Innsbruck, Hall in Tirol and The Brenner Pass

Innsbruck:
We saw Innsbruck before the Grossglockner Road and it has taken me over a week to decide how I feel about it....or maybe I already knew, but admitting that my husband was right by suggesting we limit our time there was too difficult. Although, now that I think about it, it was Rick Steves who called it "stale strudel", my husband was only quoting him, and being bested by a famous travel writer is easier than publicly admitting your husband is right....even if he is.

Innsbruck gets it's name from the Inn River that runs through it and the German word for bridge (Brücke). As an aside, I don't know what they are feeding this river, but I've never seen a river run so fast. Actually, the Danube runs pretty fast too, but the Inn River is a tributary of the Danube so the Inn must give the Danube its extra kick. The river is a milky blue color which I attributed to copper and salt, but I unfortunately didn't bring along the water testing kit Santa got The Boy last Christmas when he turned up on the Naughty List.

The old town is lovely with cute and reasonably priced shops. There is even a strudel shop with outdoor tables, nice wait staff, and according to its sign, "The most extensive selection of strudel in Innsbruck" (I studied the sign for several seconds, before my husband pointed out the English translation directly beneath the German), and the strudel there wasn't stale at all. But the old town is small for such a big city. Also, the new town is overtaken by too much loud, fast traffic to make walking fun, and too many 1970's style buildings to feel quaint.

Of course, the Olympics were here so I'm sure the ski slopes are to die for, but it's summer now and Innsbruck isn't worth your time with prettier places like Hall in Tirol next door.

Hall in Tirol:
On Rick Steves' recommendation (in the book, not in person), we stayed at a lovely and somewhat inexpensive ($130/ night for the four of us) guest house named Hotel-Gasthof Badl. Not so brief aside: the TomTom lady can't find this place. She will send you to the heart of an industrial center where you feel Rick Steves has betrayed you. When you reinput the address, she will tell you to go back to the more quaint area, then turn left into a building. I would give her the benefit of the doubt here and say the building was new, but it definitely predates the US Civil War. When you get frustrated, park, then one of you gets out of the car to find it on foot while the other inputs the address for the third time, the TomTom lady gets a sense of humor and tells you that you will get to your destination if you circle the block and park where you are. (If you are wondering why I didn't try the internet or Google Maps, I did. It wouldn't connect.)

Once the frustrated pedestrian comes back, you exchange some not so nice words with each other (because you need to yell at something human), you decide to just drive around to look for signs while staying near the river, then you input the address for a fourth time, the TomTom lady appreciates that you're serious this time and brings you to the guest house.  I don't know if everyone goes through the same ritual, but the front desk lady said navigation systems have trouble finding them.  If so, it's a bit like finding Smurf Village.

Once/if you arrive, the staff is very nice, but don't ask about the dog, Max. Max is dead. He died just after Rick published his book so it's nobody's fault and they're very nice about it, but Leo is there now. He is a Bernese Mountain Dog which is as big as a Newfoundland with the coloring of a Rottweiler.  He's got a sweet disposition, but you wouldn't want to offend him by asking about his predecessor, especially in front of his girlfriend, Lilly.

The guest house also has a very large cat named Morris. If you're thinking Morris is orange, you're thinking like an American.  This is an Austrian cat. He's a gray tabby. He likes to sit on a table marked reserved in the smoking lounge which you can see in his picture below.

Breakfast is included in the price of the room. So is internet access, a balcony, 3 beds and views of the mountains and river from all windows. As soon as we got checked in, I laid on the bed and tried to figure out if the mountains in my right eye window were nicer than my left eye window. I determined the right eye window mountains are probably best, but I attached a picture of both so you can make your own call.

