In Which We Wander the Rhone, Part I

It all began on a rainy Saturday a bit over a year ago, when The Spouse and I decided to head south and see what we could find.  We drove over the awesome Furka Pass and on the downward side stopped to take in the view of the Rhone Gletscher, source of the Rhone River.  We knew it from our visits to southern France and marveled here at how that major river had its beginnings in an Alpine torrent.

 

Then and there was born the idea of following the Rhone from its beginnings all the way to its end in the Mediterranean Sea.  It would be a perfect fusion of a number of our favorite things: travel, history – because the Rhone has been an important highway since well before the Romans conquered Gaul – and wine.  The Côtes du Rhône in Provence is our favorite French wine region and we would be happy for any excuse to visit there again – even if it technically is a bit east of the actual river.

Nor did it need to be some grueling long distance trek.  We could easily cover the first section from the origin to Lake Geneva during other travels around Switzerland and then leave the rest for a specially planned trip.

So, that first weekend we continued to follow the Rhone as, engorged with recent rains, it surged through a mountain valley that gradually widened into the German-speaking area known as the Goms, the easternmost section of the Swiss canton of Wallis (in German) or Valais (in French).   

The Goms was populated by small villages featuring rough wooden barns, and the usual complement of red geraniums.

Gradually the valley widened into one of the broadest in Switzerland and fields dotted with grazing cows gave way to large vineyards covering south-facing hillsides.  Not surprisingly, it was at this point that the language switched from German to French.

 That weekend, it was also at this point that we left the Rhone to explore the Lötschental, a valley stretching northward.  The next day we hiked up to the glacier at its end, part of the massive Jungfrau-Aletsch glacier system that stretches north between the Valais and the area of the Alps known as the Bernese Oberland.  

View from our hotel

Over succeeding months we returned to Valais several times.   Once we explored the Val D’Herens, another valley opening to the south that ends at a village named Arolla with stunning mountain vistas.  

Descending into Valais

In January we crossed the Rhone again en route to Zermatt.   We have also enjoyed several pleasant visits to Sion, capital of the Canton of Valais and a center of power in the area since Romans established a settlement named Sedunum in the 1^st century A.D.  Later it was the seat of a bishopric that ruled the area until modern times.

Further to the southwest at Martigny the Rhone runs up against the mountains and turns northward.   A meeting point for routes from Italy via the St. Bernard Pass and from France past Mont Blanc, Martigny has been an important crossroads since it was founded by the Romans about 16 A.D.  When I was in the U.S. last spring The Spouse made another visit to check out Martigny’s Roman ruins. 

After Martigny the Rhone runs north-north-westward for about 20 miles until it debouches into Lake Geneva, Lac Léman to the French.    

View of North Shore from Evian

As a river and a lake it is surrounded by some of the most famous vineyards in Switzerland.  The hills that rise gradually from the north shore are covered with hundreds of small family vineyards, while the sunny shoreline is known as Switzerland’s Riviera, marked by cosmopolitan resort cities like Montreux and Vevey.   

Statue of Freddie Mercury in Montreux

The area has long been a favorite of European artistic types, including Lord Byron, Percy Shelley and Mary Godwin in the early 19^th century and Charlie Chaplin and Freddie Mercury in the 20^th century.  Chaplin is buried in Vevey and Mercury in Montreux; each town remembers its famous resident with a statue in their public square. 

View of Evian from Montreux

The mountains rise more abruptly on the south shore, much of which is in France.  Last summer we stopped for lunch in the charming resort town of Evian and felt instantly the culinary difference between Switzerland and France.

Sitting at a strategic point on the eastern shore of the lake is the Château de Chillon, an amazing 13^th century castle that is one of the most perfectly preserved castles anywhere.  Built by the Dukes of Savoy to protect trade routes between northern and southern Europe, it was captured by the Bernese in the 16^th century.   

That was in the middle of the wars resulting from the Protestant Reformation, and in the dark dungeon at the castle’s base was chained a Protestant named François de Bonivard.  When Byron visited the dungeon he was so moved by the direness of the environment that he was inspired to write his poem The Prison of Chillon.  When one visits it isn’t hard to see why – the dark, dank cavern epitomizes the Romantic vision of the plight of the imprisoned hero.

On the far, western side of Lake Geneva stands the French-speaking city of Geneva.  It was a center of the Reformation under Jean Calvin and attracted a commercial and cosmopolitan character that has only grown in recent years as it hosts many arms of the United Nations, international NGOs and CERN, the European Laboratory for Particle Physics.  It also has perhaps the most attractive waterfront in all Switzerland, a land that has so many beautiful lakeside cities.

And just like Luzern and Zürich, Geneva is sited where the principal river flows out of (rather than into) the lake.  It passes under a broad bridge bedecked with United Nation flags and past several attractive islands on its way westward toward France.

  

And in June that’s about where we rejoined the Rhone to complete our mission to follow the river to its end.  We left the major motorway, the better to follow the Rhône (its French spelling) as it meandered westward through a countryside of rolling hills and farms. 

At one point where it passed through a steep valley we stopped to survey a hydroelectric dam, reflecting its increasingly industrial character.

