In Which Travels Home Prompt Musings about Switzerland

After two months in Switzerland, it was time to assess how far we had become acclimated by returning to the United States for Thanksgiving.  That was not the initial reason, of course – we traditionally visit The Spouse’s mother for Thanksgiving and now that she is 92 we didn’t want to deviate from custom even if it meant traveling all the way from Switzerland.  En route we spent several days at home in Philadelphia, got caught up with doctor and dentist visits, and best of all had several good visits with our 24-year-old son.

(This raises a difficult issue.  As you have obviously discerned, my spouse wants to remain anonymous in this blog, and because he is a Very Good Spouse I have acceded to his wishes.  Hence, The Spouse.  But now, how to refer to our only child?  It can’t be The Son, because that would make his initials TS as well.  I don’t really like Only Son, as the phrase “only child” always makes single children sound deprived.  I have given great thought to this matter but have come up with nothing.  For the moment, I think I will call him Handsome Son, because he is indubitably that, and see how it goes.)

I visited HS at his place of employment, a climbing gym in a far suburb of Philadelphia.  Climbing is becoming increasingly popular, and when he graduated from college in 2009 (at the deepest point of the recession) HS adeptly built on skills acquired as camp counselor and ropes course instructor to land this job.  

While there he has gotten involved in competitive climbing.  Often known as bouldering, this involves free climbing (i.e., without ropes) on low walls shaped like protruding boulders.  The climber tries to follow a route marked out in colored tape, which requires problem-solving skills as well as strength, dexterity and stamina.  HS compares it to sprinting, while vertical climbing is more like a marathon.

I enjoyed the opportunity to observe HS in his native environment. The atmosphere was convivial, with colleagues supporting and applauding each others' efforts.  I even tried a bit of climbing on the higher vertical walls – well strapped into harness and securely belayed by HS.  It takes a lot of upper and lower body strength, and after a couple of climbs my hands and arms were trembling from exhaustion.  No wonder HS is in such great shape!

It took me more than an hour to get to the gym from Center City Philadelphia, and sitting on traffic-clogged “expressways” prompted many thoughts about differences between life in the U.S. and in Switzerland.  Size is obviously a major factor: Switzerland is a small country, and most of the land is occupied by mountains.   Usable land is therefore valuable.  On the other hand, while back in the U.S. I became aware of how much land goes to waste.  I’m not referring here to how much more spread out everything is, but the way the landscape is littered with vacant stores and parking lots, like cast-off tissues.  One rarely sees empty buildings in Switzerland.

Other observations were certainly not novel – relating to how much cheaper things are in the U.S., especially food, clothing and eating out.  This is a frequent topic of conversation amongst expats in Switzerland.  It was certainly amazing to take mother- and sister-in-law out to dinner at a chain steakhouse and pay about half what we’d have paid for dinner for two back in Baar.  But then several things occurred to me.

One of the reasons for high dining prices is the high minimum wage in Switzerland: the figure I have heard is 22 Swiss Francs an hour, pretty much equivalent to $22 an hour.  Obviously, much of that is passed on to consumers in higher prices.  On the other hand, when we eat out in the U.S. when we look at the menu we rarely calculate the extra 15 to 20 percent that we will be paying for a tip at the end.  In Switzerland one tips little, if at all, because the cost of service is already included in the price.  And as a result there is a higher standard of living for everyone.

Another thought came to me when we had returned to Switzerland.  While passing through the nearby village of Allenwinden we met a jeep with its lights flashing, the driver gesturing for us to slow down.  I thought we must be coming upon a traffic accident, but we turned a corner and encountered a flock of sheep being moved from one pasture to another.  I scrambled for my camera and just managed to get a couple of shots before they passed by.

Afterward, I mused about the scene, and how much closer most Swiss are to the everyday process of agriculture.  Perhaps many accept higher prices for meat, milk and vegetables – most of which are locally grown – because they don’t think of these as abstract commodities but things that their neighbors produce.  Ironically, the Swiss seem to eat better despite or because of higher prices: they have the lowest percentage of overweight and obese people in Europe or the Americas.  

Anyway, a few things to ponder.  As a wise Englishwoman said to me recently, “It is wonderful to live in Switzerland long enough to appreciate how things are done here.  But you have been here too long if you begin to think that the rest of the world should do things the same way!”

Coming next: winter in Switzerland!

