Being random notes on a trip to Switzerland in May 1991, with my daughters Elaine and Jane.
Borel coat of arms provided free by http://www.4crests.com.
This version is slightly different from the one I am familiar with which includes several stars. JJB
On the third day of our trip, we arrived at Interlaken in preparation for one of the highlights of the trip to Switzerland: the rail passage to the Jungfraujoch. We were three in number, myself and two daughters, Elaine and Jane. We checked in at the Harder-Minerva Hotel on Harderstrasse, just off the Hoheweg, the village’s main street. Already we considered ourselves seasoned travelers.
(Swiss flag icon.)
The germ of the trip had been planted months before. Basic was the fact that of my six adult children, four had at one time or another previously visited my native land. Now in my eightieth year, I wanted the two who had not to do so while I could show them around. I wanted them to see the place where my father had worked, the church where my parents (their grandparents) were married and I had been baptized. To visit the apartment where I had lived the five years before my father decided to emigrate to America. And, of course, to experience something of the country itself.
My wife, Miriam, had suggested limiting the party to Dad and daughters, in part because she was having some trouble with an arthritic knee (sufficient to have caused us to cancel a trip to Ireland the previous fall) and in part to help Jane's family during her absence.
My invitation to the girls had been accepted with alacrity. We settled on a spring departure figuring that for ten days, Elaine could be absent from the class she taught and Jane from a busy household, provided both were back before school was out.
When the Persian Gulf war erupted we nevertheless unhestitatingly decided to proceed with our plans. Though it was difficult to pin down dates for air flights, there was gain: I was able to shop during a period when airlines were engaging in price-cutting to attract customers in the fact of widespread cancellation and postponement of overseas travel.
The plan was simple: Fly from Washington to Geneva, spend nine days in Switzerland traveling, using a first-class Swiss pass (good for rail, lake boat, bus, city tram), stay in family-type hotels in Neuchâtel (two nights), Interlaken (four nights), Zürich (two nights), from where we would depart for the return trip to Washington. Each would take no more luggage than could easily be managed personally. Considering our objectives, contact with relatives and friends would be kept to a minimum.
In the event, we were scheduled to depart from Dulles International at 1810 hours Monday 10 May 1991 via United (coach class) flight #914, transferring in Paris to PanAm #114 for Geneva. Elaine drove from Charlotte, NC, the day before; Jane, living in the Washington area had but to arrive at our house in time for us all to check in two hours before departure.
There had been some last minute repacking. I had learned that my nephew Paul and his wife Dellie of Kansas City had just returned from two weeks in Switzerland. He reported that rain and even snow had been their lot every day they were there. Additional rain gear and sweaters were therefore hastily added to (in some cases substituted for) the content of luggage which had been held at the ready. As it turned out, none of it was necessary, for we enjoyed splendid weather throughout our overseas stay.
(Swiss flag icon.)
The day of our departure was a busy one for me. At 9 AM a memorlal service was held for the Rev. John Jefferson Davis, a dear friend from high school and college days. He had in fact died in September 1989, leaving his body to medicine. Today, with full military honors, the ashes of this WWII major of the Army Air Corps would be placed in the Columbarium at Arlington Cemetery. I was asked to say a few words, and did so. We then followed the solemn cortege of soldiers in their dress blues to the place of rest. How many times had my wife and I stood by in similar cases? Lines I had once written came to mind:
In Arlington we gathered round
As winds and chill impressed
Where heroes lie beneath the ground
We lay him to his rest
The call to muster sounds again
The last salute to give
For us the memories remain
To light the life we live
But take off on schedule we did, enjoying a fine flight across the Atlantic during which we benefited from catnaps. However, we missed connection in Paris, had to retrieve our luggage, and were put on a SwissAir flight, the while being bumped up to business class. This is not an unusual practice. Striving for capacity, the airlines overbook, then often have to scramble to accommodate their customers. Indeed, this happened to us again on our return flight from Zürich to New York, when we were moved to the more commodious quarters of the business class on PanAm flight #91. However, on landing at New York's JFK, after long delay it was announced that our flight to Dulles had been cancelled. Eventually we were bused to LaGuardia and put on the PanAm shuttle to Washington National. Which meant that it took us seven hours to fly some 200 miles, landing at one airport, while those scheduled to meet us were patiently awaiting our arrival at another. Oh, the joy of air travel!
