| What are we doing?
April 28th, 2003 44th Schweizerischer Zweitagemarsch Bern  And so it was high time for the opening of the Marching Season 2003: the 44th Schweizerischer Zweitagemarsch Bern. Weeks of waiting and looking forward to it finally ended, as Marco's Polo tore unto the courtyard in front of my home, on the Minckelersweg. It would be an interesting drive, from Haarlem to Belp, the hamlet near Bern where this march takes off since its last edition. Interesting yes, for when we had directed the car from Haarlem to Badhoevedorp, in good spirits, it turned out there that Marco had forgotten to bring his walking shoes, and we therefore had to return to the Zijlweg. But never you mind: a fresh start. Thereafter things remained interesting, however.
Day 1 One can, namely, not accuse Marco van Zijntergen of tailtagging. Not that. But it is high time for the introduction of the term 'tailhopping'. For, and this to me particularly since I've recently taken another driving lesson, a car ride with Marco behind the wheel is a fairground ride that makes cool new attractions pale in comparison, because of this. I'd be surprised if the imprints of my right hand are not in the doorgrip on the passenger side. I did, after all, spend an entire long ride from Haarlem to Belp, doing everything I could to accomplish this. Mortal terror, I have been through. But do you hear me complain? Of course not. With a steely straight face I undergo the reality of this rollercoaster. But it's quite a job. All the more so because, when we halted in Germany, at a raststätte cose to Karlsruhe, Marco began an SMS- and later phone-marathon with his new, Hungarian love, that would last for a little longer than 200 kilometres as Marco, sometimes using his knee to steer at speeds of over 180 kilometres an hour, led us down the south German Autobahn, several stretches of roadworks included. 
In so doing, we made rapid progress, as we drove past the striking church that, standing on one of two hills overlooking the south German plains, to me symbolizes this region, that feels so Roman because of its red earth with bright green grass borders, and the poplars that look like cypresses. But that rapid progress suddenly ended when we were finally in Switzerland, and past the butt-ugly Basel interchange. Because that's where the Belchentunnel is, which separates the Baselbiet from the Bärnbiet, and there was a fire in it. A small one, luckily, without any dead or wounded, but enough to block the tunnel. And so we, and half the rest of the world, were directed into a diversion along secondary roads.  This meant three-and-a-half-hours of driving at a footpace. Out of boredom, I set about photographing blossoms. They were there in abundance, for that is the nice thing about the Schweizerischer Zweitagemarsch: besides the opening of the season, this certainly is a spring march, and that spring exuberantly makes itself felt in this region. This would, during the two marching days to follow too, grant me a lot of photographing pleasure yet.
Although, in hindsight, with respect to this traffic jam, I could slap myself in the face over it. Because I later heard that the platoons of lieutenants Vissers and Marquart-Scholtz were in it as well, with their transporters. Had I known that at that moment, I would not have photographed, but picked those flowers, and would have, panting because of the running, fallen at Elisabeth's feet with them. Just as well, maybe, therefore, that I didn't know. Well anyway. A mad affair it most certainly was. Most certainly so when, by the end of this delay, Schelden called us. "And, are you in Belp yet?" "No, we have spent the past three hours between Basel and Solothurn..." Thankfully, march-organizer J.P. Flückiger was aware of this, and was therefore still unperturbedly enrolling people as we arrived in Belp at last. Flückiger could do no wrong with us anyway, since he had reacted in utterly friendly manner to an email we sent him, last year, and because he goes through the trouble of actually doing the dirty work of enrolment himself at all, while being the organizer. Also, he had, when we sent him another email this year in which we asked him to reserve two beds for three nights for us, not reacted to it ostensibly - but had quietly made that reservation, albeit for two participants in the 30 km-distance, while we really always march the royal mile, 40 km in this case therefore. This was corrected swiftly, but after that things got nastier. For it turned out that, where the weaknesses in the organization were concerned, that we had already noted last year, when they were still forgivable because it was the first time the march started from Belp, little had been learned.  The way to the Zivilschutzanlage where we spent the night, in this case the one in (Moos in Gümligen had this year been taken by security personnel for the American, British and Israeli embassies, receiving extra attention because of the war in Iraq) was, just like it had been last year, indicated with a very obscure copied map on a wrinkled sheet of paper. And even when we stood in front of it, we did not realize that. No, you have to hand it to the Swiss: they did a fine job. That shelter looks so much like a farm, that no enemy will think of bombing it. From the road, moreover, it was clad in pitch darkness, and therefore well-hidden, without a sign pointing to it. Thankfully, the owner of the restaurant across the road did know it was there, and so, driving around it, we finally managed to find its lights, and the two infantrymen guarding it.
