Fasnacht, Year Two

A year ago Your Correspondent wrote here in detail about her first encounter with Fasnacht, Swiss-German pre-Lenten celebrations that are similar to, but different in an utterly Swiss way, Mardi Gras.*  Last year we missed the principal local celebrations because we were out of town, so this year was an opportunity to share further a typical small-town experience.   The giant parades of larger Swiss cities, especially Luzern and Basel, are well known, but to me one of the more interesting things is that in the Catholic cantons even very small towns have full schedules of activities during the week leading up to Ash Wednesday.   And judging from our observations, it seems that a large proportion of each community takes part in some way.

At the center of Fasnacht in large cities and small towns alike are Guggemusigen, amateur marching bands that provide a steady stream of background music for the festivities.  Baar has six groups, sporting names such as “Belcantos,” “Crescendos,” and “Minifodrios.”  Like marching bands everywhere, their instrumentation leans heavily toward brass and percussion.  They perform in costume, though I’m not able to say whether the themes change from year to year, like the famous Mummers in Philadelphia.  (In fact, I suspect that there is a connection between the two, given the strength of Philadelphia’s German cultural roots.)  The groups also host big “Balls” during the Fasnacht season.  I hazard a guess that membership in one of the bands is a major part of social life in Baar – and judging from the times when small groups of players wandered through town in the middle of the night, blaring on horns or banging on drums, it is likely that they party non-stop from Thursday until early on Ash Wednesday morning.

Local Baar Brewery Celebrates 150th This Year

In Baar, the main public events are a large parade on Sunday afternoon and a children’s parade on Monday afternoon.  The former was most impressive for a small town – there were lots of floats, many of which commented on current events such as the construction of a mammoth Big Dig-type railroad tunnel through Zürich and the Euro financial crisis.

The streets of downtown Baar were lined with spectators, most of whom were in costume, and everyone seemed to come armed with confetti to throw at each other or to dump on unsuspecting bystanders like The Spouse who weren’t wearing this year’s Plakette.

Watching the Parade over Dorfstrasse

As the parade literally surrounded our apartment building – running down Bahnhofstrasse on one side, then turning left onto Kreuzplatz for a block and then left again onto Dorfstrasse and passing us on the other side – we were able to catch parts of it twice.

Schoolchildren marching as "von Gochlis"

The following day was technically a normal business day, so I forgot about the children’s parade until I returned from running some errands in the car to find the streets blocked off again.  It was most impressive and seemed to involve all schoolchildren marching in costumed ranks and even toddlers in playgroups.  They were accompanied by the usual bands and some of the same floats that had appeared in Sunday’s parade.

On Tuesday night festivities concluded with a torchlight parade through the same streets, ending at the Rathausplatz where a giant papier-maché  Räbechüng, (beet head) was burned in effigy to mark the end of the year’s festivities. 

Although we did not participate in all the festivities we enjoyed the energy they generated in the community through the bland days of winter.  Despite their reputation for strict orderliness, we have learned that the Swiss take great pleasure in the many special occasions in their calendar.

*To be accurate, there are many similarities between Swiss Fasnacht celebrations and Fastnacht customs in Catholic sections of Germany, such as Swabia.

Assessing an Icon: The Matterhorn

Continuing our systematic exploration of Alpine skiing, The Spouse and I recently took a week-long vacation that began with several days at Zermatt, moved on to different parts of the vast Portes du Soleil ski network that spans mountains and towns in Switzerland and France, and wound up at Chamonix in the heart of the French Alps.  It was our first time in all of these places and they couldn’t have been more different.

Matterhorn from Gornergrat Railway

“You must visit Zermatt!” has been a common refrain among friends and acquaintances.  Overlooked by the iconic Matterhorn sitting astride the Swiss-Italian border, the area is one of the most famous sites in Switzerland, and certainly one of the most well-known mountain images in the world.  The day after we arrived in Zermatt I posted a photo of the Matterhorn on Facebook and asked “Where in the world are we?”  Within minutes I had correct responses from friends all over the world – including a smart-alec Californian, who commented “Disneyland, of course!”  A few days later, I posted a photo of Mont Blanc, the highest peak in Europe, and no one recognized it.