The guest house is separated from Hall In Tirol's old town by a covered wooden bridge over the Inn River and is massive compared to Innsbruck's because, surprisingly enough, Hall In Tirol was a big deal when Innsbruck was just a bridge.  Apparently the folks in Hall In Tirol used to force any merchants going through (by river or road and the Brenner Pass is not far away) to stop to both pay a toll and give the people of Hall first dibs on their goods. Because it was wealthy 700 years ago, the old town is huge with narrow, cobble stone streets, squares with fountains in the middle, and ornately decorated buildings on the side.

I was sitting on a bench in one of these squares near dusk one night thinking about something I could say to redeem Innsbruck on my blog when (I swear this is true) a music school whose windows opened to the square began practicing, and a friendly pedestrian said good evening, then commented on how beautiful the choir sounded. (I posted a video of the square and the music on my Facebook page, but for some reason I can't post it here.) In any event, that was the nail in Innsbruck's coffin. Hall in Tirol is only a few minutes away from Innsbruck, but miles better.

One more thing about Hall before I leave is that it's a short train trip to Innsbruck and the trains run every hour. So, if you just need to check the "I was there" box it's 20 minutes there, 20 minutes back, and leave yourself an hour or two to walk to and from the strudel place, and pick up a 9 Euro Tirolian Peasant hat next door (they have them in green or red).

The Brenner Pass:
I was really excited to go over the Europa bridge and through Brenner Pass.  I don't know if the romanticism of traveling over the same ground that centuries of Romans traversed (the pass, not the bridge) was the only reason, but it was definitely the clincher.  However, unless I missed a sign somewhere, you go over one, then through a tunnel for the other with very little fanfare or options to stop to take pictures.  I'm still glad we did it, but you probably wouldn't depend on this drive being the highlight of your day.

The first five pictures below are of Innsbruck.  The sixth and seventh pictures are left eye mountain and right eye mountain, respectively (though taken from a non reclined position).  The rest are mostly Hall in Tirol with the last two being Morris and the Europa Bridge.

© 2012 Nicole Wirth
Author of:  Letters to Salthill 

Mauthausen Concentration Camp, Mauthausen, Austria

There were numerous concentration camps in Austria during the Second World War, but most were destroyed soon after the war ended. Some of Mauthausen's satellite camps were also destroyed, but the main camp is an exception and we thought it appropriate to spend the morning of The 4th of July there.

It was somewhat difficult to find the camp. Large brown signs announcing its presence in Mauthausen itself turned into small green ones outside of town. But after a few missed turns, we found the camp, bought our embarrassingly cheap tickets (4.5 Euros for the entire family), received our audio tour headsets (they are free if they are in English which may be a nod to the people who liberated them, but no one said as much), then walked around the camp and listened.

It's hard to know whether to censor or sugar coat something of historic importance for an eight and eleven year old, but we erred on the side of full disclosure, and the kids figured out early on that if they had arrived at the camp 70 years ago, they and their grandmother would be killed immediately in the gas chamber in the basement of one of the barracks while their father and I would work in the quarry nearby until we were too sick or weak to move heavy rocks up the 186 stairs pictured below. At that point, we would either be executed at roll call, executed on the path to the quarry--by bullet or by being thrown off a ledge over the quarry which the SS officers dubbed "parachute ledge"--gassed, or hung from a beam in a room near the gas chamber.

Between 150,000 and 200,000 people died at Mauthausen from 1938 to 1945. If you add the satellite camps, the number reaches above 300,000, however, it is not a camp one knows by name since so many more people died elsewhere and that is a staggering thought.

Up until 1942, victim's families were allowed to view the bodies for up to three days. The bodies were then cremated and families could pay to receive the ashes in an urn. Death notices were also sent to the families with no indication as to the manner of death.

I don't know why I find this part so disturbing. On the surface, it seems like the smallest kindness to inform the family and to allow their goodbyes, but it also indicates a lack of shame on the murderers parts, even a sense of normalcy and I don't know what you do with people like that barring a certain level of violence.