In which we enter the alternate reality that is Venice

I have to confess that I was somewhat ambivalent about our impending trip to Venice.  Even before we moved to Switzerland I had proposed making a short trip there this fall.  My reasoning was something like this: we want to travel all over Europe during our time here, and Venice has to be at the top of any lists of must-see places.  Plus, I thought that coming in the off season we might avoid the huge crowds that one always hears about.  So, we settled upon this weekend and I booked a room in a pensione for two nights.

But I wasn’t at all sure that I would like Venice that much.  My imagination was filled with pictures of dank canals filled with tacky, tourist-laden gondolas.  Plus I’m not all that in love with Baroque opulence.  For example, The Spouse and I are more Romanesque types when it comes to church architecture; we love its simple, clean lines and quiet spaces.  Even Gothic is a bit too much for us.  Being a good sport, The Spouse didn’t say anything, but I suspected he felt the same way.  Nonetheless, we were here to see Europe, so we would go.

Because it is only five and a half hours away by car and because the train costs 400 Swiss Francs, we decided to drive.  We set off early on Saturday morning, hoping for the best despite a forecast of rain for much of the next three days.  We took the motorway south, speeding past lakes and peaks that we had explored in previous drives.  It seemed a good sign that there was little traffic heading into the Gotthard Tunnel.  In the summer, traffic often backs up five hours and more waiting to get through this 17 kilometer, two-lane tunnel far beneath the Gotthard Pass, but we sped right through.

On the other side, we definitely felt that we had entered Italy, even though it was still the Italian-speaking part of Switzerland.  Road signs were now in Italian, and somehow the houses seemed a little less primly tidy than on the Swiss-German side.  But the mountains were still spectacular, and we passed beautiful lakes that we agreed we would have to return to another time.   Speeding south, we noted the architecture gradually morphing from high-peaked Alpine chalet roofs to flatter, red-tiled roofs of the Mediterranean region.

Immediately after crossing the national border, speed limits also seemed to have been abandoned.  I’ll have to go into this another time, but speeds are strictly limited in Switzerland, so at first we were a bit rattled as powerful cars zoomed past us in the left lane while large trucks had the unnerving habit of veering into our middle lane without warning.    

Eventually, we reached the heavily industrial environs of Venice and crossed a long causeway.  At the end, we turned into an enormous parking garage where we planned to leave our car for the weekend.  It stood on the edge of a manmade basin where huge ocean liners docked in between Mediterranean cruises.  It made sense to put these modern amenities on the periphery of the historic city, but it meant that by mid-afternoon we still had not seen anything of the “real” Venice. 

After wandering around the garage trying to find an exit, we finally located not only the uscita, but a kiosk to buy tickets for the vaporetti, water buses that are the city's principal means of transportation.  We bought a 48-hour pass, an excellent decision because it allowed us to step on and off boats whenever we liked.  Soon one arrived heading up the Grand Canal toward the Rialto, where we would stop to seek out our pensione.  We clambered aboard and, primed by our guidebook, grabbed a couple of seats at the front of the boat, balancing our small weekend bags on our laps.

At first the view was not propitious – a bus station on the right, then a modern concrete railroad station, built in 1954, on our left and opposite it a church that was completely enshrouded in an advertisement – much of the city seems to be undergoing preservation.

Soon, though, as we moved further along the Grand Canal, the city began to weave its spell.  The cloudy day only served to make the view more atmospheric (though I’m afraid it didn’t make for the best photography.)  We watched in wonder as we passed palace after palace (though we later learned that only the Doge’s palace was allowed to be called “palazzo” – everything else was merely a “casa” or home).  By the time our boat passed under the famous Rialto Bridge we were hooked.

There is something inherently absurd about a city surrounded by water.  It violates all one’s expectations of what is possible and appropriate.  Our fascination was sparked when we began to learn about the city’s history.  (What can I say, we are historians; when we travel our pleasure is deepened by putting places in their historical contexts.) We learned that Venice was founded after the fall of Rome, when farmers seeking to escape raiding “barbarians” moved onto marshy, sedimentary islands off the coast.  They built their homes on pilings driven deep into the clay and used the streams in between as their streets.

Buildings on the islands are separated by tiny maze-like alleys, often barely wide enough for two people to pass.  Because of the spongy soil, even the grandest buildings and churches are made of brick, sometimes faced with stone and marble, and nothing is built too high.

By the ninth century (ca. 800 A.D.) Venetians had developed important trade routes between Byzantine and Islamic lands to the East and consumers to the West.  Their status as a wealthy and powerful commercial empire was cemented and symbolized in 828 when Venetian merchants managed to smuggle the bones of gospel writer St. Mark from Alexandria, then under Islamic control.   To house them they constructed an impressive basilica, and to dramatize their unique status they ignored the emerging style then emerging to the west and emulated a church in Constantinople.  Over the years they added layers upon layers of gilt-encrusted mosaics in the Greek orthodox style.