Which prompted me to muse on why this particular “horn” – a geological term referring to a mountain carved on all sides by glaciers – has achieved such iconic status.  It is undeniably impressive, standing tall and apart from the other peaks in the area.  But I have to say that we have seen many, many awesome mountain peaks in our year and a half in Switzerland, just none as famous as this one.

John Ruskin's view of the Matterhorn

When outside travelers began to explore the Alps in the 18^th century – for any purpose other than simply crossing from Italy to central Europe – many were awestruck by the Matterhorn’s shape, clearly a product of vast natural forces yet close to a pure pyramid.  English Romantics flocked to the Alps, seeing their wildness as a contrast to all they disliked in “modern” civilization.  In the 1840s, English artist and social critic John Ruskin discovered the Alps and the Matterhorn during travels to Italy, and his writings and drawings made the mountain famous among the English. 

Then, in mid-century mountaineering captured the imaginations of English and European gentlemen, sparking a race to be the first to climb one or another peak.  The Matterhorn’s sheer rock faces offered one of the most difficult challenges.  It was finally conquered in 1865 by a group led by Englishman Edward Whymper, but the death of four of his party on the descent only added to its formidable reputation. 

By the end of the century, the expansion of the Swiss railroad system made the Alps accessible to middle-class English travelers.  Zermatt was reached by railroad in 1891, and a cog rail line was constructed to Gornergrat, a smaller peak offering superb views of the Matterhorn.  And in 1908 Swiss artist Emil Cardinaux, under a commission from the Swiss tourism agency, created the classic poster that cemented the image of the Matterhorn in the international mind.

Thinking over the most common iconic travel images, I realized that many of them were the products of the latter part of the 19^th century – the Eiffel Tower, the Statue of Liberty, even London’s Big Ben was not constructed until 1859.  This same period saw the birth of mass international tourism, and I suspect that our images of them also began with tourism posters.

So, how did the mighty Matterhorn stand up to our scrutiny?  As you might have guessed, I am something of an iconoclast when it comes to “must-see” sites, so I approached the experience with a certain amount of skepticism.  My attitude wasn’t helped by the fact that, after driving south from the Vallais through the Nikolaital, we had to leave our car in the village of Täsch and take a shuttle train to Zermatt, which does not allow cars.  We parked in a huge garage/train station that reminded me of the vast garage on the outskirts of Venice, another tourism icon.   We had to schlep all our suitcases and ski gear on to the train, which to compound matters was delayed by avalanche testing.  (By the way, I picked up the Yiddish term “to schlep” from Jewish friends in college days, and was delighted to discover that it is a real German verb, schleppen, “to drag.”) 

Aboard the shuttle to Zermatt

Almost everyone else in the large crowd awaiting the train had loaded their stuff on airport-style dollies, and I anticipated a massive mess when it came time to board, when everyone had to transfer their stuff onto the train.  But when the train arrived everyone simply pushed their carts directly onto the cars, which had open spaces where carts could be secured to the walls via hooks for the purpose.  It’s impossible to underestimate the ingenuity of Swiss railways.  At the other end, they simply rolled them off the train and toward waiting taxis.

We too bundled ourselves onto one of the little electric cars that are the main form of transport in Zermatt, and I immediately recognized the wisdom of the system.  Outfitted with snow chains, taxis easily maneuvered through the narrow, snow-packed streets, which would have been clogged with normal cars driven by tourists unused to such icy conditions.  Plus, the air in the narrow valley was crystal clear.

We settled into our comfortable little hotel and we set out to explore the town.  It was charming, though clouds obscured the most famous part of its skyline.  After struggling for a time for traction on the hard-packed streets, The Spouse marched us into a sporting goods store and purchased two sets of ice cleats – problem solved.

As far as I can see, the only major problem with Zermatt is that it is Very Expensive, even by Swiss standards.  We dealt with this on our two nights there by eating in Italian restaurants; pasta is relatively less expensive and given the fact that Italy is just the other side of the mountain one can say it is almost local cuisine.  The staff at both places were definitely Italian.

View of Zermatt from Gondola

Like most ski towns in Switzerland, Zermatt is nestled in a steep valley, while the slopes are located high on the mountains above.  There are a number of different skiing sectors, each reached by separate parts of a complex network of cog-wheel trains, trams and gondolas.  Fortunately, our hotel was located a ten-minute walk from a gondola offering access to several areas.  

