Throwback

Recently, I was in an American/British import grocery store and I noticed a case of Pepsi Throwback with "retro packaging"...but I remember it as being just normal Pepsi packaging in the 70's and 80's. Yesterday we came home from a trip in the Swiss Alps - this too was a throwback, as I found myself staring in some of the famous ski movies of yesteryear...and remembering why I truly love being a mountain girl.

Cool, fresh, mountain air welcomed us as we stepped off the train in Zermatt. And so did the rain. Zermatt is car-less, so you either walk everywhere, or take little electric run, golf-carts-on-steroids taxis. We figured, hey, we are mountain people, it's only a 15 minute walk to our place, let's walk. So walk we did - with our luggage and our 2 boys that morphed into complaining beings almost instantaneously. We walked up, and then we walked up, and then we walked up, and then it started to rain, and then we walked up. Biking to work and back every day this year did not help prepare us for mountain hills with 2 complaining boys and luggage in tote. The Matterhorn, or rather part of the Matterhorn, as it was partially enshrouded in clouds, rewarded us as we peaked the final hill to our apartment. It was striking. And I thought, I am home.

We spent the following days playing in the alps. Muscles that had been asleep for the past year were rudely awoken from their slumbers. Each night we collapsed in fits of exhaustion that only mountain living can give you. Yet, we woke up the next day asking for more.

Beautiful Zermatt 

Where we stayed

The cog rail train: Gornergrat Bahn 

At 10,134 feet

On our hike up the Matterhorn Trail.

We went skiing, for the first time in a year. We were all giddy with anticipation. We rented gear the day before, got up early, ate a skiers breakfast - egg, bacon and cheese sandwich, and marched to the lift with the rest of the skiers- mostly ski racers in summer training. We didn't make it far before I found myself staring in several of Warren Miller ski bloopers. One forgets the awkwardness of ski gear, and having to carry it. One also forgets that even though in the summer, it is cold at 12,000 feet, so that is what you dress for, it is summer at the base of the mountain. So one gets very hot.

We didn't have a foot out of the rental shop's door before my children accosted me, accusing me of dressing them too warmly. There is nothing more picturesque and endearing than watching a family waltz off to the ski runs in summer while the children complain. There is nothing funnier than watching said family scramble their way into a gondola, and having one child trip and fall into the gondola - skis, poles and all coming down into a perfect face plant. Nothing funnier, that is, unless it is you this is happening to. We finally settled into a beautiful 35 minute ride up steep slopes.

Now I am no fan of heights. I get awful vertigo, and as we reached the top of the gondola, it dawned on me, slowly and painfully, that we were not at the top. To my absolute horror, I discovered that to get to the ski area, we needed to take the cable car up the Klein Matterhorn (small Matterhorn). Unfortunately for me, and according to Zermatt, it is the highest cable car in the world. It passes over a massive glacier before scaling a ridiculously steep peak. The terminal at the top is a concrete opening built directly into the mountain's face.

Klein Matterhorn, in all it's horrific beauty and steepness. 

The glacier we rode over.

It was real hard not to think how an evacuation would take place in one of these things. Because, of course, my mind always goes to worse case scenario. 

I tried to be as cool as Glen Plake in the "Blizard of Aahhh's" while going up. Imagining his thumbs up after his magnificent backhand spring over the crevasse - but to no avail. I am just not Plake material when it comes to heights.  

The tunnel in which we had to walk after the cable car ride... the literal and figurative light at the end.  

I made it, despite my almost paralyzing fear. And at the other end of the tunnel, we were met with a cloudless sky, sunshine and amazing terrain.

Please notice the lifts - you will need that visual in a moment. 

I'd like to say that our Warren Miller blooper moments ended with the crash into the gondola, and the breakdown we (i.e. one of the boys, OK and my internal breakdown on the cable car - but I kept that to myself) had in the tunnel - alas, it did not. The lifts that were open on the Swiss side were T-bars. And those moments on the T-bar seriously could have been lifted out of the movies. It took Henry and I several failed attempts to grab and successfully hold on to the T-bar, and then Henry fell on his face part way up the lift. We stayed on the Italian side after that, and rode the easier to get on/off cable car.  

Skiing was an absolute soul lifting, unadulterated happy experience and I smiled and giggled the entire time we were up there - and it wasn't because we were above 12,000 feet and the air was thinner. 

Despite our blooper moments, and my inability to channel Plake coolness, it was a good day. A throwback day to spring skiing in Vail - with a Swiss/Italian twist. 

Apres Skiing - Zermatt style

Cheers, 

Noel

Some more pictures from our trip to Switzerland: 

The town of Thun

The town where Brett's mom's family is from.

Amsoldingen 

Out our hotel window in Thun.

Prison in Thun Castle

Thun

Thun

Significance in a Napkin

I'm reading a book now, The Expats, by Chris Pavone. The book was released soon after Brett and I made the decision to move to the Netherlands. I wanted to read it, hot off the shelves, but I was concerned it would taint my own ideas of the experiences of expat life. So I waited. I'm glad I did. Within the first couple of pages, with the exception of this being a spy novel about a women running away from a past CIA life, which I'm not doing, I felt this novel could be my story.