And so, we debarked at the Rialto vaporetto stop and wound our way through a maze of alleys toward the Pensione Guerrato, a small place near the fish market recommended in our guidebook.  (Thank you, Rick Steves!)  By this time it was late afternoon and the market had already closed, leaving behind a faint scent of fish.  Though the entrance down a narrow alley was unpropitious the pensione turned out to be the perfect place, comfortable, conveniently located and for the most part frequented by Italian tourists.

In fact, we were realizing that our decision to visit in the off-season had really paid off, in that most of our fellow travelers seemed to be Italians also seeking to avoid the rush.  Of course, Venice is now a city that exists primarily to be visited.  But it is nice to be able to maintain just a bit of an illusion of what everyday life would be like.

Clock Tower overlooking St. Mark's

After unpacking we headed toward St. Mark's Square, hoping to enjoy as much of the city by foot as we could before the forecast rains began.  We walked through the Square, taking in its expanse of outdoor cafes before approaching the Basilica with its many arches and low domes.  We stopped to examine a rather whimsical exterior mosaic in which two Venetian merchants present St. Mark's body to the Doge and his wife, the Dogaressa.  After his arrival St. Mark became the patron saint of Venice and his traditional symbol the winged lion a ubiquitous presence throught the city.

We passed the huge Campanile, a reconstruction of the original tower that collapsed in 1902, and judged it too large for the scale of the rest of the square.  Only later, when we saw it from an island across the basin, did we realize its importance as a lighthouse.  Skirting the Doge's Palace beside the Basilica, we came to the Riva Deli Schiavoni, a broad waterfront promenade lined with luxurious hotels.  We strolled along the Riva as daylight faded.  Several gigantic and brightly lit liners emerged from the Grand Canal, presumably beginning their Mediterranean cruises with promenades of their own past St. Mark's.  Our walk eventually took us inland to a neighborhood square where we rested at a delightful local wine bar frequented by what seemed to be university students.

Delighted with our "discovery" of Venice's wine bars, we decided to look for similar spots in some of the other less-populous neighborhoods.  We found a perfect place in a small trattoria near the Campo San Barbara.  Though reservations were usually required we secured the last available table by promising to finish by 9:00 pm.  After a most enjoyable meal we walked back to the pensione, reaching it only after getting quite lost in the maze of narrow streets.

The next day, Sunday, we planned to visit a number of churches and museums, beginning with San Giorgio Maggiore across the basin from St. Mark's.  (Unfortunately, most of the sites forbid photography, and I am a law-abiding girl, so you won't get photos of the interiors.)  The vaporetto ride there down the Grand Canal was worth the trip in itself, affording more amazing views of the city.  Because only a few bridges cross the canal, there are also places where one can cross in small gondola-type boats called troncetti.  Locals ride standing, though this is not recommended for tourists.

Upon first entering San Giorgio Maggiore I had a surprisingly strong feeling of familiarity, as it reminded me of a smaller and less ornate version of St. Paul's Cathedral in London.  Then I realized that the connection was the opposite of what I had first thought, for San Giorgio had been built a century earlier, in the 1500s, designed by Andrea Palladio, who inspired generations of neo-classical architects from Christopher Wren, architect of St. Paul's, to Thomas Jefferson in America.

The light classical interior was restful after the baroque exuberance of the rest of Venice, and the church offered several wonderful works by Tintoretto in the choir.  Best of all was the view of Venice and outlying islands afforded from the bell tower.

  

We went on from there to tour the Doge's Palace, again, with the tremendous benefit of no lines, no jostling crowds.  In fact, after touring the ground floor, we took a coffee break in a cafe inside the Palace that was all but empty.

Nothing could drive home the fact of the power and glory that was Venice better than a visit to the Doge's Palace.  In fact, aside from the matter of size, I found it to be more opulent and impressive in its way than Versailles. 

The Doge was elected by his fellow merchant nobles to lead the Venetian Republic for life, but most seemed to focus on immortalizing themselves  by adding new rooms and wings to the Palace.  It is also a treasure house of works by artists such as Titian, Tiepolo, Veronese and Tintoretto, many featuring images of Doges, winged lions, and female personifications of Venice.  

 





After all the grandeur, it was chastening to finish the tour with a visit to the city's prison that once housed political dissidents as well as criminals and stands just across a little river from the palace.