Once it was clear that the Allies were moving in closer to the camp, Mauthausen, like most other camps, increased their execution rate in an attempt to remove evidence of their crimes. However, those complicit in the running of Mauthausen were tried and convicted. Additionally, the US troops which liberated the camp forced SS officers and doctors into a week's hard labor to dig dignified graves for those not yet buried or cremated. One doctor wrote an article complaining about the difficulty of that labor and we, like most rational people, were not sympathetic.

We were asked not to publish any interior pictures of the camp so we only have pictures of the quarry steps (dubbed The Steps of Death), and the memorials to the US Army who liberated the camps in May of 1945.

Below are the inscriptions in case you cannot read them from the pictures:

In remembrance of the soldiers of the 26th (Yankee) Infantry Division, Third US Army who liberated Mauthausen Concentration Camp sites in the vicinity of Linz, Austria in May 1945.
In memory of all Mauthausen victims.

In remembrance of the members of the 11th Armored Division of the Third US Army who liberated the concentration camps at Mauthausen Gusen, Ebensee and others located nearby in upper Austria in May 1945. Their deeds will never be forgotten.

In recognition of the US Army 65th Infantry Division and 131st Evacuation Hospital who provided Humanitarian services for the Mauthausen Survivors at the time of their liberation in May 1945.

*****************
We ended the day at Melk Abbey in Melk, Austria which dates back to the 11th Century, and has been considered a major center of learning since the Middle Ages. (It is mentioned in the book "In The Name of the Rose" for this reason.)

It seemed strange to stand in a great library, surrounded by nearly a millennium of amassed knowledge when the morning began with such an overt display of so much ignorance.

Happy 4th of July to everyone back home and especially to the troops!

© 2012 Nicole Wirth
Author of:  Letters to Salthill 

The Grossglockner Road, Austria

If you established a drinking game based on the word "Wow!" you'd be drunk within the first ten miles of the Grossglockner Road. And this would be a bad move since nearly every turn in the road is likely to throw you headlong into the valley. I have attached copious amounts of pictures below, but I'm not sure they convey the real awe, danger, or beauty of this place.

To be clear, it doesn't just look dangerous going up or down the road or around corners (where your peripheral vision has its limits, you'll find), it also looks dangerous for the residents whose chalets (houses, rather) are clinging to the side of the mountain (I don't have a picture of one of these houses because I was busy saying something that began with "Holy" and didn't end that way). The danger for the residents is not merely because they travel this road to get a loaf of bread, or because it's a matter of time before a car careens off the road and lands on their roof, rather it's because the actual road to their home is only as wide as two horses pulling a cart, there is no guide rail (so no horse in his right mind would go down it), and the grade from the "main" road is sometimes as steep as a double-black-diamond. Seriously.

Now, some parts of the main road are closed for the winter so I'm not sure how many of these mountain-clinging-chalet folks stay, but I don't see how you'd make it to and from home during the winter without skiing, and I personally wouldn't ski it. Whoever does though would be good enough to get waived into just about any Olympic ski team... except Austria or Switzerland, which is tough luck for them.

As I said, the pictures don't (and probably can't) convey how dangerous and beautiful this place is, and the pictures definitely don't convey two of the greatest aspects of being in the Alps: the smell and the water.

Everywhere you walk or drive, farmers are harvesting sweet grass/hay and the sweetness perfumes the air. This sounds poetic to a level I don't feel comfortable with, but it is unfortunately true. Also, nearly any time you see free-flowing water from an outdoor pipe, its source is a mountain spring. (Before you drink it, make sure the word "trinken" is written near the pipe and "nicht" or "kein" is nowhere nearby.)

If it is "trinken" water, not only is it the only chance you'll get to have an ice-cold beverage in Europe, but the taste will make the 80% of your body that is water, jealous. (I don't know what that means, but trust me that water bottled from the source loses something in transport.)