Our first morning out we headed to the Gornergrat area, but when we reached the end of the last gondola we found that the lift to the top wasn’t running yet.  So we jumped on the cog-wheel train, which had originated from the opposite side of town, and rode it to its end just below an old observatory overlooking the Gornergletscher (glacier). 

Although forecasts promised sun, we got off the train into a driving blizzard and slowly made our way down the mountain.  Though I intensely dislike skiing new slopes in limited visibility, we soon found that the blue slopes actually merited their Easy designation.  Gradually breaks in the clouds offered fleeting glimpses of the Matterhorn.

On day two we took a series of gondolas and a tram to the top of Klein Matterhorn, for some reason now referred to as “Matterhorn Glacier Paradise.”  Because of a bit of knee trouble I decided not to ski that day and instead did some winter hiking.  But at the top, which should have given us an awesome panorama of the Matterhorn and the Italian side of the mountains, we were greeted by another blizzard.  The Spouse explored some of these slopes while I sipped coffee at the comfy restaurant.  

In the afternoon we returned to Gornergrat, where I took a hike that affording lovely, if somewhat hazy Matterhorn views.

After two days, what had I learned about this famous icon?  Although the Matterhorn is undeniably impressive, I found that its iconic status inevitably influenced my experience.  That is, I always comparing what I saw with a pre-existing image in my mind.  In fact, to avoid disappointment one guidebook recommends which areas to visit to get “the classic Matterhorn view.”  (It reminded me of a niece’s comment about Big Ben when we took her to London several decades ago: “I thought it would be bigger.”)

In a sense, the Matterhorn (and Zermatt) has become a brand.  It never changes, because we experience the icon as much as the reality.  Perhaps that is why many people like to return again and again.  The British are particularly fond of the area – we heard more English spoken here than anywhere we’ve visited – and I enjoyed conversing with an elderly English gentleman with whom I shared a lunch table.  Now in his 80s, he comes back to Zermatt every year, always staying at the same hotel.  This is understandable for someone his age, but I couldn’t help thinking about all of the other beautiful places in Switzerland that he’s never seen.

Lunch, Haute Savoie style

On the other hand, we had little idea of what to expect from the other areas we visited.  We enjoyed a pleasant day on the family-friendly slopes above the French town of Morzine – offering the easiest runs I have encountered in the Alps – but were most impressed by the quality of the Haute Savoie cuisine offered at a tiny restaurant atop one of the highest points.  The promised view of Mont Blanc was blocked by clouds.

Our happiest discovery was the resort of Avoriaz, a town built in the 1970s atop a plateau.  All of the buildings were designed to look like cliffdwellings that blending with the massive brown cliffs behind it.   I gather that the designs are controversial, but after months of chalets The Spouse and I were enchanted.  The town is completely car-free, in fact the only means of transport are skis and a horse-drawn sleigh, generally used to carry baggage to ones hotel or condo.  Even better, day two at Avoriaz was beautiful, the only blue-sky ski day of our vacation.  We were enchanted by the views and the diversity of skiing slopes.  We’ll definitely be back.

At the end of the ski day we drove to Chamonix, passing beneath the formidable bulk of Mont Blanc.  This area is best known for its fantastic off-piste skiing, appealing mainly to experts.  The town itself is charming in a quintessentially French sort of way, but my experience there was limited by the fact that the mountain was socked in both days we were there.  No matter, I let The Spouse enjoy exploring black pistes in the fog while I relaxed in the hot tub at our hotel – unusual in our experience of Alpine accommodations. 

On our last afternoon we did take a lovely walk through snowy woods in the valley.  After a week of climbing mountains on trains, trams and gondolas, it was somehow a delight to experience winter deliberately on our own two feet.

R.I.P. Reginald Hill

I’m veering wildly off-topic, but isolated as I am I feel the need to write something expressing my strong sense of loss at returning from a lovely ski weekend to the news that one of my favorite writers Reginald Hill has died at 75. 