(Swiss flag icon.)
I am not what could be called a frequent flier, but I have had enough trips of considerable distance to fly another without experiencing flight as a novel or even a special event. What makes a trip special for me is the company I keep. And special it was to have as traveling companions two caring and loving daughters who are themselves close to one another. Both are ever cheerful and view as adventure any need to change plans or to accommodate to unforeseen circumstances. The novelty for them of seeing what they had over time seen only in pictures and heard much about, added to their characteristic congeniality, made for an exceptional trip. It was a privilege to share with them sights shared at other times with other members of my family, and to relate, as we traveled, events of which these two may have had little if any previous knowledge.
(Swiss flag icon.)
But to get back to our itinerary - Having arrived in Geneva, we cashed AmEx travelers cheques, getting for our dollars Swiss francs priced at 70 cents each, a far cry from the 20-cent franc available during my student days in Switzerland (1929-30). Despite the presence of cousins in Geneva and friends in Lausanne, we moved right on to Neuchâtel, where, on arrival, we took a taxi (Mercedes - they are all the same fixed-price-for-fixed-distance-tip-included) a short distance to the Hotel des Beaux-Arts on Rue Portales, a few steps from the shore of Lake Neuchâtel.
Why Neuchâtel? Because that is where my ancestors lived. There and in nearby Couvet may be found records of Borels from the 14th century on.
Neuchâtel together with La Chaux-de-Fonds and Le Locle once comprised the watch-making capital of the world. Such activity is still an important part of the region's economic life. Of interest to us were the horological museums, their impressive arrays of watches and clocks dating from earliest times. Skilled watch and clock makers, together with their apprentices, are busy keeping these extensive collections in running order. One guide at the museum at Le Locle takes five hours a day to wind the timepieces in his charge.
Not far from the museums are the technical colleges where students study the design and manufacture of the modern Swiss watch. Despite the inroads of Japanese production, there is still a world demand for these. My late brother Pierre, known to all as Pete, was a graduate of the technical college in La Chaux-de-Fonds, having spent four years there (1929-33).
My father's family, the Borel-Jaquets, lived in this area, though my father was in fact born in Morteau, France (across the frontier marked by the Doubs river) where his father Charles Eugène, a skilled machinist, was employed. The region is known as the Jura Alps, a glorious countryside of rolling woods and rich fields, the mountains modest in height in comparison to the high Alps rising to the southeast.
In Neuchâtel, we mounted the hill to the Chateau, a splendid structure once the home of counts. It now houses the central administration of canton Neuchâtel. The complex includes the collegiate church, a small cathedral where once preached Guillaume Farel, one of the great reformers, contemporary of Luther, Zwingli, Calvin, and Knox. A few steps away, we climbed laboriously to the top of the old Tower once used to incarcerate prisoners in cramped cells.
But here, as in the places to follow, our joy was the simple stroll on the cobblestones of ancient lanes flanked by ancient stucco buildings, which seldom exceeded three or four stories. At frequent intervals there are fountains where in days long gone villagers came for water to meet their daily needs. Beautifully sculptured and gilded, these fountsins seem more like masterpieces transported from nearby museums than the past providers of life's essence.
(Swiss flag icon.)
My good friends Jean-Louis and Madelaine Borel, not directly related, have long been leading citizens of Neuchâtel. Jean-Louis, now 90 years old, once headed the Ernest Borel Watch Company, then headed the much larger company when the manufacturing and marketing assets of Borel, Cyma, Doxa, and Tavannes (and perhaps other companies) were merged. Regrettably, Jean-Louis was having medical problems. It was not possible for us to see him. I did have a good talk with him and Madelaine by telephone. They expressed regrets and hoped that we would really get together "on our next visit."