Satisfied, we made our quarters, and then left for Bern, in search of food. Leaving the shelter we ran into lieutenant Vissers, just arriving in her transporter. "Elisabeth is here too" - my day was made and could not be undone. Not even when Neals turned out to be closed and, because of that, following some telephone conversation with Schelden, we landed in 'Rock 'n' Eat', a ghastly expensive establishment, which does, though, have the adavantage that one can eat there 24 hours a day. Which Marco and I therefore did, salmon and ultraspicy chili respectively. 
Day 2 The following morning our luck turned out to continue. Although rain had been predicted for both Saturday and Sunday (while the weather had been hot and beautiful all week before), not a drop fell, so far. At a nicely fresh temperature of 12 degrees Centegrade, in reasonably humid air, we arrived at the parking lot by the beertent in Belp around six, ready to get going. This took some doing, because the organization made a second stupid mistake here: the route that participants' cars had to take to the parking meadow was the same path by which the starting marchers began their walk. This while the parking meadow did have another entrance, now only being used as an exit. A cumbersome departure therefore. Oh well. One does of course know already, that that messy organization eventually will fade, next to the nostalgia with which we will think back, in a few years, to the small scale of the Schweizerischer Zweitagemarsch as it was then. And after departure our troubles were past. Marco and I laid down a brisk pace, on our way to the first heavy hill, which makes Diekirch pale in comparison, but which I, long black coat, sunglasses and hat on, stoically took, as I passed a Swiss platoon, toiling below backpack and weapon. For which I then waited at the top, camera at the ready. "Laufen sie mal ein bißchen nach links, dann wird das Foto besser." Haha. 
Once atop the hills, we were therefore broken in well enough to start our walk to the first rest with fresh courage. A walk which, like last year, led through green alpine pastures, the mountainrange of Eiger and Jungfrau in front of our noses. You know that you're on holiday, when you hear the tinkle of the bells of the Milka-cows, sniff the fresh clear air and slowly see those snowcovered mountaintops in the distance approaching, as you tread down the asphalt below your feet.  Yes, this first bit was absolutely enjoyable, so we reached that first rest before we really knew it. There, we quenched our thirst with the obligatory Rivella and Knorr, and made conversation with UN-employee Jan Plasmeijer, whom we ran into here. This, by the by, was an expected encounter, because Jan has been a regular walking companion of ours, on this course, since Bern 2001, diligently reads our marching reports (I can see that in my site-statistics, because I get no other hits from the unicc.org-domain) and had mailed us, the day before we left ("I'll probably meet some of you in Bern, this coming weekend."). It therefore was a pleasant reunion, albeit short, for now, because Jan, as we reached the rest, was on the brink of leaving there and so did so after all, in order to head off the stiffness of limbs.