I am an enthusiastic reader of classic British detective fiction – I prefer to call them “mysteries” – but having come to the genre through the work of Dorothy L. Sayers and then P. D. James I am very, very picky.  I want good writing, a complicated but realistic puzzle and strong, complex characters.  I want a solution that is based on showing me a different way of looking at something.  I want a lot of interesting local color – think Colin Dexter’s Oxford.  Hence, it’s not often that I come across a writer that can consistently provide that sigh of happy satisfaction as I settle into a new story.  Once I discovered Reginald Hill’s writing in the 1980s I was never dissatisfied, and I took great pleasure at the continued development of his work, in complexity and especially in bulk, in the years since.

I can not improve upon the words of The Telegraph’s obituary:  “Hill called himself a crime novelist, but his work owed nothing to the hard-boiled tradition of the genre. His approach was cerebral, his plots labyrinthine, his characterisations sharply etched, and his dialogue richly laced with humour. His novels bristle with shrewd perceptions and whimsical wit.”  As a historian, I would only add that his plots often made effective use of the powerful effects of past events upon the present.

Hill is best known for his series about Yorkshire policemen Andrew Dalziel and Peter Pascoe.  Dalziel (pronounced for some indubitably British reason “DEE-el”) was the superior officer, menacingly large, obnoxiously crude but of course surprisingly brilliant, in an awkward match with slender college-educated politically correct Pascoe.  They always made a potent crime-solving team but through 24 books since 1970 their relationship deepened and evolved to the point at which in recent books they almost seemed to be switching personalities.  And there was a host of secondary characters – among them Pascoe’s girlfriend and later wife Ellie, a passionate feminist who often tangled with Dalziel, and their sergeant Edgar Wield, at first cautiously in the closet but eventually settled in a happy gay relationship – what is to become of this rich universe now that their creator has died?

I can, of course, begin to explore the many other works that Hill wrote, often under pseudonyms, in intervals between his Dalziel-Pascoe stories.  The most recent of these, The Stranger House (2005) and The Woodcutter (2010), which I happily seized upon at a London bookstore during a visit last year, were similarly richly-plotted and full of engaging characters.  I can devote myself to searching out some of these that I haven’t yet read, I suppose.  But I will greatly miss looking forward to how my old friends Pete, Andy, Ellie and Wieldy are getting on.

I knew nothing about Hill personally.  From the tributes being made by prominent British writers he seems to have been a true gentleman.  I would like to offer my condolences to Patricia Ruell, his wife of 51 years, and to their friends.  He – and the lively imaginary world he created and populated – will be greatly missed.

The Hills Are Alive – Exploring Austria

A considerable number of friends, told I would be living in Switzerland, broke out in a more or less tuneful rendition of “The Hills Are Alive,” from The Sound of Music.  “That’s in Austria,” I corrected them pedantically (once an academic, always an academic).  Even so, on hikes this past year there have been moments when the Alpine scenery was so gorgeous that I found myself breaking into song, somewhat to The Spouse’s consternation.

Last fall we decided it was time to venture into our neighbor to the east – interestingly, Austria is known in German as Östreich, or the eastern kingdom.  We had heard much about the great skiing there, at lower cost than in Switzerland.  But we were also curious about how it compared to Switzerland, as another (largely) German-speaking Alpine nation.

In mid-October we drove east, turned north when we hit the Rhine, and soon crossed the river and passed through the tiny principality of Liechtenstein before entering Austria.  Liechtenstein is closely linked with Switzerland and uses the Swiss Franc – some day I will have to research why it never joined the Swiss Confederation.  It’s also the place to stop at a gas station and buy a pricey sticker (vignette) permitting one to drive on Austrian highways.   Soon we drove through the customs gateway and were in Austria.  European travel sure isn’t what it used to be; it’s almost impossible to get new stamps in one’s passport.

We drove through the charming town of Feldkirch, complete with medieval towers and a schloss (castle) looming atop a cliff on the edge of town.  We didn’t stop on our first trip, but on our second trip in December decided to stop there for lunch.   That being December 8, the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, it was a vacation day in our Catholic canton, and was likewise in Catholic Austria. 

Although some stores were closed, there was a hum of activity in the cobblestoned central square where the Christmas market had attracted holiday shoppers and many others who seemed content to stand around and chat, warmed by frequent trips to the Glüwein stall.  After a while we realized that the Christmas music pouring from loudspeakers was not only in English but with an odd country music twang.

