The Great Alpventure: Part 4 - Ostrich on Ice Skates

In case you’ve forgotten –indeed I have procrastinated this blog post so long that even to me it is but a distant memory- I spent the first week of 2017 in Switzerland. Previously in my life, I drank mulled wine while under contract not to consume alcohol, got stuck in a tunnel slide and attempted to ski, though not all on the same day (though the thought of wine leading to the two subsequent activities does make one imagine them going a little more hilariously wrong than they actually did. Then again I am a world expert at getting myself into absurd predicaments without the help of alcohol.) The night we returned home beaten down and dejected form the ski slopes, it snowed, which was magical. Up until that point, the lowlands had been snowless and green and they’d had to have snow machines out on lots of areas on the ski slope. Esther and I wrapped ourselves in our beige duvets and went out on our balcony to watch the snowfall, like two dough blobs who dream one day of becoming baguettes.

The next day we went into Interlaken with our friends who we met at the resort and mucked about. We found a park and frolicked on the play equipment for a bit, and poked around in a cathedral. Esther and I parted ways with the rest of the group, and ended up getting lost on the way home, but we played snowy-sounding songs from video game soundtracks as we walked along, which turned our wanderings through the snowy forest into an enchanted experience rather than a harrowing one. When at last we made it back to Credo, we joined our new clan in a riotous game of Pit, a card game that involves much fast-paced action, yelling and panic, all of which I love. At first, I was so terrible that I was proud of how amazingly badly I was doing, but then –like the true American that I am- the underdog rose, and I became the champion of the game. Afterwards, we all went out and had a snowball fight. We also gave the slide another try, and maybe it was because of the snow, or maybe it was because our water-proof snow clothes had zero traction, but people were shooting out of that slide like it was a cannon, snow flying into our faces as we crash landed at the bottom. It was incredible.

The next day we went on a hike to what the staff originally told us was the Reichenbach Falls. As in the one Sherlock Holmes plunged over the edge of to his apparent death. Then, as I screamed with excitement internally and assembled a sandwich from the buffet of foods they’d set out for packed lunches, they realized that, alas, they had been mistaken and it was actually a waterfall from a James Bond movie. Still cool, said I, as I smuggled extra pieces of the chocolate from the buffet into my coat pockets. It was not until we were standing before the falls that they remembered that these particular falls had never been in a movie, but were very excited to say that they’re agent had just called and said that they got the part in the commercial for the local dentist’s office as patient number three. Despite the fact that they have yet to get their big break, they were truly majestic falls, and the snowy lake-side hike we took to get to them was incredible. Very uphill, but gorgeous. The lake was so beautifully blue that it was freaky. Like, how does nature do the thing, you know? There was also a Grand Hotel by the falls which looked out on an alpine view so gorgeous that it looked fake.

We sat on the porch and ate our lunches, then hiked back down, taking a trail that took us under the waterfall. The little bridge had caught so many little splashes of water, which had frozen, that there was an enormous blob of ice over the entire thing, which made crossing it seem quite dangerous and exciting. Esther also filled her water bottle from the falls –selflessly allowing her arm to become deluged in the process- and after we drank from it we could see 12 new colours. Returning to the resort after such a rigorous hike, Esther and I were planning on chilling out for the rest of the day, but then the guys showed up at our door and told us that we were going ice-skating. So that is what we did.

Do you know the last time I went ice-skating? Neither do I. I’ve gone about 5 times in my life, and none of those times were any more recent than 5 years ago. And guess what, friends? I was crap at it. And do you know what else? I don’t care. Yes, I’m sure I looked quite the sad scene, a helpless adult hobbling around the rink, occasionally managing to nearly wipe-out despite desperately clinging to the side at all times, and yes, the entire episode rendered me utterly un-sexy to all who beheld, and yes, a six year old girl did ask me if I needed help (I resisted the urge to punch her out), but the thing about being bad at everything is that if you make decisions based on trying to look cool in front of other people you will never have any fun (and you will never have entertaining blog posts). As the good books says:

“The wings of the ostrich flap joyfully, though they cannot compare with the wings and feathers of the stork.” (Job 39:13 in case you think I’m making it up)

I am a joyfully dancing ostrich, dangit, and if the good Lord can set me free from sin and darkness and whatnot then he sure as heck can set me free from giving a crap what other people think. Thank you. *bows gracefully, steps down from soapbox to the sound of riotous applause*

Btw toward the end I did get confident enough to occasionally let go of the wall. I was horrible, but not quite as horrible as I thought I’d be, so overall I’d say 10/10 would do it again.

