Winter Olympics 2010: Homestyle

You'd think I would have learned from this experience that sledding in the Schwiiz is a little ... different.

When I think (thought?) sledding, I think of curling up criss-cross-apple-sauce on our bright orange saucer-sled, and the 10 foot long stretch of slanted ground behind our house. Two minutes to run up; four running strides for a running start, and one spin-filled minute down. That was sledding. It was fun.

Apparently it was also childs' play.

Last weekend found us at La Tzoumaz, famous for its 10 kilometer sledding run. Seven m-i-l-e-s. Complete with gondola to take you to the starting point ... at 2354m (7723ft). So much for one minute down, two minutes up. When helmets, goggles and back protection are required, you know that you're in trouble.

First there was the minor issue to learning how to steer, AKA avoid our friends the skiers on the run, as well as fellow lugers and, above all else the dreaded, pain inducing, three-foot (I kid you not) "potholes". (See R's highly accurate interpretation below)

Then there was the slightly more major issue of mastering the art of speed control--a highly valuable, yet underrated skill on a seven mile run that covers a 2782 foot altitude drop. Case in point?

It's day two. The A-team thinks she's mastered the skill of Swiss luge. She's in the final stretch, down the luge "tunnel", with 50 foot mesh netting protecting from any potential over-cliff spillage over the snow wall on the right, and happily populated ski run over the snow wall on the left. We're going 20 miles an hour and ... suddenly you realize you've mastered neither the art of speed control, nor steerage.

Visions of Nodar Kumaritashvili suddenly flash through my head as we're missing the hard turn right ...

heading straight up and over the left-hand tunnel wall ...

catching air ...

arms flailing, legs yanking back down by the sled leashed to my leg ...

and catching a quick glimpse at the look of panic on the unsuspecting skier's face across the way as I crash land in a heap of ridiculous holy-*&^!-I'm-alive laughter.

On the ski piste.

On the other side of the luge track.

Why watch the Games on TV when you can "play" them yourself?? Reason no. 1: Occupying the sofa with a cold drink in hand is a lot less painful.



















PS For those that missed reading this in the first 12 hours it was up ... sorry you missed out on the sound. The copyright police caught up with us for borrowing a little too much inspiration from "Born to be wild" ...

PPS Thanks again for the pics and the video, Morales!

This is what we do for fun

It's a funny moment when you realize that you (and most people around you) start turning in early on Friday nights with the hope of hearing that alarm go off at 5:30AM Saturday morning. Especially when you consider that there was a time (not so very long ago) when I would be just heading for home at 5:30 Saturday morning.

That must be why, every 5:30AM, bleary-eyed, set-the-alarm-clock-in-the-other-room-so-you-have-to-get-up-to-turn-it-off morning Marcel asks the rhetorical question, "Tell me again, are we really doing this for fun?"

At 6AM, when we are passing all the stumbling party-goers headed for home and munchies, I think so. Especially when our train neighbors fall asleep on the train and end up on the other side of the country. Literally. See case study below:

Two hours, one birthday pastry, two mimosas and one gondola ride later, I no longer think so. I KNOW we do this for fun. Hands down. No question about it.

Sun, snow and slippery slopes

It's day three in Davos, -20 degrees Celcius and not a cloud in the sky.

As the Xenophobe's Guide to the Swiss would say, this is a day that even the Swiss go skiing.

(Especially when compared to day two, which kindly featured -30 degrees (-22F) and frigid gusts of wind that happily landed us in the ol' sheep barn turned mountain bar at the summit for the day...)

At any rate, I am absolutely loving it. Until I realise that sunshine and blue skies means that I can actually SEE the run in front of me, and can easily imagine every possible traumatic incident that will surely ocurr. You know, head over heels, wrists snapped back, knees jammed, broken ankles, whiplash, mountain helicopters ...

And so, I sit at the top of what is clearly a life-threatening cliff, three thirds of the way down the run, and try not to start bawling like a baby. Literally. For twenty minutes, during which I desperately explore every possible option:

Walk down? Impossible.
Call for some handsome man to come carry me down? Too likely to end in domestic dispute.
Climb back up the hill and go down the other side? Not without rocket lifters.
Roll down the hill like a little kid? Likely suicide.