We literally could not get the kids away from these springs without threatening loss of privileges or life. They dangled their mouths under the flow like hungry animals, they dumped perfectly good filtered water on the ground to fill their bottles. When there were two free-flowing spickets next to one another, they debated over which one had the best water, they agreed to disagree, and then they dangled their heads some more. It seemed crazy to see two children under 12 years old this animated over water. In fact, my son declared it to be his first addiction, and as addictions go, it's probably not too bad, but the word "first" got my attention, and I'm watching him more closely now.

Speaking of water, if you go to the Franz-Josefs Hohe overlook, there is a glacier below where you can hike down and touch 10,000-year-old ice. The ice is melting and receding at record rates which they remind you of on the hike down with prominent signs indicating the year the glacier was at that level. Now, I know (or maybe I just feel) that Global Warming is being blamed on the modern generations, but according to the distance between signs, something funky was going on between 1980 and 1985, and I couldn't even drive back then.

Franz-Josefs Hohe Glacier

A negative side-effect of Global Warming (besides the obvious) is that you have to hike several hundred feet farther to the glacier than you would have done in 1990. There is a funicular that goes from the observation deck toward the glacier, but the tracks stop somewhere around 1969. So, even if you're willing to part with 4 Euros each way and you're not afraid of taking a nearly vertical train, you're still doing some hiking--which I guess is poetic justice if you own an SUV.

Below is a picture of a 15th century church in Heiligenblut which is also along the way. If you stopped along the road to take pictures of lovely church spires reaching toward the Alps, you would have time to do little else, but this is the prettiest church I have seen so far. A surprising fact is that there are recent burials in this tiny graveyard. We (my husband) did a little research and found that most graves here are rented for 10 years. After that time, the family gets a bill for the next ten years. If no one is willing or able to pay for it, up they come. We're still researching whether people are then cremated, put into a communal grave, or their bones are put on display in a chapel like they are in Hallstatt (where we are now) or in catacombs like they are in Paris.

Not to dwell on the dead, but another point worth mentioning is there are very few memorials to World War II dead. This is interesting since you can't walk more than a few blocks without seeing one in France. Maybe the presence of the Allies made the stone masons nervous, or maybe they weren't sure how to both honor and distance themselves from the soldiers. Here in Hallstatt, we found a combination WWI and WWII memorial with the words "the living should learn lessons from the dead." In Heiligenblut Church Cemetery, we found the grave of the soldier pictured below, but no attribution to his service except that he died on the Eastern Front.

All in all, there is a 32 Euro fee for driving on the upper portions of the Grossglockner Road, but it's some of the best money you'll ever spend, and we drank at least that much in water.

© 2012 Nicole Wirth

Author of:  Letters to Salthill 

Places We Were Too Grumpy, Tired, or Cold to Appreciate

I feel bad saying this because I'm pretty sure there's nothing at all wrong with The Heidiland; Liechtenstein; Neuschwanstein Castle (the one used as a model for the Disney World castle); or Wieskirche (a church on The Romantic Road in Germany) but we didn't appreciate these places at all.

Wieskirche:
Maybe I'm just not the type of person who can appreciate "Germany's most impressive Rococo Style Church," or maybe being soaked by cold rain at the the previous stop (Neuschwanstein) was the problem, but they compete with the commute for most likely reason we have no fond memories of Wieskirche.

Wieskirche is only a half-hour north of Neuschwanstein Castle if you actually know where you're going, but the psycho Tom Tom navigation lady (she and I have a history which I'll explore in later posts) who is built into the car and, therefore, impossible to rip out, sent us to a completely different church of a similar name in the middle of a field where the only passing traffic (and this is completely true) was a suspicious-looking man on a tractor. Now, in the farmer's defense, his expression could have been due in part to my husband standing half naked (from the waist up) behind our car which was behind the church in the middle of absolutely nowhere. And a point worth noting here is that the car and the church were nearly the same size. I should also mention that the only mud puddle in the vicinity of said church was directly behind our car's trunk because that's where my husband's clean, dry shirt landed when he grabbed it from the drying rack (aka the top of the suitcases), my shirt came along for the ride, and he dropped his shirt to save mine. In sacrificing his clothing for mine, my husband got to wear a day-old shirt and see his wife hug the steering wheel while laughing. He appreciated neither.