(Swiss flag icon.)
Another contact was Jean Calame who lived in La-Chaux-de-Fonds. Success here. His wife was at this time visiting her sister in Missouri, but Jean, who as an engineer drives those superb locomotives for the Swiss Federal Railroad, as luck would have it had a day off. In his keeping we were able to see much of the countryside and enjoyed a splendid cheese fondue at a chalet in the highlands of Les Bernets. We also visited his lovely home and saw the improvements wrought by his skilled hands.
After two days in the Juras, we headed for Interlaken via Bern, Switzerland's capital and its second largest city, glimpsing as we sped at farms and villages where the industrious Swiss could be seen pursuing their daily tasks against a colorful blanket of greens and yellows which extended to a horizon of azure blue dotted by powder-puff clouds.
(Swiss flag icon.)
For the tourist as for its citizens, Bern is a city ideally laid out. The cathedral and magnificent government buildings hold the high ground which overlooks a sea of red roofs in an expanse delimited by the sweeping U of the Aare River. Running west to east, several streets in parallel connect the Union Station to the Bear-Pit, which remains a popular attraction, just over the river. What a show one of the bears put on! The main thoroughfare changes its name as one progresses under the arcaded shops in buildings once inhabited by the patrician families of Bern.
(Swiss flag icon.)
There is a stretch where the market is held twice a week. Close to one of the magnificent old town gates with its clock tower shoppers or casual pedestrians may play sidewalk chess with pieces two feet high. And not too far away is the office which was once occupied by Allen Dulles, my sometime chief at CIA, when, as a young American foreign service officer, he signed the passports which enabled the Borel family to head for Ellis Island.
In Bern, as elsewhere, we were struck by the vast admixture of foreigners to the Swiss population. Indeed, the outsiders trying to become insiders now constitute a quarter of the inhabitants, posing problems not unlike those experienced in our own country. Surprising us, two successive casual street we contacts made turned out to be Albanians! We were fascinated to see and hear street entertainment by a group of Peruvian indians. Dressed in traditional red wool garb and black hats, they played the Pan flute and sung with all their hearts, hoping to sell recordings of their music.
Along the Kramgasse, I ran into an old friend: the Piper atop one of the street water fountains. There was the actual statue of the piper whose picture I had seen in a Swiss calendar, moving me to write a bit of verse:
Paying the Piper
Throughout the course of living out our lives
How prone we are to satisfy a thirst
Unthinking that when morrow's bill arrives
The shining bubble bought by then has burst.
With precious gold we do not have we buy
The empty promised thrill we do not need
With fate we seal a bargain to comply
With strictest terms we never plan to heed.
You who in Hamlin played play for us still
We too have rats, though of another strain,
And children aping grownups without will
Now follow false notes to be lost again.
Yes, those who ask to have the piper play
Must then, invariably, the piper pay.
(Swiss flag icon.)
Interlaken is an ideal base from which to cover central Switzerland. The village and its immediate environs are satisfyingly beautiful; therefore one finds fulfillment by simply hiking in any direction. Beyond, it matters little where one heads, be it by train or by boat, for there beauty abounds also.
In our explorations, we generally followed the same pattern: Breakfast at the hotel at seven; departure from the appropriate station around eight; lunch and sometimes tea (Oh the joy of meringue glacee) during the course of our travels; and a tardy supper at the hotel on our return. Thus one day, having checked weather conditions at the top, we wound our way to the Jungfraujoch via Grindelwald and returned via Wengen, with a detour to Lauterbrunnen and Murren. It was a long day, full of spectacular scenes of which one never tires. Emerging from the ice palace carved within the glacier to the snow covered sunlit slopes is beyond describing, though the experience continues to move poets to try, some, such as Rossetti, approaching success:
The Hill Summit
This feast-day of the sun, his altar there
In the broad west has blazed for vesper-song:
And I have loitered in the vale too long
And gaze now a belated worshipper.