Beyond Feldkirch the route followed the turquoise Ill River eastward into a broad valley between high mountains.  Vorarlberg, the westernmost region of Austria, has much in common with its Swiss neighbors – locals speak a Swiss-Alemanic dialect – and after World War I residents unsuccessfully sought union with Switzerland.  After leaving the broad valley of the Rhine and the tributary Ill we found ourselves back in familiar Alpine territory.  Yet there was one significant difference – the valleys seem to be wider, with less of the glacial action that had produced the sheer rock walls that we have seen so often in Switzerland.  The mountains rise more gradually from the valley floors in a fashion that reminded us of Colorado mountains, and hence the ski areas more closely resembled those we have known in Colorado.

We were headed to San Anton am Arlberg, one of the most famous ski towns in Austria.  It was here in 1901 that the first ski club in the Alps was founded and where in the 1920s Hannes Schneider founded the first formal ski school that taught the forerunner of modern parallel ski technique.  We wanted to check it out for the winter to come.  Though it was indeed picturesque, we discovered that in October it is practically a ghost town.  After the departure of the summer hikers, the town shuts down for a long break until snows arrive.  We did note one especially quaint guesthouse, the Altes Thönihaus, in the center of town, with aged wooden walls that our guidebook dated to 1465.

So, after eating a picnic on a bench overlooking the closed athletic center, we headed further east, soon joining the Inn River as it flowed east through the center of the Tyrol region.  Before long we came to Innsbruck (i.e., bridge over the Inn) and decided to spend the rest of our day exploring it.  Perhaps best known for hosting the Winter Olympics in 1964 and 1976, Innsbruck was long a capital of the Hapsburg Empire, which left a rich architectural legacy.   

The old city is wonderfully picturesque, especially framed as it is by stunning mountains on all sides.  After securing a room in a comfy little pensione in the hills above town (thank you, Lonely Planet!), we spent the rest of the day exploring the old city, with well-spaced stops for coffee and Küchen, wine, and dinner.   

The following day we returned to Switzerland by following the Inn valley southwest; in Switzerland the river is known as the En, and forms the center of the Engadine region of Graubünden.

Since our arrival in Switzerland, many people have used the term Gemütlichkeit in reference to Austria.  Most simply defined as coziness, the term also carries connotations of a cheerful, relaxed, friendly approach to life, which is supposed to be especially characteristic of Austrians.  It carries an implicit contrast with the Swiss, who are supposedly more uptight and unfriendly.  I have to say that I have found Swiss people as friendly as most.  On the streets and in stores, strangers exchange a warm Greützi upon meeting, and everyone bids each other Schönes Tag or something similar when leaving.  On the other hand, strangers aren’t in the habit of making conversation on trains or in waiting rooms, which is fine with me.  Even so, I was curious to see this Gemütlichkeit in action.  

Our first visit was too short to make a definite impression, though our hosts were most agreeable.  Our second trip in early December was longer; we headed to Ischgl, along with San Anton noted as the top ski towns in Austria.  We read that they generally get snow earlier than in Switzerland and hoped to turn the Immaculate Conception holiday into a three-day ski vacation to launch the season.  We booked a room in a hotel a few miles outside town, along with the “half-board” rate that includes breakfast and dinner.  As December dawned we began to worry about a lack of snow, but right in time the week before our arrival saw the first heavy snows of the winter.

Our hotel, the Tannenhof, had just opened after almost complete rebuilding and managed to be both modern and comfortable.  Our first dinner in the dining room reserved for hotel guests was most pleasant.  Our waitress, wearing the traditional dirndl-style dress that is far more common in Austria than Switzerland, was both charming and efficient.   Whatever our preferences – sparkling water with dinner, decaf coffee with desert – she remembered from one evening to the next and brought them automatically.  The second evening happened to be The Spouse’s birthday.  We’d been asked to fill out cards upon registration with information including our passport numbers and birthdates, and after we seated ourselves in the restaurant our waitress brought us each a glass of Proseco and wished him Happy Birthday.  So far, top marks on the Gemütlichkeit front.

We were blessed with three days of good weather and great conditions for skiing, especially considering that it was the beginning of the season.  I found some pistes that weren’t too difficult for me to get my ski technique back in shape but offered some challenges, while The Spouse found much more interesting terrain on distant runs, despite the lack of sufficient snow for much off-piste skiing. 