It was now precisely 2 o'clock in the afternoon, Sunday opening time for St. Mark's Basilica.  We walked straight in and were blessedly able to wander back and forth through the church -- something that would have been impossible in high tourist season.  I couldn't take pictures, nor would I really have wanted to.  No camera can do justice to the wonders that are the mosaics of St. Mark's.  After all the beauty that we had already encountered, it was unquestionably the highlight of our trip.  

I can only try to capture one moment: when we entered it was not long after the end of the Sunday Mass and the air was heavy with the scent of incense.  One of the first things we saw was the powerful Pentecost Mosaic, a shimmering golden recreation of the moment when the Holy Spirit set the apostles's souls on fire.  Gazing up through the incense haze, a frisson of that divine power ran through me too.  It is one of the oldest mosaics in the church, from about 1125, and has much of the power of Byzantine icons.  It is also the sight that inspired in W. B. Yeats the words, "O sages standing in God's holy fire as in the gold mosaic of a wall, come from the holy fire... and be the singing-masters of my soul."

After wandering through the church to our hearts' content, we mounted steep stairs to the museum, where we were allowed to go out onto the loggia overlooking St. Mark's Square.  It is dominated by four magnificent bronze horses (or rather replicas of the original bronzes that are now in the museum, safe from the corrosive air outside).  These were probably cast in Greece in the second century B.C., then taken by Constantine to his new capital in Constantinople.  The Venetians stole them when they sacked Constantinople during the Fourth Crusade, and in turn Napoleon took them with him to Paris when he conquered Venice in 1797.  After he was deposed they were returned to their "rightful" home in Venice.

As we stood on the loggia, the long-promised rains began.  After a day full of such visual splendor we were ready for another wine bar and dinner, which fortunately we found only a few steps from our pensione.

The rain continued on Monday and together with a high tide produced the flooding that has become endemic in Venice.  As most people know, Venice is sinking, and many of the ground floors of the palaces are uninhabitable.  With rising sea levels that will probably be the result of global warming, the future of the city is unsure.  For the moment, risers are put up at times of high water to allow pedestrians passage.  But it was disconcerting to see areas that we had walked a day before now underwater.  

To complete our visit we toured the beautiful Franciscan Frari Church, one of the few Gothic churches in Venice.  Above the altar floats an amazing Assumption of Mary by Titian (1518) that I could not take my eyes off of -- and I am not generally a fan of Assumptions.  I also fell in love with a luminous Madonna and Child with Saints and Angels by Giovanni Bellini (1488) and a Byzantine-inspired Madonna and Child by Paolo Veneziano (1339).  It is so magical to see these paintings in their original homes instead of under the cold light of a museum.

But we had seen and done about all that we could absorb in two and a half days, and it was time to retrace our steps, back to the mainland, back to reality, after a magical visit to an alternate dimension.  Never again will we doubt the value of a visit to Venice.  But we strongly recommend going during the off-season!

In Which We Discover a Swiss Shangri-la

Finding ourselves with a free weekend several weeks ago, we decided to take an overnight trip somewhere farther into the mountains than we’d been before.  (Somehow, one of my favorite phrases from the last volume of C. S. Lewis's Narnia series keeps coming to mind: "Farther up, and farther in.")  Rather than plan everything in advance we also decided to more or less wing it and stay wherever we ended up.  (It helped knowing that we could always drive home if we found ourselves without a place to stay.)

So we packed up our Skoda station wagon and headed toward Interlaken, a gateway to the high Alps about an hour and a half away.  It was a lovely late fall day, and as usual the drive was spectacular.

One of the pleasures of traveling in Switzerland is that every journey is scenic, apart from the frequent and decidedly unscenic tunnels that are an unavoidable part of getting about in the mountains. 

Brienzersee from East Interlaken

We stopped at Interlaken for lunch of bread, cheese, salami and apples, overlooking the teal-colored Brienzersee.  We were surprised that the shore was not more built up, but then we realized that the center of Interlaken, an isthmus between the Brienzersee and Thunersee, had grown up around the railroad junction.  There, many big Victorian hotels jostle one another for the best view of the mountains.  Not just any mountains, but some of the most famous in Switzerland: the Jungfrau (young woman or maiden in German), the Mönch (Monk) and especially the Eiger (Ogre), famously attractive and deadly for mountain climbers.  We decided to get a closer look at them.  Of several possible points we chose more or less at random to explore the Lauterbrunen Valley.

