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…