Yet may I not forget that I was ‘ware,
So journeying, of his face at intervals
Transfigured where the fringed horizon falls, --
A fiery bush with coruscating hair.
And now that I have climbed and won this height,
I must tread downward through the sloping shade
And travel the bewildered tracks till night.
Yet for this hour I still may here be stayed
And see the gold air and the silver fade
And the last bird fly into the last light.
Dante Gabriel Rossetti
(Swiss flag icon.)
On another day, we took the boat to Thun, spending much of our time wandering the streets of that old city and climbing the hill to the castle and the many stairs within it, viewing the exhibits of this first rate museum. The return was by bus as far as the caves of St. Beatus, deep into the hills along the eastern coast of the Thurnersee. Filled with speleological wonders, the passageways were just high enough to make uncertain whether someone approaching six feet in height could make his way walking erect. Which meant that I emerged having spent the better part of two hours hunched over for fear of striking my head on the sharp, wet rocks overhead. Then wondering how to expedite our return to Interlaken, we happily were invited by four Koreans to join them for a speedy ride back in their Mercedes rental.
(Swiss flag icon.)
Still another day, a Sunday, we seleted Kandersteg as our destination. We had considered going to Zermatt to see the Matterhorn. This would have been a long trip under the best of conditions. When we learned that the weather forecast for that area was questionable, and that an avalanche had temporarily made impassable a part of the rail line, necessitating transfer to bus (adding certain length to our journey), we opted for Kandersteg.
We started the day by attending early service at Interlaken's Anglican church, conducted by a visiting rector from London. Be it recorded that Elaine, Jane, and I constituted half the congregation that heard a fine sermon delivered in flawless Oxonian English.
Kandersteg is a place beloved by skiers, hikers, balloonists, and hang-glide enthusiasts. My wife and I visited here in September 1987 and found the place remarkably free of the bustle of fringe business and recreational activities that now denigrate so many formerly idyllic retreats. Little had changed since. In a repeat of the earlier visit, we took the ski-lift as high as it would go, then hiked to the Oeschinensee, a glacial mountain tarn nestled at the summit. I found the lake much reduced in size owing to persisting dry spells. There, on its bank, we had our picnic lunch. Yes, the whimsical notice near the picnic area is still there: Do not leave rubbish here, but take it with you and put it in your own dust-bin! From the summit we returned to the valley on foot, discovering in the process muscles we did not know we had.
The Upper Kander valley in the Bernese Oberland is one having some connection with the Borel family. Twice my brother John was in residence there. The air in this region is often helpful to those suffering from pulmonary weaknesses. As an enfant (circa 1916) John was a bit frail and was therefore placed for a time with a family at Adelboden. And from mid-1929 through the spring of 1930, while I was in Zurich, he was with a family at Frutigan.
(Swiss flag icon.)
It was during our stay at Interlaken that we met the inimitable Eddie Singer. Regrettably we have no picture of him. We first engaged him in conversation while waiting for a bus. A man probably in his late seventies, medium in height, with straight thinning white hair combed straight back, rotund in build, in clothes which would not have been purchased on Bond Street, he had the frank, no nonsensical response to life that made him utterly charming and amusing to be with. We assumed he was either bachelor or widower, for he moved about alone. Wherever we went we ran into him, or found out that he had preceded us, or that he planned to go where we had just been.
Eddie lived outside London, near Heathrow airport: "Can't imagine why anyone would want to live in London. Dirty place, you know." He was quick to let us know that "You Americans certainly murder the English language." We found ourselves on the same boat headed for Thun. On our arrival, I invited Eddie to join us. For a time he did, and we walked together. But he seemed quickly in the grip of emphysema and begged off; he had to walk slowly and was not match for the demands of the journey, involving as it did ascending and descending rugged hills and long, narrow stairways. We wish you well, Eddie, wherever you are!
(Swiss flag icon.)
With our arrival in Zürich, the journey took on a more personal patina. Our hotel, the Leonard, was located on the Limatquai not far from the main railroad station, and therefore just off Zürich's main thoroughfare, the Bahnhofstrasse. It is said that this is the world's most expensive place to shop and I believe it. So located, we were within easy walking or tram distance from the places I was most anxious to show Elaine and Jane. Late afternoons or evenings would be used to call on the few friends whom I had alerted to our coming.