Once refreshed ourselves, we set off at great speed, in an attempt to regain contact with Jan. But Jan is an experienced marcher, so this took some time. Luckily, we didn't have to get bored in the meantime: the surroundings were as beautiful as before, and besides that both people and environment offered enough fun. We came, for instance, and for the first time in our marching history, across a detachment of the brand new Kosovo police, installed and still guided by the UN, which included two Nigerians and a 'real' Kosovar who put down a most impressive, determined marching pace.  And there was the at least equally impressive, somewhat well-rounded lady that we had already known for a long time, from the MESA where, during my first two participations, we had seen her dejectedly drop out with knee-troubles, but who corrected this bravely last year and was marching excellently this time over too. Also, I could, along the route, photograph a garden-gnome-of-the-oldfashioned-kind here. This was nice because, since I sometimes, out of absent-mindedness, inflict unintended damage to websites at my work, I have gotten the nickname 'gnome' there, because I always contend "it must have been gnomes doing that". The photograph of this one I could therefore send to my colleagues, marked 'Greetings from Bern', when I got home.
At Seftigen trainstation we caught up with Jan, and so marched on together, via Gurzelen and Forst to Wattenwil, an extra bit, part of a kilometre's worth of elongation, introduced by the organization following complaints from freaks-with-GPSes about the course's being too short. We didn't mind, because this was a beautiful stretch, with idyllic villages, rattling with Ravensburger-churches, and it also brought us closer to Eiger and Jungfrau than we had been so far. In the end, however, we did finally make the turn that began the way back, and the long march, back to Belp, through the Gürbetal began.  In that Gürbetal Michael Haslebacher turned out to have sold his farm in Lohnstorf, which last year still was home to the bio-swine of Sauwohl.ch. Or maybe he had just sold out of pigs, could of course be. Or maybe he had fallen prey to swine fever. Anyway, there was not a pig to be seen - instead, some brownwoollen sheep trod around their pen. Although this was a letdown, by itself it could not harm today's experience, and so we sprightly marched on, along the river. The tediousness that had been so abundant on that bit last year, now luckily was broken up by the rest of the extra added kilometre, and the last rest, where we contentedly dug into bratwurst, Rivella and Knorr.
Well-filled and happy we set out on the last kilometres for today - but to our discontent it now started to rain. Thankfully, for as long as we were still walking, nothing worse than a few drizzly drops fell, but when we had finally arrived at the beertent in Belp, the fun was over, and a torrential shower came down, that chased all liveliness from the weary crowd. Depressed, they populated the tent, which emptied itself swiftly, shortly afterwards.  The exception being the Dutchmen of Vissers and Marquart-Scholtz, who were topping themselves off in the corner of the tent, dancing on the tables in olde Dutch fashion, and gave a rat's ass about it being grey, bleak, nasty weather. We felt it would be somewhat pushy to join them without being invited, and so refrained from doing so. In hindsight, this was dumb, for they would not have minded at all and, it later became clear, had partied deep into the night, as the tent refilled itself around eight with marchers who had changed and showered in the meantime.
Oh well. We wouldn't have wanted to stay that late anyway, since we still wanted to go and have dinner in Bern. And oh, we had a great time, in deep conversation with Jan Plasmeijer, under the merry accompaniment of 'Duo Ohrwurm', which was responsible for the necessary dosage of humpa this year. Normally, I would have immediately fled from that kind of misery, but Duo Ohrwurm can do no wrong, because, first, they moved Jan almost to tears with their rendition of 'Sierra Madre', which at the time was a very popular song in Switzerland, and which delivered me a hilarious bit of film of Jan singing along to it, and second, they saved my wallet, that I had left on the beertable on departure. When, after Marco and I had driven back, I reported to the organization, I could go and see the Duo's keyboardist and receive my wallet out of his hands. Mar-vel-lous. 
After that we happily drove down to Bern where, for dinner, we reported to the unsurpassed Neals, home of the most unlikely fastfood-combinations, ranging from utterly unhealthy to very much healthy. The latter was a godsend to me, because I craved it after living on small bites of peanut-butter for two weeks, due to financial troubles, so I feasted on the salad bar, besides the stuffed potato and hamburger, while Marco sought out and easily found the calories he desired. 