Fate must have guided us, because we found ourselves in one of the most beautiful valleys we had ever seen.  A true Swiss Shangri-la, the narrow valley is surrounded by high mountains on all sides except for a small entrance on the north.  For most of its length, sheer rock walls rise 1000 meters; above them steep grassy hillsides rise a similar distance before giving way to rough crags of the peaks.  The three before-named peaks loom above on the east; opposite rises the Shilthorn.

The village of Lauterbrunnen is a cluster of hotels and shops catering to visitors -- in summer climbers and hikers and in winter skiers and boarders.  The railroad from Interlaken ends here, but travelers can transfer to a variety of trams and cog railroads to continue exploring the mountains.

Deciding first to secure a place to stay, we were alarmed to see that most of the town had closed down to take a break before winter season begins in mid-December.  Fortunately, The Spouse decided to check the Hotel Staubbach, an older inn at the far end of town overlooking one of many waterfalls that plummet from the clifftops.  Our luck held: it was their last day before closing and they did have room for us.  We took a lovely room facing east and overlooking the village church.

We decided to visit the village of Mürren, high atop the western cliffs, that afternoon and see the opposite side the following day.  That meant taking a tram that rises directly above town to the top of the cliffs and transferring to a little train that skirts the edge of the cliffs for several miles.  (The driver wore a jacket with the English words "Engine Driver" across its back.)

The trip was, as these thing seem inevitably to be, a mind boggling experience.  As the valley floor descended beneath our feet, the mountain peaks somehow loomed every higher over our heads. 

One of the things that boggled our minds was the vastness of the space below us coupled with the awesome bulk of the mountain rising above us.  Imagine standing at the edge of the Grand Canyon with the Grand Tetons immediately on the opposite side.  



 

Then imagine farms and villages perched on the edge of the chasm.  (Mürren seen from opposite side of valley.)

One we alighted in Mürren we did what any self-respecting Swiss person would do, took a hike.  (Actually, a real Swiss person would have hiked all the way up and then taken the train and tram down.  We hope to get there eventually!)  This also allowed us to check out possible ski runs, for we are determined to return this winter. 

As daylight faded, we returned to Lauterbrunnen for the evening.   Before packing up the following morning, we had an excellent breakfast in a room overlooking the local cascade.

Today, we would mount the opposite side, where the topography permits ascent by a cog railroad all the way to Kleine Scheidegg, a pass just below the Eiger.  From there, one can take a separate line that goes up to the Jungfraujoch, a saddle just below the mountain's summit.  We decided, fortunately as it turned out, to stop at Kleine Scheidegg and take a hike.  (We didn't realize that the ride to the top would have cost us another 200 Swiss Francs!)

Both days there had been a mixture of clouds and sun; today the view of Jungfrau was blocked by clouds but the weather below was pleasant.  Hence, we were not prepared for the gale that awaited us at Kleine Scheidegg:

The Eiger looming above Kleine Scheidegg

Proud that we had brought cold-weather gear, we put on layers of fleeces and jackets and hats and gloves.  But when strong gusts seemed to threaten to blow us off the path, we quickly abandoned our plans for a hike and retreated to the cafe to wait for a return train.  (Later we learned that trains to Jungfraujoch were canceled because of high winds and avalanche threats.)  Even so, the trip was worth it if only for the closeup view of Eiger.

We returned about halfway and got off at Wengen, Mürren's larger sister village.  Like many tourist spots in the region, it was first "discovered" by British travelers, and the town is full of grand hotels bearing names like "Regina" and "Victoria."  Like Mürren, it is car-free because, well, because no car could possibly get up there.

Down here the weather was perfect for a hike, and we explored more characteristic Swiss landscape -- woods, villages and working farms perched atop the chasm, as if oblivious to the 1000 meter drop just beyond.






Note that the rock wall here appears to rise just behind this village, but it is actually on the opposite side of the valley. 



 

And then we descended into the Lauterbrunnen Valley once more on our way back home, knowing that we had been captured by its magic and would return many times in the future.

In Which We Become Better Acquainted with Our Community

For those of us who are not members of the European Union, moving to Switzerland is not simple.  You have first to obtain a work permit, then travel to a Swiss consulate to apply in person for an entry visa that is pasted into your passport, and finally when you are in country you have to apply at the local immigration office for a permanent residence permit.