And so, on the brink of both tears and a heart attack, and with no other possible option in sight, I scoot down the entire cliff on my booty. For 20 terrifying, butt-numbing mintues, scooting down the hill. Embarassing? Clearly.

And all of this sacrifice, only to discover over a much needed double shot toddy afterward that it was the SAME cliff I had loved going down not once, but 4 times two days before ... when the visibility was so bad that I couldn't see where I was going.

Para ti, Gsus

Leukerbad, Suiza.

La vista desde nuestro hotel.

Piedra, con banderas nacionales alli colgadas, marcando donde algun payaso ha subido.

El panorama visto bajo el puesto del sol desde el calor de los banyos naturales a 2,000 metros.

Banyos que te dejan calentitos, refrescados, felices y con la piel como la de un bebe.

Otra montanya que te esta llamando.

Nascar sleds and the child within

For nearly four years now, I've heard tales of THE sled. Of how Marcel and all the boys would climb to the top of the endless hills by his childhood home, ALL pile on, and fly down "suuuupppppeeerrr fast" to the bottom, just to do it all again. Of how they'd do it in the pitch black night that only a country kid would understand, without so much as a light. Of how all the other kids were always jealous of their sled.

I figured it was kinda like "grandpa's" ol' tales of how "in the old days, we walked ten miles to school, uphill both ways". You know how it is, things somehow see all that much more marvelous, all that much more grandious when you're looking through the eyes of a child.

Last weekend, though, I discovered the truth.

My first warning should have been when they used a mechanical crane to lower the sled from its restful storage spot in the barn down to us in the street. My second was most definitely when Marcel complained that "this is going to be terrible, there's no snow!" (In fact, there was about four FEET of snow everywhere but the roads ... little did I know this particular sled is intended to GO on the roads.)

So with super heavy wood-and-metal sled in tow, we began the trek up the hill ... the ONE HOUR trek, to be exact, dodging our way between incoming sleds carrying shrieking kiddies and parentals of all shapes and sizes, many of whom were wearing helmets and / or goggles (a true "dishonor to the sport" in the eyes of my two expert sledding companions) and, lo and behold and true to Marcel's claim, gawking at our sled ... which just happens to be, oh, about FOUR TIMES bigger than anything else on the hill.

We settle in to our "positions", Marcel at the steering wheel (yes, this thing has a steering wheel), me holding on for dear life just behind, and Michael - thank God - covering the breaking duty in the back. And, having loaded some five hundred combined pounds potential speed on to a giant wooden sled with metal runners, we set off, down the road.

I have no idea how fast we were going. I don't think I really want to know. But we were going fast enough that tears were literally flowing out of my eyes, showering Michael behind me, my ears were popping from the elevation change, and we had only time to scream "Achtunuuuuuug!!" to warn any potential roadkill of his or her surely unexpected destiny.

We were down the entire hill in less than 3 minutes. One hour up, 3 minutes down. Check that cost benefit analysis, then listen to us laugh until we cry.

All play and no work

Commemorating a once-in-a-blue-moon occasion, we finally got at least a fairly good chunk of the office crew out of the office and doing something together.  I seem to remember that sort of thing being termed 'team building' in the States, but it seems to be a bit of a foreign concept around these parts.

With spouses, partners and rambunctious children in tow, we ordered up (and were graciously served!) absolutely incredible weather,  powder snow and many a good laugh as poles were broken, bums were bruised, fearful mothers were dragged up to the black runs by their eight-year-olds and steaming mulled wine was  happily downed.

Did I mention I work with a great team? Or that I have the most patient partner ever when it comes to his pro ski moves and my, uh, not so pro ones?? Or that it really doesn't get much more beautiful than Switzerland??

Don't believe me?  Take a peek at some of the weekend's pictures HERE.

Survival of the fittest in the land of the Lochness Monster

This weekend can pretty much be summed up in two words: "I survived".