Contentedly we fell, on the bunk beds of the Zivilschutzanlage Mülethurnen, over and asleep, the rain forgotten, on our way to the morning of the next day. Day 3 That morning, of the second day of marching, brought us satisfaction and luck as well: because the showers had faded, and we left on another freshly clear morning, guided by a dramatically beautiful sunrise, from the parking lot by the beertent. Because, today, the route would lead to the other side of Belp, the drive-in direction to the parking lot this time no longer was a disturbing factor. 
Shown the proper path in friendly manner, by the Swiss infantrymen at the first checkpoint, we therefore picked up a refreshing pace towards Gurten. Amidst the fields outside Belp we made friends with a Dutchman who, being half-German by birth, and after having served in the Dutch army, is now a reservist in the German one, and who was doing this march with a corporal under his command (who'd only just returned from a supportive mission in Djibouti, related to the war in Iraq). He himself made the contact, by approaching me and going "Say, if I'm not mistaken you always dress like this, don't you? If I'm right I've seen you marching Nijmegen in these clothes twice already.". Some explanation later he understood why, and for kilometres to follow we shot the breeze extensively.  Once in Gurten, in that beautiful alpine valley, with the Märklin-model-like farmsteads in a green sloping landscape, we ran into much different customers: the group of the Münchener Danubia-Studentenverein, extreme right punters whom we had met before in 2001, and with whom we had then had an acrid discussion in La Blanche, the society home of the Zofinger, about jewry and some related matters. This time, they pretended we weren't there, and would not only not give up that attitude, but even blew the whistle on one of them, who didn't yet know us, when, at the finish later today, he came to meet us - leading to his further ignoring of us too. Whatever. As the Dutch-German reservist with whom we overtook them said about them at that moment: "With those guys I don't need to speak at all. You see what that guy has on his back? That's the original backpack of the German alpine troops from the Second World War. His whole garb is that of 1943. With that Germany, I don't want to have anything to do.". Yes, as much as I found it spoke in their favour that they engaged in that discussion in 2001 at all, just so cowardly they came across now, in their silence.
Thankfully, we found better company right after that, in the shape of a brightly yellow and black coloured salamander, basking in the early rays of the sun. Once past the Gurtental, and past the high-rise estate that makes such a surreal impression at the end of it, we arrived at the scouts' rest in Könitz that pleased us so much last year too, and now did so again. 
This even despite the 'Rekrutenspiel Aarau', an army hoompah-orchestra that played here, and which by the by does consist of very friendly people, who supplied us with a leaflet containing a pleasantly ridiculous photo of the group, as we talked to a Dutch couple about the IML-march in the Italian Arenzano, and about the MESA. Contentedly, we moved on from there, through the 10 km loop that the 40 km-participants must go further than the 30 km-participants here (And where, at the start of it, we found snowdrops! Really! Ever seen those anymore, over the last 10 years, in Holland? I've not.), through Moos, over the Mengistorfberg and to Herzwil. 
Unfortunately, past Herzwil, the Eiger and Jungfrau were not visible from there this time, because rain hung in front of them by now, but this did little detriment to the beauty of this valley. Cause for enjoyment, all the more since we made one of those extreme right Müncheners eat our dust here, after he'd first proudly climbed past us on the Mengistorfberg.  Then, back in Könitz, the fun increased. At a crossing where two infantrymen in traffic warden-garb manned the zebra for us, two gorgeous ladies spent their time giving them the hots (and getting it from them themselves), and immediately afterward, stuck to a green rural shutter with festively coloured pins, I found a poster announcing a show by coverband 'The Repeatles'. Brilliant! I laughed my ass off, and continued to do so for a while, until we had gone through Liebefeld and Weissenmühl and arrived at the rest which lies at the foot of the Swiss parliament, along the Aar, next to the Dalmazi-brücke, on the lot of a local rowing club. There I ran into sweet lieutenant Vissers again, we had a conversation with a Swiss soldier who took part and asked me about the how and why of my costume, and cheerfully waved to the well-rounded MESA-heroine who had reached this point too, and contentedly set upon the bread. Moreover, we had a beer here, and ate some bratwurst. Pleasant, pleasant, pleasant.