On our final day we went for one last jaunt into Interlaken with the crew, taking a detour in an attempt to find a supposedly free museum. The museum was closed, but we did find a random slide built into the snowy hillside, so we amused ourselves for quite some time whizzing down and flying off of that. We took the bus into Interlaken, and –enormous number that we were- descended upon a coffee shop for hot chocolate and pastries. Esther and I then went in search of the cute part of town. So far, Interlaken had been pretty modern and ugly, but I knew that at its heart it was an enchanting Swiss village and I was determined to find the magical bit. We did walk past a brothel on our quest, so that was interesting, although not terribly interesting, as it was the middle of the afternoon and not exactly peak business hours. Anyway, our cute-part-of-town quest was successful, and we also discovered an amazing wood carver’s shop full of ultra-Swiss curios/things that tourists can be fooled into thinking are ultra-Swiss curios, but I’m pretty sure they were legit. We also visited a fancy chocolate shop and invested in some earl-grey flavoured chocolates (and a few others besides). On the way home, Esther managed to completely wipe out on a snowy hill, but fortunately it was a small one, so she was not sent hurtling into the abyss because of her misstep. I think maybe I fell prey to the hill as well, but there are too many of my memories from Switzerland that involve me falling over that I can’t keep them straight anymore.

For dinner that night we partook of a traditional Swiss cheese fondue, and I almost died of happiness. And then I almost died of spontaneous combustion because I consumed so much cheese fondue. Good times. We finished the evening by being taught an ancient Hebrew song and dance by a very enthusiastic old Dutch man who had been the speaker at our evening services during the week. It was lit.

We departed by train for the Zurich airport the next morning, got off at what we thought was the airport, went up the escalator, wandered around in utter confusion for a while, realized it was not the airport, but fortunately managed to get back on the train from whence we had come before it went on to the correct stop.

Our flight was pretty uneventful. We had a connecting flight in Paris, and as we descended we could see the Eiffel tower surrounded by clouds, which was utterly magical. But our final grand adventure happened on the train ride from the Manchester airport to Carnforth, when we achieved my third, and thus now traditional, encounter with drunk UK citizens.

We were sitting on the train, minding our own business, when a couple in their mid-30’s boarded the train with vodkaccinos in hand. The train was getting rather full, and as Esther had placed her suitcase on the seat across the aisle from us, they asked if it could be moved so they could sit. Unfortunately, they thought the man sitting across from the suitcase owned it, so between him telling them it wasn’t his, them being buzzed, and Esther trying to communicate that it was hers and that she’d be happy to move it so they could sit, the suitcase ended up remaining where it was, the lady sat next to it across the aisle, and the guy sat with me and Esther. This was fine, except that he was about 7 feet tall, and took up all the leg room, meaning I had to bunch up for the rest of the ride to avoid awkward knee contact. Anyway, we all ended up making friends, because there is no creature so friendly as the slightly drunk person. His name was Darin, and we never found out her name, but me and Esther have since christened her Blondie. They asked Esther where she was from, and when she said Seattle, Darin exclaimed, “I love California!” He also responded to finding out we were American by saying, “America! G’day, mate!” He also attempted to do an American accent, which was a source of great amusement, and then they wanted me to do my both my Burnley and Kentucky accents, which they approved of enormously. Throughout this entire conversation, they had been commenting on how cute Esther’s dimple was, and at one point Darin decided to poke it, which Blondie thought was rude, and so, after a brief argument between the two of them about whether he had actually poked it or just grazed it, he turned to Esther and said, very earnestly, “I’m sorry I touched your nipple –OH, SHIT!” and promptly ran to the other end of the carriage in embarrassment. He spent the rest of the train ride periodically apologizing for saying the wrong word, despite the fact that Esther had almost died from laughter when he said it. Our interactions just get getting more entertaining from there. By the time the train arrived at our stop, it had been established that Esther and I were a Mexican wrestling duo (we met through our mutual love of WWE) and that Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson was hiding inside Esther’s suitcase. I’d never encourage anyone to overindulge in alcohol, but if you do, please come hang out with me, because these encounters are some of my favourite travel memories of all time.

And thus, the Great Alpventure came to an end. Esther and I bid adieu the next morning, and season two of the Capernwray Chronicles was at last ready to begin.