The main character, Kate, at one point reminisces about how she used to be able to distinguish immigrants immigrating to the US in airports by looking at their faces of worry and bewilderment, "clutching handfuls of red or green passports that set them apart from the blue-passported Americans." She is struck with this memory, as she herself, finds her family in the middle of a foreign airport "clutching her family's blue passports, distinct from the German's burgundy..." It is at this moment, that she realizes she is an immigrant, immigrating. This scene struck me speechless (if you can be struck speechless while doing something singular like reading a book) - because I distinctly remember the feeling that Kate had when realizing that she was an island of blue among an ocean of burgundy passports.

I am an immigrant.

I've never really given napkins a second thought. I've used them, and then tossed them away. I may have admired a cute design on a napkin, but I never looked twice at one and noticed what it symbolized. Never, until yesterday.

As I walked into my staff lounge yesterday afternoon, ready to enjoy the festive atmosphere that rang throughout the building all day celebrating the upcoming Queen's Day and her abdication of the thrown, my eyes caught sight of an orange napkin with the names "Beatrix" and 'Willem Alexander" and the date "30-04-13" written on it. At that moment, I was hit with this awesome wave of clarity - I was here to witness the passing of a monarch - a long standing, deeply routed and loved establishment within this nation. I was struck with this immense sense of pride and respect toward my adopted country, and it was at that moment, I didn't feel like an immigrant anymore.

My thoughts then shifted to the countless Fourth of July celebrations I've been a part of; the number of American Flag napkins I've used and thrown away without a second thought. And I was almost left breathless. I wondered how immigrants in the US experienced their first Fourth of July. Did they, like me, look on with astonishment at how people celebrate their history and hopefully feel part of the party?

Part of my school's mission is to instill international mindedness into our students. However, I think it is me, that has had a lesson in international mindedness this week.

I may never never look at a napkin the same again.

Cheers,

Noel


Queen's Day Pictures:

The napkin of reflection

On Bowling

Last weekend Peter had his birthday party. We gave him the choice of venues...there are a lot of cool Dutch places to hold a birthday party. There is a local farm that has all kinds of cool activities for kids - for example the kids hide their presents in a maze of hay in the barn, get a tour on a big tractor of the farm, make Gouda cheese by hand...yes make their own cheese and then you can buy it. In Amsterdam, the Maritime Museum offers parties, as does the NEMO children's science museum. I thought for sure one of those three would be a winner for a birthday party. It turns out, no...not a one. He wanted to have a bowling party. Bowling? How boring and American is that? I wanted to lecture him on the silliness of his choice when he had all these exotic choices that he couldn't get in America. I wanted to tell him he was wrong. But I held my tongue...and good thing I did. Who knew bowling could be so entertaining.

Bowling is so American. Right? I mean, everyone knows the basics of bowling... If you grew up in the 70's and 80's - who hasn't been bored on a raining Saturday afternoon and was forced to flip through the television channels (before cable people) and landed on watching professional bowling because there wasn't anything on?

Well, apparently, I was wrong. There were 2 other parties at the bowling alley last Saturday. We had the 2 most middle lanes, and were flanked by 2 other very large parties. To the right of us...loud, screaming at the top of your lungs, Dutch boys - probably around 1st grade. They knew the game, they just did damage to the eardrums. To the left of us, around 15 Asian and Indian children - not one older than the age of 5. They had 3 lanes and had CLEARLY never set foot in a bowling alley.

Several of the children would every now and then migrate over to our lanes and roll their balls on our pins. You can imagine the look of incredulity on Peter's face at the injustice of it all. The shock of "they just took my turn" clearly painted on his face - eyes popping out, jaw to the floor, hands in the air. We chuckled over it because Peter was on the lane directly next to the roaming 5 year olds and we weren't. We chuckled until this very nice little old Indian man, bent over with age, shuffled over his 3 lanes, over Peter's lane and into our lane - laden with a bowling ball that looked like it would tip him over. Slowly, he stood facing the pins, and while staying stationary dropped his bowl on Brett's turn. We kindly told the little old man, and the 15 little 5 year olds that they needed to stay in their own lanes.

Those 3 lanes were utter chaos. Since no one knew how to play, it was a free-for-all. 15 children 5 and under running back and forth from the ball return to the lanes and dropping bowling balls consecutively one after the other so that the lanes became peppered with multi-colored spheres. It didn't even matter if the pins were put up. Sometimes, a child was even thrown in the mix as they walked up and down the lanes and gutters to free the balls that had gotten stuck in the gutters (despite bumpers), gotten stuck by the pins, or had just run out of steam in the middle of the lane.

Have to tell you, it was the most bizarre bowling experience in my life. And much more entertaining than those Saturday afternoon professional bowling events on TV.

Cheers,

Noel