bahnhofstrasse.

We were taking it easy because it has been hot as hell in Europe this summer. It has been hitting the 90s in Switzerland.

On the way we saw a Roman Catholic Church dedicated to St. Augustine.

You could tell this building was much newer than other European churches, but just for curiosity we stepped inside. It was very spare, almost Protestant.

From what I could make out from the plaque by the door, the building dates to the mid-1950s, although the parish is much older.

The sanctuary, though, was worth the visit. The opening of the apse has a crucifixion group near its apex. The crucified Jesus is flanked by the Blessed Virgin on his right and (I guess) St. John the Evangelist on his left. It may signify “Behold thy mother.”

It’s a modern treatment, roughly formed figures cast in perhaps bronze. The figures are lit from the front to cast shadows on the wall behind the altar. 

The apse is not round, but instead has the footprint of half a hexagon: a flat back wall meeting two raked, flat side walls. The geometry turns the shadow of the crucifix into an embrace.

There’s a striking prayer in the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer that says, “You spread out your arms on the hard wood of the cross that the whole world might come within your loving embrace.”

This was a visual representation of the same idea. I’ve not seen anything quite like it before, and much of the beauty of it is its simplicity.

The street by the church led us to a small square with a fountain for drinking water. They seem to dot the old city, surmounted by soldiers and saints and beasts and nymphs.

Another fountain a block away was in a plaza near James Joyce Corner. The house dates maybe to the late 14th century. It faces another building that houses the James Joyce Foundation and its library.

Joyce came to Zurich in the 1930s and died here.

We visited the foundation just as a meeting was breaking up. We met a man with bushy white hair to whom everyone else was deferring and asked if Joyce had lived in the house. 

He said no. Joyce had lived near the lake for a while and then “in the hills.”

The corner is named because the library is there.

We came to the rail station and went in for something to drink. The bar had no ginger ale, but did have a bottle of carbonated green tea with a strong dose of ginger that worked just as well. 

As dry as I was, beer was out of the question. It would go straight to my head and I’d forget how to get home.

I had the green tea and split a bottle of mineral water with Joanna, who as usual seemed to be just fine.

Workman were hanging a colorful, cartoonish figure of a woman near the ceiling inside the station. It may have been part of the Culture of Tolerance festival on Saturday, the 11th. The event is highlighted by a parade that has literally filled the streets in years past.

Outside, I took Rick Steeves’s advice and paused to look at a very Swiss icon, a monument to the triumph of industry.

The great arch of the Hauptbahnhof frames a monumental statuary group, all appropriately crossed by catenary wires—a grand salute from the land of banks, watches, and precision machinery. (Also of chocolate and cheese, but that’s OK, they make good exports too.)

We walked back much the way we had come, enjoying the narrow medieval streets of the old town, the curious luxury goods in the shop windows.

We stopped at a Catalan restaurant for dinner. We found it in a plaza just uphill from James Joyce Corner.

We split two dishes. One was thinly sliced octopus, bits about the size of coins, done in olive oil and sweet paprika. The other was a huge pork chop.

We had that with a couple of very good Riojas. That’s redundant. All Riojas I’ve had have been good. 

We also visited the big cathedral across the river. We wandered through small side streets till we came to the river a short way above the bridge that leads to the cathedral. 

From the bridge Joanna got the photo of the day. It’s a 12th century rendering of Charlemagne seated on his throne with a sword across his knees and a golden crown on, in his niche in the cathedral bell tower.

Sprungli was closed when we came back to the trolley line. So we took the tram back to the hotel.

We stopped at the pizzeria across from the hotel, where I had a glass of an OK Valpolicella while Joanna had pistachio gelato in a sugar cone, one of her favorite treats. 

I had a few more glasses of Merlot at the hotel bar, after the bartender tried to palm off another (can’t remember what) that was spoiled. It had sat in the open bottle too long and tasted like flat beer, almost carbonated.

This doesn’t quite bring us up to date, but it’s already too long. We’re enjoying Switzerland even more than we expected. The wine is good and the food is better. The sights are surprising.

We’re in Luzern now waiting for the rain to quit before we head out to dinner.

Be well, all, and don’t let the dimwits get you down. After all, if they’re bugging you on the plane, you’re off to somewhere else. 

Harry

August 9

I can sympathize with your travel troubles. I hate flying for all the reasons you describe. But what's the alternative?

Enjoy Lucerne. My parents rented a furnished apartment there for 24 years after they left Manhattan. They used the city as a base to travel throughout Europe.

Peter

Homeward Bound

June 29-July 5

We got to Park Woodyatt in Drummondville. It wasn’t as extensive as the map had led me to expect, but we spent the best part of an hour there. It’s on the St. Francis River.

The point, quite a few miles downstream to the north, where the St. Francis meets the St. Lawrence is where Spencer Tracy took Robert Young to attack the Indians in “Northwest Passage.”

We went to dinner at a restaurant called Le Globe-Trotter, which is in a hotel called Le Dauphin. 

I wanted to take Joanna there because the menu included duck confit. We both had plates of that, after we polished off a dish of snails. We paired all that with a good cheap bottle of French wine, called simply Les Trois Grappes, from a Pays d’Oc winery called Laroche. 

The grapes were Syrah, Grenache, and either Mourvedre or Merlot. (Sorry, I didn’t write it down.)

Saturday we drove to Coventry, Vt.

The Canadian border guard noticed the plate on the car. 

You’re from New Jersey? 

Yes.

What exit?

151.

I guess if you say you’re from Jersey and can’t answer that question, you have to be an imposter.