 And necessary too. For once across the Dalmazi-brücke, that endless stretch along the Aare began, through Tierpark Dählhölzli, which had suprised us so much last year already, and through the reserve behind it, along the uneven unhardened path, where the going is so tough. Just outside the Tierpark Elisabeth Marquart-Scholtz greeted us ("Oi! Wandelsocks!"). She was here, drinking beer on the terrace with her mates, and cheerfully throwing us: "We'll catch up with you in a while.". Whereupon I said: "If you do that I'll be angry, but I will have respect for you.". And so 'lo, off came my hat, as, with one of her mates, a kilometre or three further on, she cheerfully ran past me, outfitted with heavy pack.
 Beaten by this show of force, we then finally reached the wooden bridge across the Aare, where we crossed the rapid flow of the river, with its beautiful azure colour, and began the flameout, past the airport to Belp. Just before that airport we ran into Petra's mother, who was doing this walk with her friend just like last year. Happily shooting the breeze with them, about parachuting (that's what happens when you're walking past a small airfield that has turboprops lifting off - those things give me cold shivers ever since the attainment of my licence) and Marco's fight with Henk, we walked to the next rest together, the one where all the military teams halt in order to regroup as a team, and regroom themselves before they walk across the finish line at parade pace.
And there the most beautiful thing that, as young as this marching season is, has happened to me in it, so far, happened: first off Elisabeth, sitting on the kerb, waiting for her colleagues, applauded for me there - but secondly, immediately after that, I received a standing ovation from 1 platoon of Swiss and 1 platoon of German soldiers. Cold shivers down my spine. Beautiful crown on a march during which that effect made itself felt all the time already: this year, for the first time, the scornful laughter that usually befalls me as I walk past in my black clothes, has been replaced by admiring respect and, at the most, I get grinned at understandingly and encouragingly. Relief: I am liberated.  Once across the finish line we could therefore let it all hang down happily. Jan greeted us there, I met the German who lives in Belgium, works in the Netherlands, and marches everything that can possibly be marched (that is how I first met him, when he limped through Nijmegen with a nasty case of badfoot, the year before last), I there congratulated the Nigerians of the UN-detachement of Kosovar police with the feat they had accomplished (but I think they went nuts anyway, having moved temporarily from Nigeria via Kosovo to a vacuumed tidy and expensive country like Switzerland), did the same with the 'real' Kosovar (who then, out of thanks, gave me a badge of the Kosovar police for present), and politely applauded the finishing Dutch soldiers (who, alas, looked like raffle compared to teams from other countries - but they are one's countrymen eh, not to mention the sweet lieutenants).
 Then, we sat down on the grass in front of the beertent. Wonderful, to recuperate in the sun. We dislike walking - but hàving walked, that's an unbeatable experience. Especially if, following it, just another Dutch soldier sits down beside you and says: "Eh, aren't you guys the Wandelsoc.?". And this while I wasn't even there in Society garb. It happened again shortly afterwards, when, on leaving the toilet, I was pinpricked in the side by a beautiful woman, Dutch soldier too. "Say, you're one of the Wandelsoc., aren't you?" Great. Both of them turned out to have heard about us from their lieutenants. Three guesses as to their names...
And them I sought out too, for a while, in order to pry their mail- and postal adresses from them, which I'd lost during a nasty system crash, somewhere in the course of last year. I brought along two beers for them, which we had originally bought for a Canadian she-fighter, who had, earlier on the day, protected us from taking a wrong turn and ending up on the 30 km-trail. But we couldn't, at present, locate her, and so I passed the beers on to the lovely lieutenants. "You're only getting these because they were leftovers." "Fool, you shouldn't say that." "I'm always honest." Lol. 
