There are countries that will get rid of the anxiety of a slap: just land and get the first whiff of the realm of humanity so that the traveler will remove the silly western in others, however, therapy is more gradual: the melancholy numbs a little, breathe some air puffs glacier, watching the sky lattice by the tangle of cables and tram becomes a more relaxed home. Obviously India belongs to the first group and Switzerland to the second.
Whenever one begins a journey, some memory, often a stereotype, emerges from the subconscious. Route to Switzerland, I can think of two. First, the romance of Hans Castorp, the young more wounded in the soul in the body that went to a Swiss clinic in one of the best novels of all time: The Magic Mountain by Thomas Mann. Second, the lapidary phrase of cynical Harry Lime who plays Orson Welles in The Third Man , which said that the bloody Italy of the Borgias produced Leonardo, Michelangelo and the Renaissance, while five hundred years of democracy, peace and love Switzerland produced the cuckoo clock.
But reality is always second, and soon we were embedded in the cold of Zurich and forget Castorp, Welles and other mythology. In fact, we soon learned that the Swiss are forced to serve three weeks a year of compulsory military service.
civilization reaches here where nature is allowed: a 2000 meters in the port of Kleine Scheidegg, next to the train stop zipper, as quietly as seen in the neat streets of Zurich, but a little becoming apparent beyond the boundaries of the civilized world on the basis of mile high along the north face of Eiger or the seracs suspended.
is a privilege to account for the typical ranch Germany (sausage, sauerkraut and beer) in front of the Eiger-Nordwand, the north face of the Swiss mountain called "Ogre." Few places so much badness alpine face this wall. Like a huge canvas, Heickmar, Harrer, Terray, Lachenal, Bonnington, Messner, Steck Habeler or have drawn much of their lives on this impressive vertical wall. Some, like the Maños Rabada and Navarro, stayed there for ever.
next day, the Alps do not let us even come close. A slow, steady snow falling relentlessly on the quiet streets of Bern. Toca refuge in bars, where coffee day and night stimulates dormant beer. There seems to be a problem for this mixture of Swiss and English that we are all good eaters and drinkers.
But the days pass quickly and time is running out. Unlike Rabada and Navarro, unlike Hans Castorp, shortly after we got on a plane that returned home.
Whenever one begins a journey, some memory, often a stereotype, emerges from the subconscious. Route to Switzerland, I can think of two. First, the romance of Hans Castorp, the young more wounded in the soul in the body that went to a Swiss clinic in one of the best novels of all time: The Magic Mountain by Thomas Mann. Second, the lapidary phrase of cynical Harry Lime who plays Orson Welles in The Third Man , which said that the bloody Italy of the Borgias produced Leonardo, Michelangelo and the Renaissance, while five hundred years of democracy, peace and love Switzerland produced the cuckoo clock.
But reality is always second, and soon we were embedded in the cold of Zurich and forget Castorp, Welles and other mythology. In fact, we soon learned that the Swiss are forced to serve three weeks a year of compulsory military service.
civilization reaches here where nature is allowed: a 2000 meters in the port of Kleine Scheidegg, next to the train stop zipper, as quietly as seen in the neat streets of Zurich, but a little becoming apparent beyond the boundaries of the civilized world on the basis of mile high along the north face of Eiger or the seracs suspended.
is a privilege to account for the typical ranch Germany (sausage, sauerkraut and beer) in front of the Eiger-Nordwand, the north face of the Swiss mountain called "Ogre." Few places so much badness alpine face this wall. Like a huge canvas, Heickmar, Harrer, Terray, Lachenal, Bonnington, Messner, Steck Habeler or have drawn much of their lives on this impressive vertical wall. Some, like the Maños Rabada and Navarro, stayed there for ever.
next day, the Alps do not let us even come close. A slow, steady snow falling relentlessly on the quiet streets of Bern. Toca refuge in bars, where coffee day and night stimulates dormant beer. There seems to be a problem for this mixture of Swiss and English that we are all good eaters and drinkers.
But the days pass quickly and time is running out. Unlike Rabada and Navarro, unlike Hans Castorp, shortly after we got on a plane that returned home.
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