At the end of each ski day, we sampled some of the après ski scene for which both Ischgl and San Anton are famous.  Now, both TS and I took up skiing relatively late in life; at the end of a long day of skiing we are usually more interested in soaking our aching muscles than in hitting the town.  But we were curious about the scene in Ischgl, so each evening we stopped somewhere for one beer before heading back to the hotel.  Our favorite was the “Kuhstall,” a barnlike bar with lots of rough wood and DJ-driven music that somehow combined Tyrolean umpah instruments and a relentless techno beat.  As we sipped our beers the room filled up with mostly-young skiers and the energy level rose higher and higher.  A few decades earlier I might have been tempted to stay and see how wild it would get, but not now.

Après ski at the top of the Gondola at Ischgl

On Saturday afternoon, TS skied on some of the more far-flung trails reachable only by experts. At the end of the day we met as usual at the top of the gondola that would take us back to the valley.  When he saw me, he said, “Did you hear that?”  I replied that I had no idea what he was talking about.  He explained that as he rode the skilift on his way back he passed over one of the numerous restaurants that dot even the most distant points of Alpine ski areas.  At 3 o’clock the place had already been hopping, with some three hundred skiers standing on the snow outside with their beer, schnaps and whatever, singing and dancing to the DJ’s beat.  The sounds, while not necessarily musical, had reverberated off the mountain walls.  The fact that the partiers would eventually have to tackle some pretty steep runs to get off the mountain didn’t seem to faze them.  Ah, to be so young!

 










At the end of December we returned once more.  We had managed to reserve rooms for ourselves and for Handsome Son, who would be joining us briefly for Christmas, at the Altes Thönihaus in San Anton.  It turned out to be just as charming and comfortable on the inside as it was traditional on the outside, and our hostess was the essence of Gemütlichkeit.  Moreover, the region had been covered by a thick blanket of snow in the preceding week, promising perfect conditions for powder hounds like TS and HS.

View at coffee break, Day 1

Although it blizzarded the middle of the three days, we had a fantastic ski holiday.  The après ski was quiet, largely because the town was filled with families over Christmas, but we had the feeling that things would soon begin to heat up during the following week.  Instead, we enjoyed a gourmet Christmas Eve dinner at the Museum Restaurant, which is housed in a mansion-sized chalet above town that also holds the Ski Museum.  Our table was set in what must once have been the ladies’ drawing room, just off a great room with a large fireplace.  With snow falling outside and a roaring fire behind us, it made a perfectly festive Christmas Eve for our family.

View of San Anton, Day 3

So, our first experiences in Austria have shown it to be a beautiful, welcoming place.  I’m still not sure exactly how it differs from Switzerland, but we will undoubtedly be going back to try to find out.

Istanbul -- City of Cats

By The Spouse, Guest Blogger

Everywhere you walk in Istanbul, you walk among cats. They lounge on Beyoǧlu’s stairways and benches, patrol the Kennedy Caddesi’s rocky seawall, forage Nişantaşi’s elegant cafes, raise families beneath Byzantine walls. The city not only tolerates, but supports them. Dishes appear on doorsteps, with water or milk. Hands pass tidbits under restaurant tables. Fingers scratch furry ears, and laps welcome kittens.

Like most travelers, we assumed that we were the discoverers of these creatures, and we began, like zoologists in the Amazon, photographing these exotic organisms for later study. The Web, of course, was way ahead of us. Cats, it appears, have a long association with the city, the origins of which may be historical or religious, but is amply documented and discussed. To learn more or join the lively discussion, search  “cats Istanbul” from your favorite Web entry point.

They are street-wise but remarkably tame and amiable. Some are thoroughly well-fed and lazy denizens of park benches in major tourist areas, as this comfortable Topkapi palace guardian (left).

Most others seem to work for a living. Predators of the Serengeti that stretches across the parklands of the Topkapi, or hustlers on the mean streets of bazaars and residential quarters, these cats can make a good life for themselves with their energy and determination. They are fully adapted to life, not in the wild, nor as pets, but in a kind of peaceful co-existence with the city’s people.