It may be that, as Thomas Wolfe said, you can't go home again. But a return to one's birthplace, where one has lived his earliest years, has spent a portion of his later teens, and has since from time to time returned, must have special meaning. I found this to be so.
While my companions were making their first acquaintance with the sights and sounds of the city, I was seeing the reflections or hearing the echoes of distant events, smudged or muted a bit to be sure by the passage of the decades. There indeed, on the Gasometerstrasse, was the German-speaking Kindergarten I had attended. And within a block or so, the entrance to the first floor apartment from which we had in October 1917 made our departure for America. Close by was the park, in the back of the Swiss National Museum, where Mother had taken us to play. A different story now. A portion of the park serves as haven for those in the grip of the drug culture. They are predominantly the young. The help afforded them seems to be limited to giving them clean needles in an effort to moderate the spread of epidemic. As we walked among these young people, and they numbered in the scores, some were busy looking for a likely vein to stab; others addressed us to ask the time of day. (It was ten in the morning.)
On the Glockengasse, in the shadow of St. Peter's, we stood before the building where my father, affectionately known to all as Poppie, had worked as material man for the Hoch company, wholesalers to watchmakers of parts and supplies necessary to restore the heartbeat to the timepieces of the Swiss.
The we stood before the French Reformed Church at the intersection of Promenadegasse and Schanzengasse where my parents were married on New Year's eve in 1910, and where I was baptized October 6, 1912. (Note: The preacher's handwritten record on the back of my birth certificate erroneously gives the year as 1910.) During my year in Zürich, before entering the University of Kansas, I attended services here regularly, and admired greatly the flawless French in which the sermons were delivered. In 1972, Miriam and I brought our sons, Douglas and Mark, here. And in 1982, we were here with daughter Nancy and her husband John during one of the two great trips we have taken together. To me, it has always seemed appropriate to gather at this place, which, in a world of change, remains a constant.
(Swiss flag icon.)
One afternoon, we boarded the train for a twenty minute ride to Langnau, a village rising above the southern coast of Lake Zürich, to see members of the family Curchod. Rene Curchod is my oldest friend. We have maintained a frendship throughout the seventy-nine years of our lives. Until the Borels left for America, Borels and Cuchods lived across the street from each other. Indeed, even earlier, my father, as a bachelor, had once proposed marriage to Rene's mother.
In order to have time to look around before the appointed time of our arrival, we left a half hour early. But Rene, anxious to see his old friend, was already at the station when we got off the train. He had organized a tea at a local inn with members of the family (brothers, sister, spouses, daughter). But first we were to visit the apartment in the retirement complex into which he and his wife Gritli had moved since giving up their home. I found my friends comfortably situated on the top floor of a four story building commanding the hill, which itself overlooks the countryside. Time, as it does, was taking its toll: the state of their health seemed as a fragile flower. And Gritli, the consummate housewife, misses dreadfully not having her own kitchen, while she fights depression brought on by failing eyesight and the onset of Parkinson's diseases. But they both, as each must, are making the best of things. The Altersheim (home for the aged) provided by the municipality for its senior citizens is lovely in every aspect. These Swiss elderly would in our land be envied their accommodations as a splendid place in which to spend the quiet later years of life.
But I have given too gloomy a picture. The tea party (again the favorite meringues heaped with whipped cream) was a two-hour event of pure joy. Here were seven people nearing or over eighty years of age, joined by three delightful ladies of a younger generation. There was reminiscing, catching up on family news, getting acquainted and reacquainted, the whole affair alive with conversations in French, English, and German, a veritable miniature Babel. How satisfying at this time in life to fashion or to participate in such gatherings!
(Swiss flag icon.)