At length, we reached Lyon, France’s second-largest city and our first day’s goal.  Though I’ve been to France quite a few times, and The Spouse spent a few days in Lyon doing research in a previous incarnation as an academic, we knew little about the city and were looking forward to exploring it.  After a bit of difficulty getting into the city during rush hour, complicated by construction detours of which our GPS was unaware, we found our hotel.  It was located in the heart of the city, which lies between two rivers, the Rhône and the Saône, that ultimately converge south of the city.

Our first goal was to sample some of the Lyonnaise cuisine for which the city is famous.  We walked to the Brasserie George, a huge establishment that has been in business since 1836.  Though it was a bit touristy, we enjoyed the 1920s art-deco décor and the efficiency of the waiting staff, dressed in their traditional white shirts, black trousers and white aprons – though now quite a number were women.  Going to the traditional Lyonnaise section of the menu, I ordered the andouillette in a Dijon sauce.  When it arrived it was a sausage loosely containing some rubbery meat, in a thick cream sauce.  Later when we looked it up we discovered that the filling was chopped pig intestines, marinated and sautéd in red wine.  It wasn’t bad, but I don’t think I’ll have it again.

Day two of the Great Rhône journey was devoted to exploring Lyon and its history.  Our first stop was the marvelous Musée de la Civilisation Gallo-Romaine, perched on the Fourvière hillside next to a Roman theater that had stood at the center of the city of Lugdunum, center of the Roman colony of Gaul.  We enjoyed pouring over the collections of artifacts and then wandering through the grounds of the theater, now being used for a summer music festival.  In the afternoon we visited the Old City on the banks of the river, whose charming medieval architecture had been restored and prettied up in recent years.

Former Factory Section

In the Musée Gadagne, the city history museum housed in a marvelous 16^th century mansion, we learned much more about the development of textile factories that dominated Lyon’s economy for centuries.  When these declined in the 20^th century the city struggled like so many industrial cities.  Only recently has the process of urban revitalization begun to turn the old factories and workers’ housing into condos.

The 19th century city lies on the Presqu’île between the two rivers.  In the large plaza next to the Hôtel de Ville stands a marvellous fountain sculpted by Frédéric-Auguste Bartholdi, who also created the Statue of Liberty.  Its four horses symbolize rivers galloping towards the sea, an appropriate reminder of our journey.

Chez Hugon

On our second evening we managed to grab the last available table at Chez Hugon, a tiny bouchon near the Hotel de Ville.  A bouchon is a type of restaurant for which Lyon is famous, based on the tradition of workingmen’s cafes.  They feature hearty dishes similar to my andouilette, that use simple and fresh ingredients and the cheaper cuts of meat with creamy sauces.  Steering clear of the pig’s intestines, I had gateau de volaille (chicken liver cake) and TS had quenelles (ground fish dumplings); we agreed that though both were tasty they were a bit too heavy for repeated consumption.  Above all, we loved the intimacy and comraderie of the tiny place – we counted 36 seats in all – presided over by Madame Hugon herself.

[To be continued]

Another Season in Venice

As faithful readers might remember, The Spouse and I made our first visit to Venice about a year and a half ago, not long after arriving in Switzerland.  We had a perfect long weekend in that fabulous city, in part because early November is low season in terms of tourism.  Despite rain and flooding, we loved feeling as though we had the place to ourselves.

Earlier this year, several Philadelphia friends contacted me to say that they would be in Venice in May, and wouldn’t I like to come and meet them?  They had signed on with a tour that enabled them to row in a regatta called the Vogalonga.  Another Philadelphia friend now working in Brussels also hoped to join us.  I welcomed the opportunity to see friends and to return to Venice.

Later, I learned that friends from my new rowing club in Zug (more on that another time) would also be participating in the Vogalonga (Italian for “long row”).  I’d never heard of this event, and when I first saw pictures of the canals filled with all kinds of colorful boats I assumed it was an ancient religious festival, especially because it fell this year on Pentecost Sunday.  Later I learned that it had begun in 1975 as a protest against motorized boats, whose waves contribute to dangerous erosion of the city’s foundations.

Its organizers envisioned a non-competitive parade of all sorts of human-powered boats, beginning in St. Mark’s Basin and winding some 32 kilometers (18.75 miles) around a number of islands surrounding Venice.  It would finally come through the Canal di Cannaregio from the north and conclude with a tour down the Grand Canal.  For once, during the period of the regatta, no motorized boats would be allowed on the water.  In its first year organizers were astounded when some 500 boats showed up; the event soon became popular with locals and visitors alike.   This year, the 38^th, saw more than 1800 boats carrying 7226 rowers; 18% were from Venice, 27% from the rest of Italy, and a whopping 55% came from around Europe and as far afield as Australia and the U.S.

So, on the 25^th of May I set off by train from Baar.  This was my first experience with Italian trains since moving to Switzerland and I must say it reinforced all stereotypes about Italian inefficiency.  Eventually I did make it to the train station on the edge of Venice and emerged into a golden late spring evening. 