They may be scrawny families eking out a living on a rocky hillside, such as this exhausted group below the Monastery of St. George on Büyükada Island, one of the “Princes Islands” in the Sea of Marmara. Fortunately for them, their camp sits just downhill from outdoor kebab restaurant that serves the pilgrims who climb to the Orthodox Church to pray and leave ex voto offerings in aid of troubled loved ones. These cats collect the more prosaic offerings left or tossed from the tables.

In the Chora church, with its amazing 14th Century mosaics, kittens hang around outside to grab a share of attention away from Christ Pantocrator. Thoroughly comfortable with busloads of Spanish, Italian, and American tourists, they invite homage from all who visit.

Thin and elegant long-necked cats, seemingly raised from an Egyptian tomb, regard the traveler with big, curious eyes. As we walked up a long boulevard bordered by summer mansions on Büyükada Island, a youthful one of these stared us down from the protection of his owner’s wall.

Sunday morning in Nişantaşi, the city’s upscale neighborhood.  At umbrella-shaded sidewalk tables, demarcated by shrubs in pots, brunch is served. Cats wage guerilla war for space and scraps. A foraging feline, of thin and elegant demeanor, finds an opening. Eyes big with soulful appeal, furry neck and head invite unwary human fingers to pat and rub, but her attention is laser-focused on the tidbit at the end of a fork  or waiting on a plate. Our plates have sausages, and, bit by bit, totally seduced, we offer them up to our mendicant. But enough is enough—we have to eat after all—and we send our guest elsewhere in search of other tables.

A family is next to fall—a young girl’s face lights up at a neighboring table, and food is passed downwards. This can’t continue. The waiters engage. Shouting, squirting water from spray bottles, they drive the intruder out. Peace returns.

A little while later, a furry nudge on an arm. The cycle begins again.

After a week, we had grown so used to their presence, that life without cats roaming the streets around us seemed a bit empty. Just as, in so many other ways, the teeming  diversity of the Istanbul street makes most other cities we know seem a bit dull by comparison.

Autumn on the Shores of Zugersee

Fall is wonderful in itself -- the new crispness in the air, the explosion of color in the trees -- and for its promise of another ski season just around the corner.  Of course, Switzerland is beautiful in the fall -- when is it not anything less than gorgeous?  But there is one little price to pay for the privilege: we have to live in fog for a good deal of the season.

This isn't true everywhere, but in those areas near those beautiful lakes that make a perfect background for every picture.  It seems that the interaction of lake water and cooling air produces dense fog, which backs up against those lovely hills and can just sit there for days at a time.

Or, as is most often the case, the day begins in dense fog -- I mean, so dense that you can't even see St. Martin's church tower a couple of blocks away (though, of course, you can always hear its bells.) And gradually, the fog burns off, at least in part, leaving a haze in the air that makes for spectacular sunsets.

The solution is, as always, simple -- get up to the mountains.  Thus, for the past month we have taken advantage of every free day to get above the fog for a hike.  At least one day each weekend we have hiked in some valley or other, exulting in the fall color.

Being there also gives us an opportunity to check out the progress of snow on the highest peaks, which only whets our appetites for the ski season to come.

Last weekend we returned to the Haslital, one of our favorite valleys, and hiked along the Hasliberg, the uplands above. 

Autumn also brings the opportunity to observe different local customs and traditions.  Few in Switzerland, apart from expatriates, celebrate Halloween.  Instead, November 1 is a holiday in Catholic cantons, as the Feast of All Saints, when people decorate the graves of loved ones with flowers, pine boughs and candles.  And in most communities at this time of year children participate in Räbeliechtliumzugs (roughly translated, little turnip light parades).  

The parade took place in Baar last night.  We were prepared in advance by a letter from school officials asking us to turn off our lights at the time of the parade to create an appropriate "atmosphere."  Beginning at 6:45, all of the children in the town's 20 kindergartens assembled at the Rathus (Town Hall) and then processed through the streets at the center of town.  Each carried on a pole a turnip that he or she had carved, brightly lit within by a candle.  Some times they sang traditional songs and others they were accompanied by a brass band.  

The effect was magical, but unfortunately because of the light I was not able to get pictures.  This YouTube video from another community captures the atmosphere well, though.  Similar parades will be taking place at communities large and small throughout Switzerland in coming days.  I found the event touchingly simple and sweet.  Soon, comes one of the highlights of Baar's social calendar, the Chilbi.