I'm not sure what the rules are for cursing and proximity to church, but if it's prohibited within 20 feet, he could be in trouble.

Now, as I say, I don't know Rococo style from Baroque and I can't even hear the word "Rococo" without silently adding "Rocky" to the beginning. So, by the time my husband explains the concept for the fourth time, I'm knee deep in thoughts of Midwestern pizza. But I know how to nod and say, "Aha," at all the right times so he won't know I'm a fraud until he reads this post.

In any event, Wieskirche was mostly white inside with gilt-edged colorful paintings above altars of red and green marble. There was symbolism everywhere and a miracle attached to a statue, but I didn't get it, or maybe I was too grumpy, tired, and cold to get it because....

Neuschwanstein Castle:
That morning we woke up early to drive to Germany, to stand in line to buy tickets to see Neuschwanstein Castle (soggy picture below).

Just for clarification purposes, we booked online and paid a booking fee in order to have the opportunity to buy tickets at 9:00 AM. They actually make you make an appointment to buy the tickets. And since buying a ticket is in fact making an appointment to enter the castle, they are asking you to make an appointment to make an appointment. If this isn't bad enough, they will charge you the booking fee and the cost of admission if you are more than five minutes late for your appointment to buy your tickets.

If you are on time to buy your tickets, you have an hour to stand in line for a shuttle bus (enter cold rain; no umbrellas; two buses full of Japanese tourists who like to cut lines; and no hope of making it to the front of the shuttle line, or the top of the mountain, by the allotted time on the ticket).

If you're late in arriving to the castle gates when they call your tour group number (they do this twice within a five minute period), you're out the ticket price, the booking fee, and the time you spent standing in two lines in the cold, driving rain cursing at people who think you don't notice when they turn around to join the line in front of you instead of staying in the line behind you (this is where stanchions and ropes delineating snaking lines could be very handy).

In any event, we got out of the shuttle bus line after 15 minutes of not moving and took a horse and buggy ride to the top. It cost 24 Euro. The driver was nice, but the burping and gas-related noises (I wish I were only talking about the horses) sent the kids into loud bouts of laughter we couldn't control. After forcing our kids to use their indoor voices for several days so as not to be dubbed ugly Americans, defeat at the altar of crude humor felt particularly bitter. And did I mention we were cold?

We made it to the gate on time and the castle was lovely and we were much less cold a half-hour later when the tour ended and we were hurriedly led into the castle gift shop--apparently Neuschwanstein learned something from Disney World too.

Heidiland:
This one I feel particularly badly about since I've been a fan of Heidi since before Menudo made it big.

We traveled there the day after sleeping in the car which clearly isn't Heidi's fault, but the pictures on the signs displaying her as a brunette need to be blamed on someone. Now, I have no problem with brunettes. Some of my friends and three percent of my relatives are brunettes. I know of important people in literature who happen to be brunettes, but there is no way I'm willing to envision Heidi among them.

So, that had nothing to do with why we didn't enjoy the Heidiland, but I can't put my finger on the real reason. Maybe it was a let down after seeing Ebanalp. I can't say. What I do know is that upon my pointing out a beautiful Alpine home on a meadow clearing half-way up a mountain, my husband (the man who has read three different travel books for each country we're visiting, and the man who has been living and breathing this trip for over a year) said, "Yeah, whatever."

Brunette or not, I took offense on Heidi's behalf and we headed to Liechtenstein soon after.

Liechtenstein:
Liechtenstein's two major exports are stamps and false teeth. I don't know why this matters, but it colors one's opinions when driving into Vaduz, the capital city. The palace of the Crowned Prince on the mountainside (pictured below) also makes an impression, but one can't pinpoint if it's a privileged or a lonely one.

