Month: July 2024

A piece of Haute Nendaz.

It’s one thing to be part of an organization.  It’s another thing to be part of a community.

-Travis Kelce

Nendaz is a village of population around 6,800, high up in the Alps just south of Sion, Switzerland and the Rhone Valley.  Haute Nendaz, or “Upper” Nendaz, lies at the bottom of the Tracouet telecabine, a ski lift, at around 4,600 ft above sea level.  During the winter, Haute Nendaz is a ski resort and the architecture, stores, businesses and ambience reflect that.  France is not far to the west (Mont Blanc is within a stone’s throw) and Italy is just over the mountains to the south (Zermatt, where the Matterhorn sits, is a short train trip to the east and south).

As I get up and walk to our third-floor north-facing balcony, I gaze out and down the green-carpeted steep slopes of the mountains, all the way to the valley below, the Rhone River and Sion.  Tall, majestic craggy tors, poking skyward like a jagged sawblade (the product of the African tectonic plate being thrust up against the Eurasian plate) surround us on all sides.  The peaks are still wearing glacial ice and snow, even tough the year is now well into summer and the temperature is around 70℉.  A light breeze toys with my hair and shirt and brings me a lung full of the cleanest mountain air I’ve inhaled in a long time.

It’s quiet up here, this time of year, with little to no traffic on the streets and only a few local denizens strolling the sidewalks.  There are hardy souls who wander up here for hiking, mountain biking and enjoying the summer outdoor life, but not in the crowds that beset the place during ski season.  It has the air of a small, out-of-the-way, forgotten village, tucked away in the hinterlands, regrouping for the onslaught of the tourists coming a few months from now.

Phyllis and I cross the street from where we’re staying and walk into La Brioche, a boulangerie (bakery)/pâtisserie (pastry shop)/café/tea room for a little continental breakfast.  There are two rooms, one with a glass-fronted counter, showing off fresh baked goods like tarts, croissants, various pastries and quiche.  Behind the counter are shelves bearing artisan-baked boules of bread of different types and sizes and, of course, baguettes.  I opt for a slice of quiche, Phyllis chooses a small loaf of multigrain bread, and we walk into the next room.  Here, there is another counter where I order a latte macchiato and Phyllis gets a macchiato decaf with soy milk.  This room is a little larger than the other.  It has a number of tables and we pick one where we sit, nosh and sip at our coffees.

For most of the time, we’re the only ones in the place and the staff are willing for me to practice my stumbling French with them.  We talk about things like where we’re from, how long we’re staying, how long have they lived in the village and such.  It’s all very friendly, laid back and charming.

From there, we walk downhill past the tourist bureau, then uphill on one of the main drags (this is mountain country – everything is uphill and downhill; it’s unavoidable).  We pass bars and restaurants with a few people sitting outside at tables in the fresh air, real estate and rental agencies, ski schools (closed, of course) and shops of various kinds.  All are small, compared to American standards.  No huge department stores or mega corporations with franchises.  I think we Americans have done ourselves a great disservice by trading small businesses in for large corporate venues in the name of efficiency.  We have gotten the short end of the stick with goods that are cheaper in price, but also cheaper in quality.

Soon, we come to our goal: The Coop (they pronounce it something like “cup”).  It’s a grocery store, again small compared to where I shop at home).  There, we buy fresh fruits and vegetables and other things we need.  Across the street and downhill a bit is Migros, another grocery store.  I don’t know how they managed it, but the two stores complement each other, rather than compete with each other.  They offer different goods, and if you can’t find what you want at one, you go to the other.  The entire place feels like a small community.  Something I feel we have lost in the US, in more ways than one.

We take our newly acquired stuff and walk uphill to my brother’s chalet.  We are to meet everyone there and decide then what to do for the day.  I am anxious to call the Pooch Hotel and check on Waldo, but I have to wait until the afternoon because of the six-hour time difference.

Sigh.  If I could bring him here…

I love the mountains…

Morning view, looking out over the Rhone valley from Haute Nendaz.

When things go wrong, I just think: It’s part of the journey.