That evening, Elaine, Jane, and I went to a restaurant near our hotel that specialized in the cuisine of the Roman Swiss (i.e., the French speaking Swiss). We ordered a Raclette, a dish consisting of special cheese melted and scraped onto the plate, served with small new potatoes, peas, and tiny onions. Very nice!
(Swiss flag icon.)
The night before our departure we were again away from downtown Zürich, this time in Herrliberg, a village on the northeren coast of the lake, roughly opposite from where we had spent the previous afternoon. We were guests of Hans and Rita Huggler-Huelin. Hans, retired chief of operations for Swissair, was widower when he married Rita, a reitred nurse, not previously married, who had spent her career ministering to employees of the Swiss company Maggi (soups, etc.). Rita, daughter of my late Godfather, Robert Huelin, had been a sister to me during my student days in Zürich when I lived with her family.
Now Herrliberg is on the rail line which terminates at Rapperswil, so every enquiry made concerning how ro get to where we wanted to go spoke to taking the train that goes to Rapperswil. Which, of course, is what we did, inattentively riding right by Herrliberg, traveling forty minutes and going twice the distance we should have. Having called Rita to tell her we had arrived, we waited at the Rapperswil station while our friends were looking for us at the Herrliberg stations and wondering what had happened to us.
Eventually we got together for a wonderful evening of good food and fellowship. In good health, these two friends lead an idyllic life in a beautiful condo overlooking the lake. Beyond, the horizon glows in golden sunsets, reflecting the alabaster of great Alpine peaks. Hans, a much decorated sharpshooter from his army days, has been a leading figure in the restoration of planes of the Swiss airforce and in the organization of the airforce museum.
For our return to Zürich we took one of those new double-deck passenger rail cars. As always, we could count on the trains running on time. We were much assisted in planning our various excursions by the special schedules of arrivals and departures provided by the Swiss rail administration. Again making good use of one when the following morning the happy threesome headed for Kloten airport. From there, it was a simple matter to board the big PanAm silver bird and fly back, completing our successful sojourn in the land of the Alps.
(Swiss flag icon.)
All stories have their epilogues. This story was written by three actors, fellow travelers on a trip. Each will have her or his own, written in the mind as events we shared flash back. . . . . There I stand, asking the hotelier where my top sheet is as she explains that the current custom is that of the Norse: in making up the bed a duvet is used in lieu of a top sheet and blanket. A duvet is an overgrown pillow of goose down, great for winter, but in May one is soon too warm with it, and without it, too cold. But not to worry, the courteous innkeeper will be glad to change the bed if one wishes. . . . .Now I see the handsome face of a young man we met in Wengen. He has on a sweatshirt bearing the name and seal of Iowa University. So naturally, we strike up a conversation, for it's nice to run into home folks. But no, he's an Australian, wearing the gift of a collegian friend. . . . . Then there were the recent college graduates. No jobs in the offing, they traveled Europe with funds provided by parents and grandparents. Where next to go to find lodgings they could afford? . . . . And the surprising displays of graffiti in the shadow of proclamations announcing the celebrations of the 700th year of the founding of the Swiss Confederation. Where will it all end?
(Swiss flag icon.)
Elaine's Letter of June 2, 1991
I'm sitting here thinking about our Swiss trip. I'm still in heaven! Even the long drawnout return flight couldn't take away from it. People ask me what my favorite part was and each time the answer is different. Was it the train trips with breathtaking views on both sides, the mountain hikes, the meals and conversation around "our" booth at Harder-Minerva? It might have been the castles, churches, statues, and other historical sites or little villages. But then I remember how it felt to see where you lived, the church where you were baptized, your school and meeting your lifetime friends. This was truly special because I did all these things with you. The memories will be mine forever and ever - - nothing will dim them - - not even time. "Thank you" does not seem adequate. I don't have words to express my gratitude.
I can hardly wait for the pictures to be developed and my scrapbook put together. Jane and I plan to work on it at the beach. We will relive the trip each time we enjoy our journal or each time I sit for a break in daily routine and close my eyes.
Julie flies into Charlotte June 27 to go to the beach. More fun to be here before I know it. Nothing ever, however, will ever come even close to our very special Swiss trip. I love you.