Liechtenstein is the only country on the planet named after a family--a Prince who purchased lands from more senior (and bankrupt) feudal lords. Though you know this going in, it doesn't feel very old and there is no sense of a distinct national history or identity. In fact, upon seeing a picture of the Royal Family, the boy looked at the small prince and said, "He looks Swiss... if you remove the smile."

The city is clean and the people are as happy as you imagine people with low taxes, plenty of stamps and good dentures could be. We stayed a few hours, then went to Feldkirch.

 

© 2012 Nicole Wirth
Author of:  Letters to Salthill 

Feldkirch, Brand and Reutte Austria

Since leaving Ebenalp, Switzerland on Thursday, we've visited The Heidiland (the place that inspired Johanna Spyri to write the Heidi novels. [The name of the town we visited is Maienfeld.]). Liechtenstein, Feldkirch, Brand, and Reutte, Austria; Neuschwanstein in Germany, and a southern portion of the "Romantic Road".

I'll get to the others in the next post, but Feldkirch, Brand and Reutte Austria are really our favorite places so far.

In general, we prefer Austria to Switzerland. We'll end the trip in Switzerland so we might change our minds, but Austria is more relaxed; blue collar (though just as clean and scenic); the people are more friendly (on the roads and on the street); and it is much much cheaper. For example, the Swiss campground with the $1.04 showers and early-running cement mixers cost over $80 for the two nights we stayed there, and dinner in the restaurant was $70 even though the boy ordered nothing while still on a hunger strike.

In Feldkirch, Austria, it cost $55 for two nights, the showers are free and so is a very nice water park attached to the campground (pictures below). Dinner at the park (though only pizza and drinks were ordered) was only about $25.




This brings me to the other great thing about Austria--it is incredibly family friendly. In Feldkirch town, they made space for a small playground in the Old Town area next to the river and a 600-year-old water tower. Also--and this is key--a locked bike is the exception and not the rule. We saw tween-aged kids running around town with their friends, then drop their bikes in front of an ice cream shop, and run in without locking their bikes. At the market platz, we must have seen 20 or more newer, unguarded bikes to the side, behind the kiosks. For a child whose bike was recently stolen off our porch (my son), and parents who are still angry about it, this made a big impression.

In Brand, there are miniature goats along the road that lead children to a small free petting zoo when chased. In the small zoo, there are donkeys; llamas; chickens; ducks; pigs; and peacocks (and their free discarded feathers standing beside the cage). For children who are not impressed by the cable car, the glacier fed river valley, or the nauseating car ride in and around mountains of Brand, this is a big deal.

Another example of Austria's kid-friendly nature was found on a mountain road wayside on the way to Reutte where--for reasons not apparent--they were bar-be-queuing, giving out balloons and crowns, and encouraging kids to jump in the free moon bounce.

Below are some pictures of the Alt Stadt (Old Town) area of Feldkirch, and the lake in front of our campground in Reutte.

© 2012 Nicole Wirth
Author of:  Letters to Salthill 

Insomnia and Flying Tents

This is our third night in the tent, though it may actually qualify as the second since we "slept" in the car most of last night after arriving back to the camp site in time to see our tent tumble plastic floor over rain shield. The kids screamed, which was in part due to the curse I yelled, and in larger part due to my husband and I jumping out of the car with little concern for the lightning and gusting wind. (I'm not sure if anyone makes Cat 5 tents, but they could make a fortune in the Alps.)

After righting the tent, redistributing weight (ie the 4 backpacks) to each corner, then attempting to hold up the windward side, it became obvious that if the tent survived, we probably wouldn't--being the highest things standing on the ridge that night. So, we evacuated the tent of all worldly goods (The boy was a huge help here, and in the girl's defense, she asked to help, but we made her stay inside the car where she sadly put her head in her hands and cried); collapsed the tent; rescued my husband from inside the tent (not having given fair warning that it was collapsing); folded it up; and then shoved it under the bumper (having no room in the car with bedding and backpacks scattered throughout).