Ok, so perhaps I'm being a little dramatic, considering that it was in fact THE weekend of all stellar weekends, but somehow it sounds all that much more Hollywood-esque when you invoke images of our own rendition of Survivors ... with Interlaken, Switzerland as a backdrop. If all you're interested in are the pictures from the weekend, you'll find them here, but if you're looking for any kind of possible distraction from the Monday work blues, feel free to read on ...

You know you're a survivor when you live to tell about ...

1. Three testosterone-filled days as the only representative of the XX chromosome population ... for a weekend identified as (the following must be said in a deep, ar-ar-ar manly voice ...) The "bier und fleisch fest" (aka "beer and meat fest").

2. Swiss National Day fireworks/3 foot bottle rockets, lit off by the above mentioned XY population, slightly under the influence of cool summer beverages.

3. The confines of a horrendously stinky neoprene wet suit + moon boots + painfully small helmet.

4. Hypothermia inducing glacial river rapids supposedly classified as a class IV (the highest permissible for river rafting in Switzerland) ... without falling out of the boat ... unlike our friend, who decided to "go for a swim" and test his boat's rescue skills along with the ginormous man next to him.

5. Dive into the impossibly turquoise waters of Lake Brienz thinking that, with those colours, it must be tropically warm ... only to realise you've committed a grave mistake that even your neoprene suit cannot fully remedy. But then again, at least the full line-up of lakeside tourists were there to document the event as your body began to lose colour from the cold ...

5. Being starving after a day of rafting and no food. No, we weren't such genuine "Survivors" material that we went out and hunted our own food ... but really, who knew that it might not be the hottest idea to inhale the cold beer and abysenthe under the hot sun ... and on empty stomachs ... while the BBQ was warming up?

6. Not getting kicked out of the campgrounds when the XY population, following the scenario described above, decide that taking additional beverages + floaty toys to the pool sounds like a brilliant idea. Particularly brilliant, "surfing" down the slide on the inflatable mattress with beer in hand ... covering the bottle opening to protect its contents, of course.

7. Cervela. (See photo at left. Not the man, the thing in his hand.) I'm told it's the most infamous Swiss sausage, but really, there's not telling what they use to make the stuff ... and yet, heaven forbid if we ever have a BBQ without it.

8. Your first-ever Hooters experience, again, in the exclusive company of the XY population, one of whom doesn't seem to remember ever having been there ...

9. Not ending up in jail when your ever-so-tipsy comrades decide that it sounds like a brilliant idea to seek out and chat with each and every one of the five million police officers and security guards in the city of Interlaken en route chez nous.

10. You spend an entire weekend in the glorious sunshine and manage not to get sunburned.

Countdown to the beast-fest

Two words: Landcruiser; Beast. With half of the office and a good number of friends being out on holidays right now, I can't help but count the days until our own summer adventures begin in August ... With the Beast as our humble home and the sun over our heads, Marcel, his childhood friend Paddy and I are heading off to Croatia for the ultimate camping cum road trip adventure, passing through Italy, Slovenia and Bosnia en route. A couple of our Croatian friends have kindly informed us that we have chosen the worst possible time to go, with all the rest of the tourists, but quite frankly, I don't care ... I have a feeling they'll be moving out of our way when they see us coming :-)

Raclette hike ... Curson, France

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A romp through the backyard

[slideshow id=432345564257210042&w=426&h=320] Just a few pics of this weekend's adventures ... the hiking season is finally here (yuupii!) to be started of with a little romp through Le Saleve, ie the hunk of rock seen from my appartment everyday - 20 minutes away and filled with caves, tunnels, trees ... and bats!

Queen of the cows

For anyone who may be inclined to believe otherwise, it may be useful to remember that Switzerland is vastly farm country.  A couple "big" cities (that would qualify only as towns in many other countries), loads of small villages, acres of land busting with produce, green rolling hills, unimaginably wild mountains ... all of which are incessently tinged with the soothing-to-some downright-obnoxious-to-others sounds of church bells and bells hung on the necks of goats and cows.   When you think of Switzerland this way, it suddenly doesn't seem so strange that cow fighting could just about be classified as the national pasttime in the mountain regions.