Elaine
Jane's Letter of June 3, 1991
It's hard to write a letter that can express how thankful I am for our wonderful trip. Switzerland is everything I ever imagined and more. As beautiful as all those calendar pictures always are, they just can't capture the magnificence of those beautiful mountains, those views of the lakes, chalets, waterfalls, bright yellow fields, and those sweet mountain flowers along the trails.
You and Elaine were perfect traveling companions. I find myself chuckling still as I think back on some of your humor. As much as getting to see Switzerland, I am thankful for having this time with you. It means so much to me. I can't thank you enough.
I've always known how lucky I am to have the parents I do, but all you are and all you do continues to remind me of it!
I love you, Daddy-O. Thank you for the wonderful trip and the lifelong memories we made together.
Love,
Jane
(Swiss flag icon.)
The germ of the trip had been planted months before. Basic was the fact that of my six adult children, four had at one time or another previously visited my native land. Now in my eightieth year, I wanted the two who had not to do so while I could show them around. I wanted them to see the place where my father had worked, the church where my parents (their grandparents) were married and I had been baptized. To visit the apartment where I had lived the five years before my father decided to emigrate to America. And, of course, to experience something of the country itself.
My wife, Miriam, had suggested limiting the party to Dad and daughters, in part because she was having some trouble with an arthritic knee (sufficient to have caused us to cancel a trip to Ireland the previous fall) and in part to help Jane's family during her absence.
My invitation to the girls had been accepted with alacrity. We settled on a spring departure figuring that for ten days, Elaine could be absent from the class she taught and Jane from a busy household, provided both were back before school was out.
When the Persian Gulf war erupted we nevertheless unhestitatingly decided to proceed with our plans. Though it was difficult to pin down dates for air flights, there was gain: I was able to shop during a period when airlines were engaging in price-cutting to attract customers in the fact of widespread cancellation and postponement of overseas travel.
The plan was simple: Fly from Washington to Geneva, spend nine days in Switzerland traveling, using a first-class Swiss pass (good for rail, lake boat, bus, city tram), stay in family-type hotels in Neuchâtel (two nights), Interlaken (four nights), Zürich (two nights), from where we would depart for the return trip to Washington. Each would take no more luggage than could easily be managed personally. Considering our objectives, contact with relatives and friends would be kept to a minimum.
In the event, we were scheduled to depart from Dulles International at 1810 hours Monday 10 May 1991 via United (coach class) flight #914, transferring in Paris to PanAm #114 for Geneva. Elaine drove from Charlotte, NC, the day before; Jane, living in the Washington area had but to arrive at our house in time for us all to check in two hours before departure.
There had been some last minute repacking. I had learned that my nephew Paul and his wife Dellie of Kansas City had just returned from two weeks in Switzerland. He reported that rain and even snow had been their lot every day they were there. Additional rain gear and sweaters were therefore hastily added to (in some cases substituted for) the content of luggage which had been held at the ready. As it turned out, none of it was necessary, for we enjoyed splendid weather throughout our overseas stay.
(Swiss flag icon.)
The day of our departure was a busy one for me. At 9 AM a memorlal service was held for the Rev. John Jefferson Davis, a dear friend from high school and college days. He had in fact died in September 1989, leaving his body to medicine. Today, with full military honors, the ashes of this WWII major of the Army Air Corps would be placed in the Columbarium at Arlington Cemetery. I was asked to say a few words, and did so. We then followed the solemn cortege of soldiers in their dress blues to the place of rest. How many times had my wife and I stood by in similar cases? Lines I had once written came to mind:
In Arlington we gathered round
As winds and chill impressed
Where heroes lie beneath the ground
We lay him to his rest
The call to muster sounds again
The last salute to give
For us the memories remain
To light the life we live
But take off on schedule we did, enjoying a fine flight across the Atlantic during which we benefited from catnaps. However, we missed connection in Paris, had to retrieve our luggage, and were put on a SwissAir flight, the while being bumped up to business class. This is not an unusual practice. Striving for capacity, the airlines overbook, then often have to scramble to accommodate their customers. Indeed, this happened to us again on our return flight from Zürich to New York, when we were moved to the more commodious quarters of the business class on PanAm flight #91. However, on landing at New York's JFK, after long delay it was announced that our flight to Dulles had been cancelled. Eventually we were bused to LaGuardia and put on the PanAm shuttle to Washington National. Which meant that it took us seven hours to fly some 200 miles, landing at one airport, while those scheduled to meet us were patiently awaiting our arrival at another. Oh, the joy of air travel!