Once safely inside, we organized the car, collapsed the back seats to make beds for the children, then settled in as best we could. A point worth mentioning here is that a car is only so comfortable when your choice for foot space is under the clutch or over the steering wheel (I tried both) and your seat will only recline as far as the bed you made for your children. Now, I know kids come first, but being the adult seems especially tiresome at times like this.

By 5:00 AM, it was clear that the storm had passed and if we were going to dry out the tent, assess the damage, and get some sleep, reassembling the tent was in order. So we did. And we were sound asleep inside the musty, damp tent when the construction workers began working on the hotel's extension at 7:00 AM....which brings me to the first night and insomnia.

Now, before you chalk-up insomnia to jet lag, let me say that I did everything Rick Steves (the travel writer) said to do in order to avoid jet lag: I had everything packed 24 hours before our departure (well, Rick says 48 hours in advance, but I've always been a crammer); I got plenty of exercise and fresh air when I arrived, and I didn't go to sleep until bed time local time (here, I'm an overachiever at a 10:41 PM bed time....due in part to the campsite proprietor making us move the tent at 10, but that's a story for another time).

So, maybe it was jet lag, or the boy stealing my pillow, or having to crawl back to the high ground every so often because the new campsite was uneven, but I learned a few things about life that night and here they are:

1) A child sleeping more than 100 yards from a toilet will get up 200% more often to use it than a child sleeping less than 20 feet from a toilet.
2) Cats everywhere on the planet choose midnight (plus or minus 30 minutes) to pick a fight.
3) Even a tent seems haunted when you're the only one awake at 1:00 AM.
4) Cows wearing bells don't call it a day until just before 2:00 AM, and they're up by 6:20 AM.
5) People who own combination campsites/hotels have no trouble cutting cement block and running cement mixers at 7:00 AM.

So, it is the third night in the tent. We're in Austria tonight and the Germans have stopped blowing their air horns and singing their national anthem, but they're still talking about the soccer game that was recently on the big screen TV in the nearby courtyard... Well, they could be talking about State-sponsored religious organizations and I would have no idea. All I know is they're frequently invoking God.

© 2012 Nicole Wirth
Author of:  Letters to Salthill 

Ebenalp, Switzerland

After very little sleep in the tent last night (see next post), we spent a couple of hours exploring Appenzell town today where we were the only non-German tourists and the only tourists under 70- years-old.

Toward the end of our visit, our very independent son ran to us for shelter after an elderly man nearly drowned him in a flood of German. As an aside, I consider this poetic justice since he a) is on a hunger strike because we make him order in German and b) was lagging behind when I ask him repeatedly to keep up.

After our impromptu lesson in saying "I'm sorry I don't speak German well" (It was a repeat lesson, but this time he paid attention.), we drove to Wasserauen which is at the base of Ebenalp Mountain and runs a cable car to the top. Well, a "cable car" is what they call it, and it looks like a cable car, but it has a near vertical lift, resembling more like Willy Wonka's elevator. This costs about $20 per person and ascends approximately 5,000 feet in no time at all, but so intimidating was this mode of transport that most in our party decided the alternate 1.5 hour hike to the top sounded more appealing.

The time approximated to hike any area is based upon the average elder person's time, but these must be ex-Olympic athletes because we made it in two hours and that was with very few photo ops, and one or two stops to "take in the view."

Once we came to the lodge in the first picture, we risked a full scale revolt if we didn't stop for lunch. So we did, and we found one elderly gentleman who passed us on the trail enjoying the second beer of his midday meal.

We have decided as a family to go into training beginning tomorrow morning.

 

© 2012 Nicole Wirth
Author of:  Letters to Salthill