Sightseeing

I'd been to Lake Geneva many years before, but had never visited Lake Lucerne. It took close to an hour from Aarau. We parked in a multi-level garage, fairly near the center of the city and the no-vehicles zone.Most European cities don't permit cars in the historical areas. Public transportation is a way of life here.

It had been cold and rainy since I'd arrived. Today was no different. Before I left home, instead of buying a slicker, I'd purchased a fairly warm, if lightweight, black jacket (with purple welting!) that promised to be relatively weatherproof: probably the smartest acquision I'd made. Cobblestones are probably the most dangerous surfaces underfoot, and the most common paving in Europe. I was glad I'd worn my comfortable old Docksider boat shoes. No blisters, no cobbleskating!

Monika and I headed straight for the market, since the farmers would be packing it in by one o'clock; earlier, in this miserable weather. Only the ducks and swans on the inlet from the lake were oblivious. As long as people tossed them scraps of fruit and vegetables, they were happy.

We walked across the bridge to the market. Ordinarily, tents and stalls would line the path from the entrance to the exit. Today there were more gaps than canopies, and farmers were already loading their vans. Waterbirds pecked wildly at discarded produce in the clear green-tinted water.The city of Lucerne has done such a good job of cleaning up pollution, people can swim in the lake- if they can stand the cold. I think it would be like swimming in melted glacial runoff!

Almost every stand was featuring asparagus, of course. Driving to Lucerne, Monika had pointed out fields of rape, the source of rapeseed oil, but asparagus is Spring's earliest edible hardy crop in Switzerland. Every restaurant highlights it on their May menu, and shopkeepers were weighing it out by the pound for eager customers, who gently piled it into their wheeled canvas shopping carts.

The weather made it too nasty to linger long on the muddy track. We headed back across the traffic bridge to the square. The art and craft of medieval stonecutters and sculptors captured the eye in every direction. It's easy to imagine white-faced jesters in colorful motley juggling for attention, troubadors strumming gourd-shaped instruments accompanying the latest newsy ditties, and travelling players trouping through the square acting out preview vignettes of the evening's play, while peddlars hawked their wares at the fringes of a bustling, bawdy mob of humanity going about their daily business.

Huddled in our jackets, Monika and I headed for the underground shops. I'd seen a store with a Victorinex sign in the window. First a coffee at one of the convenient cafes; then on to choose a Swiss Army knife. Nothing fancy: the basic model with two blades, a corkscrew and bottle cap opener for nineteen Swiss francs, and I was set. I couldn't think of any personal use for the Hunter, Forestry, Camouflage, or Army models, with their saws, screwdrivers, rasps, and scissors. I'd probably injure myself trying to use the rasp like an emery board. Naturally I chose bright red to match my new cell phone!

While Monika went to figure out where we'd left the car, I strolled the aisles of a small grocery store, marvelling at the similarities to American products. It was strange to see familiar boxes labelled in a language foreign to me, but taken for granted here. Cellophane bags of Gummy Bears bearing colorful German descriptions were stacked next to chewing gum wearing wrappers pitching their merits in German. Why did even the red, green, blue, orange and gold bars of Lindt and Toblerone chocolate jar my senses? I don't think of them as American, I'm perfectly aware they're manufactured in Switzerland! I could read a few words here and there, but had the strangest sensation of disassociation: I was the "stranger in a strange land," and I'd better get used to it!

By the time Monika found the car and hailed me, I decided the floating feeling was jetlag. After all, I was still on New York time. The evening before, Monika had been so excited to find a superb restaurant close to home, I'd invited her to repeat dinner at the Aarau West's restaurant. She'd already offered to provide me with a bed- as long as I didn't mind some cats sharing the room- so I didn't have to worry about accomodations. And why would a cat person be concerned about sharing a bed with three cats? At home I sleep under a nice warm tan, beige and white blanket of ten felines. I'd left my rental car at the hotel. We'd have dinner and I'd follow Monika home.

Once again, the restaurant did not disappoint. This time Monika had the wild garlic and asparagus soup and both of us enjoyed a fabulous asparagus-stuffed gnocchi in herbed cream sauce, with gusto. I've already described this dish. Last night I'd actually had a marvelous risotto with asparagus and morels! The menu offered the option of giant grilled prawns, but I'd opted out. I'd better start making notes about what I'm eating where and when, or I'm going to find myself writing about wienerschnitzel in Munich and weisswurst in Vienna! Not cool, Joan!

Once we were back at Monika's, it was time to play with Boyo. He was still on New York time, too, since I found him nestled in a cat post bed sound asleep. Being a cat, though, he was faster to get his legs under him than I was. He'd made himself right at home. When Monika brought in his dinner, he was quick to clean up his plate. We decided to see what would happen if we let him out to meet Monika's girls. Bad move! While two of the ladies just sat and stared from cat tree perches, a Blue made the mistake of hissing at him. His tail puffed like a porcupine, he went "Ridgeback," stood up on his tippy-toes, and informed her with one sharp shriek that ladies didn't use those words.She took off, with a furious Boyo on her tail. I snatched him up and put him back in his space.

Monika and I chatted for a bit, then I took my bottle of seltzer into the bedroom and crashed. Tomorrow would be a long day on the Autobahn to Munich. I needed to have my wits about me to deal with the Mercedes, BMWs and Audis I knew would challenge the Renault. And I hate driving on unfamiliar wet roads. Would the rain ever stop?