-Kenny Wallace

Continued from before…

I’m on my way to Geneva via Copenhagen, Denmark, and Phyllis is soon to be on a plane to Geneva via Reykjavik, Iceland.  We got our tickets at different times and are taking different airlines and routes.  I have a longer layover in Copenhagen, some 5 hours, so Phyllis will have to wait for me in Geneva for around an hour and a half before I can get there.  At least, that’s the plan…

Sometime after getting to Copenhagen (at around 7:30 AM local, 1:30 AM Boston time) I get a text from Phyllis.  Her flight was delayed leaving Boston and she got into Reykjavik too late to make her connecting flight to Geneva.  The next flight for Geneva doesn’t leave until tomorrow, so she has to change airlines, go to Copenhagen and then on to Geneva.  Unfortunately, she will not be getting into Copenhagen until after I leave.  More delays.

I get into Geneva at around 2:00 PM and have to wait for Phyllis for seven hours.  When she finally arrives, it’s just before nine PM.  Fortunately, she doesn’t have to go through customs, as she’s coming from Denmark (both Switzerland and Denmark are Schengen countries, so customs is simplified).  I say fortunately because the last train from the airport is leaving in minutes.  We rush to the train station, a few hundred yards from the airport, and do our best to buy the necessary tickets.

The ticket office is closed, but there are ticket machines.  The machines will not take paper money (of which we have ample), but only take coins and credit cards.  US credit cards are supposed to work just fine, but we can’t figure out how to make ours work and we can’t get the tickets.  We rush to the train and find some conductors.  Using what French I can muster, I speak with them and discover that they don’t know anything about the vagaries of the machines.  They go on about their business and, since the train is leaving imminently, we board without tickets.  All we can do is hope we can get it all figured out at the next station, where we have to change trains anyway.  Worst case scenario, if we are asked to, we can buy tickets after we board the train, but we would have to pay quite a bit more.

We get off the train at the main station in Geneva, a few minutes from the airport, and go to the machines.  We still can’t make them work.  A nice lady sees our angst, helps us out and, finally, we are ready to go.  We board the train for Sion, about 2 hours down the tracks, and we’re off.  Now we just have to figure out how to get from Sion to where we’re going, my brother’s Chalet in Haute Nendaz.  That’s about a 45-minute bus ride up some very steep mountains, but the last bus leaves at 9:05 and we aren’t going to get to Sion until almost midnight.  I’m on the phone with my brother and my nephew and they arrange for an Uber to meet us at the train station.  It’s going to cost us 80 Swiss Francs (about 90 USD) but that’s cheaper than a hotel for the night.

Finally, at around 11:30 PM, we arrive in Sion and the Uber guy is waiting for us.  We’re off, over the Rhone River and up the steep, two-lane, serpentine road that takes us up into the ethereal heights of the Alps.  The driver doesn’t speak English, so I get to exercise my French as we talk about where he lives (near Sion), if he skis (for the past 4 or so years) and how things are kind of slow this time of year.  He makes sure I have texted my brother and family because they have phoned him three times and seem nervous.  It’s not long and we’re in the little village of Haute Nendaz.

Man, things are dark this time of night up here.  I can only make out what I can see within the headlight beams and, although I’ve been here a couple of times before, it’s hard to get oriented.  I did give the Uber guy my brother’s address for his GPS, so we won’t get completely lost, but it’s often the case that a GPS will only locate where you are approximately when you’re surrounded by rocky crags out in the boonies.

Finally, sometime after midnight, we meet my brother and nephew, get the key for the place where Phyllis and I are staying (about ¼ mile down the mountain from my brother’s chalet) and Phyllis and I open the door to a most welcome sight – two beds made up for immediate slumber.  We’ve been travelling for a bit more than 36 hours and laying my tired body down and totally relaxing my muscles never felt better.

Getting here was not at all straightforward, but looking back on the trip, now that the angst of uncertainty is done, what happened just added to the adventure of it all.  And that’s the raison d’etre of the whole trip, after all.

As I close my eyes and relax into the sweet oblivion of sleep, my last thoughts are of Waldo.  The twentieth century is a true marvel in many ways.  I remember many trips in the past where it wasn’t possible, but now I can call the place where he’s staying on my cell phone.  I commit to calling as soon as I can.  It will have to be tomorrow afternoon (I have to wait until then because of the 6-hour time difference), but call them I will.

I sure hope he’s okay.

We’re in the mountains now (finally)!

What I’m leaving behind (sigh).

Trials are never permanent.  They are there to teach you, strengthen you, motivate you and help guide you in life.