There is something to be said for being able to visit a place like Venice several times.  This time I knew exactly where to go to get my three-day pass for the Troncettos, the boats that serve as buses along the main canals of the city.  (Okay, the first one I took went the wrong direction, but after that I was fine.)  I knew exactly how to get to where I was staying just off St. Mark’s Square.  And when I woke early the next morning I knew more or less how to navigate the maze of lanes to reach the wonderful market near the Rialto Bridge where I could get a good breakfast and buy a few things for lunch.

The cold, wet Venice of our first visit had been transformed; flowers gleamed from pots and window boxes everywhere, the sun warmed the old stones and gave a golden hue to many of the buildings. 

But with the warm weather came crowds, jostling each other in the narrow inland lanes, forming long lines outside the major sites and making the simple task of crossing St. Mark’s Square on the way to my room almost impossible.  During my weekend there I often thought how glad I was that my first visit had been in the off season.  Having taken in the major tourist sites, I could now simply savor the ambience of the city.

Unfortunately, my friend from Belgium had to cancel because of illness, but I was able to meet up with my U.S. friends on Saturday morning for a leisurely stroll through new neighborhoods that I hadn’t found in my first visit.  At one point, we encountered a group nattily outfitted in pink striped boating shirts and hats with matching pink bands.  We asked if they were here for the Vogalonga and found they were a French dragon-boat group from Nancy. 

As the afternoon wore on we saw increasing numbers of boats in the process of preparation along the city’s many side canals.  This was clearly going to be a big event.  After lunch we met up with others from the tour group for a visit to a gondola workshop.  Its owner, a third-generation gondola maker, explained the fine points of the craft.  It is surprisingly exacting, because each boat must be made to fit the particular gondolier’s height and weight (to ensure that the boat will be able to fit under the innumerable bridges) and shaped to allow the boat to be rowed with a single oar.

In the evening, I was invited to join the group for its pre-regatta dinner at a small restaurant in the Cannaregio neighborhood, where there were fewer tourists and more permanent residents.  It was interesting to observe the pre-regatta planning, which was made more complicated by the fact that most boats would include rowers from both the U.S. and Germany who had never rowed together.

The following morning I re-crossed St. Marks’ Square and walked to the edge of the water.  More or less at nine (this being Italy not Switzerland) the boom of a canon announced the beginning of the Vogalonga.  Slowly, the vast flotilla began to move eastward in the first leg of the trip that would take them around the Castello district.

Meanwhile, I had been advised that the best place to watch was from the Canele di Cannaregio.  This was toward the end of the course, so I figured I had a lot of time, but I had also been warned to get there early to secure a seat.  So I gradually made my way through the maze of narrow streets toward the Cannaregio District.  Many others were walking the same way, but most were tourists who had to walk the long way round to the train station because the motor boats weren’t running.

When I got to the Canele it was still early.  I took a table at an outdoor café and ordered cappuccino and mineral water – anything to secure my place for a while.  I read the Sunday New York Times on my iPod (downloaded earlier thanks to the excellent wifi at my hotel) and soaked up the sun as a light cloud cover burned off.  After a while a group of German tourists joined me at my table.  They were surprised when I greeted them in German and we chatted in a combination of German and English – inevitably, their English was better than my German.  I explained about the Vogalonga – like most non-rowing tourists, they had not been aware that it was happening – and together we cheered the first rowers to appear on the canal, around 10:30.  They had clearly been training for this event.

Gradually, the numbers of boats passing increased and a steady stream in a bewildering variety of colors, shapes and sizes passed by.  Rowers too were all shapes, genders, ages and nationalities.

As the density of boats increased so did the crowds on the sides of the canals.  Most were locals and the atmosphere began to take on the air of a water-side block party.  Watchers cheered and clapped for many of the boats that went by, most enthusiastically for rowers who were old or young, or wore distinctive outfits.  

They called out to friends in the boats – it quickly became clear that Venice must have many clubs whose main function is participating in the Vogalonga – and in return rowers raised their oars in salute.

A View of the Logjam from the Zug Boat

Eager to identify my friends, I carefully examined each boat, but after several hours had passed I began to fear I had missed them.  Finally, I decided it was time to get out of the sun and move to the shade of the other side of the canal.  As I crossed over the bridge I realized that there was a massive logjam on the other side as thousands of boats tried to squeeze into the narrow canal and under the even narrower bridge.

In an amazing coincidence, I saw my friends from Zug in the jam – having tried to get through the smaller arch only to find it blocked on the other side, they were having trouble getting back into the main stream of boats going through the main arch.  Finally, they got through, and glided into the relative openness of the rest of the canal.  I cheered them on and took lots of pictures.

By 3 pm the stream of boats began to dwindle and I left for my hotel without seeing my American friends.  When I joined them for dinner I learned that after trying to get through the jam for several hours they decided to return to their dock without going through the Canele, thus missing the chance to row down the Grand Canal.  They were disappointed but resolved to return in the future and try again.

I too hope to return and row the Vogalonga myself, perhaps next year. The event is an appropriate salute to a unique city, a day that unites Venetians and Venice-lovers from all over the world.