Of course, one can't be in Switzerland without coming to know these national pasttimes, so last weekend we tagged along with a photographer friend (see his pictures here, they're great!) who was planning on doing an exposee of the event.  So it was that WE WOKE UP EARLIER THAN WE EVEN WOULD ON A WORK DAY AND WERE ON A TRAIN AT 7AM ON A SUNDAY TO GO AND LOOK AT COWS.  That's about when we realized we were crazy.

Then again, it wasn't just any cow fight we were attending, it was the CHAMPIONSHIP round of the Combat des Reines ... the Queen's Competition.  From what we can gather from the history of it, story goes that the farmers used to argue about who's cow should lead the pack up to the Alps when they "migrate" up to (or down from) the Alps in the summer (of fall, respectively).  Competition apparently got the best of them, so they decided to set the cows head to head (literally) to see who is the real queen.

Nothing even remotely similar to the bloody - deadly - Spanish bull fights, the Combat des Reines is held in good Swiss fashion ... extremely orderly, extremely polite and never flaunting the winners.  To sum it up, a bunch of cows bearing swiss cow bells and giant numbers on their bellies are all led into the arena and set free to pick their battle.  Generally about half aren't the least bit interested in fighting, a quarter have to be dragged into fighting position by the "keepers of the arena" and the other quarter go straight at it ... meaning they put their head down and head butt another one - sometime for ages - until one or the other gives up and runs away ... the loser.

In the meantime, the crowds look on ... practically silent.  No cheering, no clapping, no whistling ... an occassional collective gasp or "oooo" yes, but really nothing until perhaps the very end of the championship round when the face of the winning farmer beams with joy as he calls his even more estatic wife and sons over to be in the winning cow with the mandatory flower crown photo session.

Don't get me wrong, it was most definitely something worth seeing, but we certainly could have slept another couple of hours.  In fact, I think my bum - after sitting on a cliff of a hill for seven hours straight - would have thanked me.  Quite frankly though, we've just about deemed it the Swiss equivalent of American baseball:  quiet, relatively uneventful, and much more of an excuse to try a different food every inning and BS with the amigos.  And of course heaven forbid we forget yet another fine example of Swiss efficiency... no "refreshment men" carrying heaving coolers or awkward carriers around their necks ... here they just bring out the backhoe, fill the "scoopers" with ice and drinks and "voila" drinks delivered while you silently cheer on "Tina", the reining 2008 Queen of the Cows.  

 

Photo of the day

Montreaux, Switzerland

All in a weekend's adventures

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It's funny the little wonders of life you so easily take for granted.  Spain is beautiful, and as I was reminded last weekend seeing everyone in Barcelona sporting tanktops, it is (almost) always sunny.  Switzerland is also beautiful.  It is not almost always sunny.  And yet, these past few weeks walking to work in the morning amid an eery fog blanket and the crisp cold of autumn air has been curiously exciting ... I feel like a little kid seeing the leaves of fall change color and fall. 

With the end of pleasant outdoor weather not far off the horizon, this weekend was full of outdoor adventures.  Seeing as the Lavaux region (on Lake Leman between Montreaux and Lausanne) is renowned for its acres and acres of vineyards we decided to hit the trails there on Saturday, hoping for views of the mountains, pleasant strolls through the perfectly groomed terraces and a few full filled stops at the wineries themselves to make sure that their products were up to snuff.  As luck would have it though, October seemed to be a bit out of prime winery season, leaving the vineyards picked clean and sporting changing autumn leaves and the wineries teasing us through closed doors.  Nonetheless, the area is beautiful and dotted with such quaint towns as St. Sepharin and Vevey... 

Sunday was slated for more serious hiking ... in the Abondance Valley of the Chablais, to Mont de Grange.  Again, BEAUTIFUL weather - our 5 hour hike with some 1163 meter (aka steep!) was topped off with INCREDIBLE 360 degree panoramis views at the summit that made it possible to see as far as the Swiss-German Alps.  Talk about feeling small and insignificant in the world ... natural beauty has an amazing way of humbling.