Utterly happy, shortly after Jan had said goodbye to us, we took place in Marco's Polo, and drove, happily detoxicating in that unsurpassed glow that comes with the completion of international multiple day marches, through a sunsplashed Berner Oberland, back to Mülethurnen. That sun lit an unprecentedly clear view of the mountainranges of which Eiger and Jungfrau are part. Which is very beautiful.  So beautiful in fact, that I asked Marco to park the car by the roadside, so he could take a picture of me in front of it. While I respectfully took my hat off for this overpowering Swiss landscape, I suddenly remembered a maxim inextricably tied to my youth. On one of those old-fashioned aluminum, enameled signs (which I remember melancholically), in gracious lettering and with a soft-focus mountainrange atop it, it hung on a wall on the first floor of the house of my late grandfather, Kamperfoeliestraat 7, in Goes: the Hammaaloth song (Psalm 121, verse 1). "I lift up my eyes to the mountains; from where my help shall come."
 Marco turned out not to be any less afflicted, and so we decided that, having looked at those beautiful mountains for two days in a row, we would spend the next day making at least a real effort to get atop them. Happy with this decision, we then changed in the Zivilschutzanlage, after which we drove to Bern, there to have our meal in the Altes Tramdepot, a meal which, just like the homebrewn beer, as always was excellent.
 It remains a wonderful joint, in all aspects. And so when we had killed the rösti and duck's breast, and had feasted on the Märzen-bier, we took to the terrace outside, remained seated there for a while, and ended the evening with homemade gin, distilled from their own lager (visions of Brewery de Hemel in Nijmegen) as the night slowly fell on the other side of the gorge, hacked out of the rock's faces by the swiftly flowing Aare. Only minus: there was, again, not a bear to be seen in the Bärengrabe in front of the Altes Tramdepot. And so I will maintain this: there áre no bears, in Bern! And I will remain convinced of this until I meet one for myself.
Back in Mühleturnen we prepared ourselves for a chaotic last night's rest in Switzerland: the Dutch soldiers, in utterly corny mood, had turned the shelter into to-tal chaos, before we went to sleep both they and we were set upon, for at least half an hour, by a, by the by incredibly tasty, young sergeant, who tried to shove lemonade down everyone's throat, against the hangover, and I seem to have, because of my cold (for I otherwise certainly wouldn't, okay) snored so much, all night, that Marco went and slept in an adjacent room. 
Day 4 The next morning, quite refreshed after all, we packed our belongings, and took our leave from Petra Vissers who, this morning, looked like all beautiful women do at the moment I find they are at their most beautiful, barring one (I will leave it up to you to guess which is the moment I find them most beautiful of all): when they wake up. I have never understood why women always think that they are at their ugliest at that time. None of it, quite to the contrary. All the more, it was a sad thing that we had to say goodbye. I had the feeling this not only went for us. For as I explained to Petra how we would not directly return to the Netherlands, but first travel up the mountains, she made the face I photographed - which, if I'm not mistaken, means 'Shucks, and I won't be able to come along, since I've got to return to the barracks in Germany with my platoon".  Well anyway, at last we were motoring, to a roadside restaurant just outside Bern, for breakfast, and then along the Thunersee (clear azure blue wrinklefree water, beauty, beauty, beauty) to Interlaken, and from there to Lauterbrunnen. There, we inquired as to what it would cost for us to travel up the Jungfraujoch, as we had been advised the previous night, when we asked the waiter of the Altes Tramdepot about it, that this would be the best place to go and reach the snow. "144 Swiss franks a person, sir." By the time we had recuperated from that the ticket lady said: "But it is possible to do it cheaper, if you only go to the station below it, the Kleine Scheidegg. In that case it's only 44 franks." Ónly 44 franks? Well. Once this far, we would return without snow in no circumstance whatsoever, and so we did after all take our places in the gearwheel train of the Wengern Alpbahn, upwards toward the idyllic Wengen.