We had Google Maps directions, but Philomena and Jeff had e-mailed that part of the route from I-91 would be blocked for a centennial observance at Newport, the next town north of Coventry. 

They said to take the next exit south, which is the one to take when you approach town from the south. So far, so good.

We tried to follow the Google directions from I-91 in reverse. When we got as far as the closed section of road in Newport, we knew we had come too far.

We wound up stopping at a pull-off on the highway to ask directions from a couple of locals.

One, who was in a pickup truck, told us to follow him. So we did.

When I saw the old village church in Coventry, I almost knew where I was.

The weather has turned very warm, especially by Vermont standards. Temperatures are in the high 80s and low 90s.

We didn’t spend too much time outside except to sit in the shade and drink a beer. 

I took a nap in an easy chair.

Several neighbors came to the house later on their way to Kingdom Brewing, a local craft brewery in Newport.

The pub at the brewery had a band playing country music. They serve beer there in flights. I had a double IPA, an imperial IPA, and a red ale with a rich, nutty flavor, all of them excellent. 

I had to try one other because it sounded so strange, spruce saison. It is made with spruce needles.

Jeff said the recipe came from an old British ship. Spruce adds vitamin C. I guess taking a pint or two of spruce ale beats hell out of sucking a lemon to fight scurvy.

Jeff filled growlers with the red and the imperial IPA.

The red went very well with dinner. There was a roasted rack of ribs, terrific potato salad, and some leafy greens.

Joanna and I had been planning to leave Monday morning, but then found that Philomena had the holiday week off, so we decided to stay on till the Fourth.

Joanna and I took Philomena, Jeff, and Ian to dinner on Sunday at an Austrian themed restaurant called the Derby Line Village Inn. The “Line” in Derby Line is the U.S.-Canadian border, and I think you can see the customs houses from the front yard of the inn.

The border in this area is on or very near the 45th parallel. I know this only because I saw a sign announcing the fact right outside the restaurant.

So here we were, eating schnitzel and potato dumplings halfway between the Equator and the North Pole. The bar served some interesting craft beers. I had two IPAs, both good. 

One I had before and have enjoyed in the can. Like most brews it is even better on draft. 

It’s called Conehead, and whenever I drink it, I can only think about Dan Aykroyd and Jane Curtin playing Family Feud.

The big activity on Monday was to book rooms for our next trip—Zurich, Lucerne, Geneva, and Bern. So I took care of that. 

Ian received an e-mail from Dave next door. He wanted company to sit in the breeze under the willow and drink beer.

Dave, Jeff’s brother, splits his year between Florida and Vermont. He was back in the “brown house,” so called because it’s covered in silvery-brown Shaker shingles.

The oldest part of the house was put up in the first decade of the 19th century when an ancestor several generations great of the Kemps started the farm here. He got about 120 acres for his service in the Continental Army.

The larger house, where Jeff, Philomena, and Ian live, is built around an original core that dates back to the 1830s or ’40s.

Tuesday Ian rode shotgun and guided me to Price Chopper to pick up some craft brew. I got more Conehead and Shed Mountain IPA.

Both are local. Conehead comes from Zero Gravity Craft Brewery in Burlington, and the Shed from Otter Creek Brewery in Middlebury.

It’s a good thing that I stocked up. Four of us were celebrating the holiday eve. Jeff, Ian, Dave, and I sat up till all hours telling stories and sharing drinks.

It is so much fun to sit with a bunch of guys bull-shitting and getting loaded.

I remember interrupting the flow of ale at one point with a cup of Irish coffee.

Joanna and I left Coventry around 10:30 Wednesday. Traffic was very light, as we had hoped. I expect most drivers had already gotten where they were going on Tuesday.

We stopped at a welcome center in Massachusetts. It was off the highway and hard to find, but when we got there, we found a Department of Transportation office masquerading as a rest stop. It’s only open 9 to 5 on weekdays.

This was a holiday. You know, the time when rest rooms and welcome centers are needed the most. 

Welcome to Massachusetts. Nobody home.

We wound up going to Applebee’s next door. 

We have been eating some great food for the past three and half weeks. I just wasn’t in the mood for this.

I had a cup of coffee, and we shared a plate of chicken wings.

Even the usually congested corridor of the New York Thruway near Suffern was moving efficiently. A couple of sections of the highway had flooded down to one lane, but even that obstruction meant slowing down but not stopping.

It has been my habit to take N.J. 17 to the Garden State Parkway to get home from the Thruway. Jeff suggested I take I-287 to N.J. 23.

I tried it and it works. Fewer traffic lights, no endless mall traffic in Paramus. Come to think of it, Route 17 in Paramus is a bitch even on Sunday, when all the stores in town are closed.

We got back to Montclair around 6 p.m.

To my distress, Egan’s was closed for the holiday. We tried Calandra’s in Caldwell and found that the kitchen had closed early.

There was a place nearby called Forte that looked promising. It was open, so we stopped there. 

It’s the first place in a while where I’ve seen tripe on the menu, so I had that. Joanna had a veal dish new to me, listed on the menu as veal reggina.

It takes the usual very thin Italian cut of veal and covers it with eggplant, toasted mozzarella, and a brandy sauce with mushrooms. 

It could be that we were very hungry. Or it could be that the food was indeed terrific.

In any event, we’ll probably go back there again. We just have to remember to take our own bottle of wine.

Today’s the fifth. We leave for Switzerland in exactly one month. 

Be well, all. And may all your rest stops be better than Applebee’s.

Harry