-Rubyanne

Travel time has arrived!  Waldo and I got up early, I put his stuff together, and dropped him off at the house of the young man who will be watching him.  Waldo seemed happy enough, but confused as to what was going on.  I reassured him as best I could and said goodbye.  Half an hour later, I was back home and doing some last-minute packing.  Phyllis has decided to go as well, but she decided to go too late to get a ticket on the same plane.  We’ll be leaving Boston within a few hours of each other, then meeting up in Geneva.  I have a couple of hours before I have to leave for the airport.

Not an hour passed after that and I got a phone call from Waldo’s sitter.  Waldo went outside the sitter’s house and started digging a hole.  The guy tried to stop him and Waldo nipped him.  He no longer felt comfortable watching Waldo after that, so I jumped back in the car to go pick the dog up.  The bite was superficial and the guy was good enough not to make a big deal about it.  But now I have to find a place for Waldo, last minute, with only three hours before I have to leave for the airport, one week before the fourth of July.

I panicked!  I called Phyllis and both my daughters and we started calling every dog boarding place we could find, veterinarians and anyone else we could think of.  If I can’t find a place for Waldo, I can’t go!  Finally, after making well over thirty unsuccessful phone calls apiece, we found a place that could take him.  It’s not a person’s home, but they do guarantee three to four hours of activity a day.  Not ideal, but, I hope, good enough because we could find no other alternatives.

I grab my stuff and Waldo and get in my daughter’s car.  The plan is to pick up Phyllis, then drop off Waldo on the way to the airport.  Following the GPS, we make it to the “Pooch Hotel.”  Phyllis and my daughter stay in the car and I take Waldo inside.  I let the people in the “Hotel” know what’s been going on and they indeed do have a spot for him to stay for two weeks.  Waldo gives me an uncertain, what’s-going-on? look and seems anxious.  They lead him away and I’m back outside in the car.  Angst plagues me.  Am I doing the right thing?  Do I have a choice, other than cancelling the trip and losing a lot of money?  People are depending on me too, including Phyllis.  Not going is not an option.  All things considered, right or wrong, this was the best choice we could come up with on such short notice.

Off we go to the airport.  Travelling is always an anxious-producing activity for me because I worry about Waldo.  This trip is even worse because I have no experience with the Pooch Hotel.  I’m pretty sure he’ll be okay, or I wouldn’t leave him with them.  Yet, the unknown leaves me with a sense of doubt and hesitancy.  Sigh.  It’s only for two weeks, I keep telling myself.  Waldo’s going to get a lot of attention and treats when I get back, for sure.

We get to the airport and, as I’m walking in the door, I realize that I don’t have my jacket with me.  I usually bring one for the plane, no matter the season, because it can get a little chilly.  I put my passport in one of the pockets so I would be sure to have it with me…  Damn!  No jacket, no passport and I can’t go!  I run back out the door and stop my daughter just a she’s pulling away.  I know where my coat is, but, unfortunately, it is at least a two hour round trip (probably more given the time of day) and there’s no way she can get to where my jacket is, get the thing, and return before the airline desk closes.

So, we call my son-in-law (her husband).  He is going to go by my place, get my jacket and bring it to me (something a little over an hour trip).  Unfortunately, he doesn’t have my apartment building key, my daughter does.  He can get into the apartment once he’s inside the building because it has an electronic key, but he needs a physical key to get into the building.  So, the plan is, he will go to my apartment building and punch buttons on the intercom outside the door until someone lets him in.  He will then get in my apartment and get my jacket.  This, he succeeds in, and soon, he’s on his way to the airport.

I follow his progress on my phone and go out to the road where he will need to drive up so I can grab the coat and get to the airline desk ASAP.  It’s kind of a weird place to stand, so a State Policeman comes up and wants to know what I’m doing.  He understands, somehow keeps from laughing, and leaves me to my devices.  Eventually, my son-in-law drives up, I grab my coat through the passenger side window and I rush up to the airline desk, with 15 minutes to spare.

Dropping off my checked luggage, I make it to security.  I have TSA Precheck, so that’s relatively uneventful and I’m soon on the plane and on my way to Copenhagen, Denmark.  After a 5-hour layover there, I will then have a 2-hour flight to Geneva where I will meet Phyllis.  After that, we will take the train to Sion and then a bus to where we’re staying in Haute Nendaz.   I do my best to relax, although I’m still worried about Waldo.  Things seem to finally be on automatic pilot.

Hah!  I should have known better.

To be continued…

Who I’m going to see – My brother, sister-in-law, my nephew, his wife, Phyllis and myself.