After that, every day's mail brings new challenges.  That envelope from Swisscom might bring long-awaited code to unlock my internet, or it might be a bill for I haven't a clue what, except that they want 150 CHF (Swiss Francs).  Then there are a series of missives from Baar Einwohnergemeinde (roughly, local government).  Several contained questionnaires that prompted special trips into The Spouse’s office to find translators -- these required proof that we are covered by medical insurance, since this is mandated for all Swiss residents (sound familiar?).  We duly returned forms attesting that we have insurance provided by TS’s company.  In due course we received a letter informing us that we had been "liberated" from the requirement to have Swiss coverage.  Then there was a bill for 20 CHF for providing a certificate of residence necessary to open a bank account.  (Don’t get me started on Swiss bank accounts…)

Baar's Rathaus and Town Government Offices

Eventually another envelope with the distinctive Baar letterhead arrived.  "What next?" I groaned inwardly.  As usual, it wasn't immediately clear what it entailed, because the German was mostly opaque to me.  After a session with the German dictionary, I realized that this letter was a friendly invitation to a Neuzuzügerbegrüssung, or welcome party for newcomers.  (This word is a good example of the exasperating German custom of scrunching a lot of little words into one long one, which isn’t found in the dictionary but must be translated by breaking it down into the little words again.)  It seems that Baar’s town fathers hold a little gathering once a year to assure that we newcomers get a good first impression, or einen guten Eindruck erhalten haben.

To understand my response, you should first know that I have studied and written histories about small towns and that TS and I much enjoyed our experiences in communities ranging from Iowa to Wyoming to Baltimore neighborhoods.  So of course I sat down to respond.  I could have simply filled out the form that came with the invitation, but that would have required paying .85 Franc for local postage, so I resolved to use email.  None of my handy phrase books covered the proper form for RSVPing, however, and after much searching through the dictionary I sensed that it would be easy to say something very wrong.  (The word given for “to attend,” for example, seems to refer to what physicians do.)   I decided to simply write in English “We will be there,” and hope they’d get the message.

So one evening last week TS and I strolled the two blocks to the complex of city buildings at the center of Baar to receive our welcome.  TS confessed to feeling much nervousness at the prospect, which surprised me because his German is much better than mine.  But then I realized that the occasion probably seemed to him a bit too close to a cocktail party for comfort.

Our invitation directed us to the Schulhaus Marktgasse (Market Street Schoolhouse), an older building that did indeed seem to be a school, or at least had a lobby and assembly room that looked much like it might belong to a high school back in America.  Upon our arrival we were greeted cheerily in English and directed to the assembly room.  At the back stood tables laden with colorful booklets in German and English full of information about Baar, its population, industries and city government agencies.  There were also beautifully bound histories of Baar, in three-volume boxed sets.  I eyed these hungrily but we agreed that they must be there for sale.

Rathus-Schüür (community center) and Town Offices

We took our seats as the hall quickly filled up.  Promptly at 8 pm, the program began with a speech by Gemeindepräsidenten (basically, Mayor) Andreas Hotz, trim, gray-haired and efficiently jovial.  Though I could understand only a few words here and there, his theme was clear:  We are happy you are here; we think Baar is a great place and we hope you will be happy.  Then he introduced members of the town council, five men and one woman, and explained, often with a humorous aside, the areas over which has jurisdiction.  The glossy brochure gave the political party affiliation of each; I noted that they represented the spectrum from the Sozialdemokratische Partei on the left to the arch-nationalist Schweizerische Volkspartei on the right. and wondered how that carried over into local government.  Mayor Hotz then introduced heads of various local agencies, who rose and waved from their seats in the audience.  Despite the language difference, it all felt amazingly familiar.

The sense of familiarity only increased when he introduced our entertainment for the evening, a local band called “Friends up anchor” – that’s the name, not a translation.  With various brass instruments, a mini-skirted young woman playing sax and a drummer, the group launched into a big-band jazz repertoire made familiar to us through our son’s participation in a similar group in middle school.  I suppose that either the traditional oompha band was unavailable or Baar wanted to stress its modernity.

Afterward, the crowd moved back into the lobby for the promised Apéro und kleiner Imbiss (drinks and little bites).  We passed the information tables and noticed that many guests were taking away the boxed set histories.  I hastily grabbed one before they were all gone, and happily sipped my wine with its substantial weight resting on one hip.  I am sure that future Observations will benefit from these beautifully designed and illustrated volumes, tracing Baar’s history from the Celts to the present day.

After a suitable period of sipping and munching and watching local dignitaries mingle energetically, we decided we had done our civic duty and could slip away.  We agreed that it had been a worthwhile step toward moving beyond our expat bubble into the wider world of Swiss life.