 There, we had to wait for at least half an hour for the connecting train, upward towards Kleine Scheidegg, and so we enjoyed the sun, the mountains, and the telephony with (by Marco) mother and (by me) colleague Corno van den Berg. Once up there, at the Kleine Scheidegg, we found out how this trick works: up there, a night in a hotel namely costs 30 franks, 34 with breakfast included, and both food and drink are equally cheap. So what they're aiming for are the people who pay the enormous fee for getting there and back again once, because they spend at least a week up there, skiing. Which, of course, we did not. But the trick goes on and works well. For if you're at the Kleine Scheidegg, there is no force on this earth that will keep you from training onward, to the Jungfraujoch. See, where you are, you are in a bowl between mountain slopes, and high atop them stands, visible from below, unattainable in the alpine winds, the observatory on the Joch. That, then, is where you want to go.
 And this, despite the fact that we, of course, grudgingly paid the rest of the amount, which will no doubt make us paupers for the remainder of this month, was absolutely worth the while. From the Kleine Scheidegg a much more luxurious cogwheel-train, red plush seat cushions and all, goes on, through tunnels, built against rock-faces from wood, to protect both track and train from avalanches. For besides the frequency of tunnel fires in Switzerland (and I seem to remember that one of them was on a skitrain in a tunnel, and had an utterly deadly ending) the air at heights like these becomes so thin that it really becomes hard to do anything at all, and the risk of cardiac arrest increases exponentially. But... ...in those tunnels the train stops thrice, by bunker rooms hacked out of the walls (á la the Luxemburg ones, but only three rooms wide at any one time), from which large panorama windows provide a view of the lower land and, when somewhat further up, the Eiger glacier. Astonishing.
And this at least as much as the city you then find, in the saddle between Jungfrau and Eiger. Sporting four floors, express elevators between them, at least four restaurants (amongst which an Indian one) a souvenir shop and an extricate array of walkways, the station at the Jungfraujoch is a world in itself, where one can easily spend an entire day trip.  That time, of course, Marco and I didn't have, yet we missed out on little. Having visited the Eispalast, a system of hallways hacked out of ice, with impressive sculptures in them, also hacked from the ice, ranging from animals - finally! bears! - and ice chrystals to a free-christian Mary-with-Christ, in which Mary is fitted with angel's wings) we toiled upwards, to the glacier. There, we fed our minds on the astonishing views, took pictures and I, from between the Japanese, threw snowballs at Marco. Alas, there it finally was: snowjoy. For this, you have to therefore pay an ungodly amount of money. Yes, the Jungfraujoch definitely is the outing for the rich - but it is always nice to feel like that for just a little while, and what you get to see is, when in good weather, guaranteedly breathtaking (moreover you cannot just enjoy the view from or the sights within the station itself, but also trek to a cabin further up, ski, or have yourself drawn about by sleds pulled by huskies).
Yes, breathtaking, from the vistas that the view in the direction of Bern and over the Eiger offer, to the frailness of the people by the glaciercave below, to the literalness that the thinness of the air, and the cutting wind add to the 'breathtaking' part. 'Mountain air makes free', Rousseau once said - I must contend that mountain air makes short of breath, more likely.  Nonetheless ut-ter-ly happy with our extraordinary action in this, we travelled, by cogwheel train, back to Lauterbrunnen again, via Kleine Scheidegg and Wengen. From Lauterbrunnen, we therefore only left by four in the afternoon, and between Bern and Basel we got into the evening rush hour to boot - so even while the Belchentunnel was fully opened by now, we had to skip the traditional dinner in Restaurant l'Académie in Luxemburg City (oh well - we won't turn the Jungfraujoch into a tradition that swiftly, if only because of the cost, so we'll put that all to right next time), and eventually used supper at six o' clock in the morning, in the Burger King at Schiphol.
Deathly tired, but utterly happy, we ended the trip at my house with whiskey, and looking at the pictures taken. This will be with us for quite some time (if only, in my case, because of the two blisters, left and right, that I incurred during the respective days of marching). To your health, Marco, excellent walking there. The Wellingborough awaits. |