(Swiss flag icon.)
I am not what could be called a frequent flier, but I have had enough trips of considerable distance to fly another without experiencing flight as a novel or even a special event. What makes a trip special for me is the company I keep. And special it was to have as traveling companions two caring and loving daughters who are themselves close to one another. Both are ever cheerful and view as adventure any need to change plans or to accommodate to unforeseen circumstances. The novelty for them of seeing what they had over time seen only in pictures and heard much about, added to their characteristic congeniality, made for an exceptional trip. It was a privilege to share with them sights shared at other times with other members of my family, and to relate, as we traveled, events of which these two may have had little if any previous knowledge.
(Swiss flag icon.)
But to get back to our itinerary - Having arrived in Geneva, we cashed AmEx travelers cheques, getting for our dollars Swiss francs priced at 70 cents each, a far cry from the 20-cent franc available during my student days in Switzerland (1929-30). Despite the presence of cousins in Geneva and friends in Lausanne, we moved right on to Neuchâtel, where, on arrival, we took a taxi (Mercedes - they are all the same fixed-price-for-fixed-distance-tip-included) a short distance to the Hotel des Beaux-Arts on Rue Portales, a few steps from the shore of Lake Neuchâtel.
Why Neuchâtel? Because that is where my ancestors lived. There and in nearby Couvet may be found records of Borels from the 14th century on.
Neuchâtel together with La Chaux-de-Fonds and Le Locle once comprised the watch-making capital of the world. Such activity is still an important part of the region's economic life. Of interest to us were the horological museums, their impressive arrays of watches and clocks dating from earliest times. Skilled watch and clock makers, together with their apprentices, are busy keeping these extensive collections in running order. One guide at the museum at Le Locle takes five hours a day to wind the timepieces in his charge.
Not far from the museums are the technical colleges where students study the design and manufacture of the modern Swiss watch. Despite the inroads of Japanese production, there is still a world demand for these. My late brother Pierre, known to all as Pete, was a graduate of the technical college in La Chaux-de-Fonds, having spent four years there (1929-33).
My father's family, the Borel-Jaquets, lived in this area, though my father was in fact born in Morteau, France (across the frontier marked by the Doubs river) where his father Charles Eugène, a skilled machinist, was employed. The region is known as the Jura Alps, a glorious countryside of rolling woods and rich fields, the mountains modest in height in comparison to the high Alps rising to the southeast.
In Neuchâtel, we mounted the hill to the Chateau, a splendid structure once the home of counts. It now houses the central administration of canton Neuchâtel. The complex includes the collegiate church, a small cathedral where once preached Guillaume Farel, one of the great reformers, contemporary of Luther, Zwingli, Calvin, and Knox. A few steps away, we climbed laboriously to the top of the old Tower once used to incarcerate prisoners in cramped cells.
But here, as in the places to follow, our joy was the simple stroll on the cobblestones of ancient lanes flanked by ancient stucco buildings, which seldom exceeded three or four stories. At frequent intervals there are fountains where in days long gone villagers came for water to meet their daily needs. Beautifully sculptured and gilded, these fountsins seem more like masterpieces transported from nearby museums than the past providers of life's essence.
(Swiss flag icon.)
My good friends Jean-Louis and Madelaine Borel, not directly related, have long been leading citizens of Neuchâtel. Jean-Louis, now 90 years old, once headed the Ernest Borel Watch Company, then headed the much larger company when the manufacturing and marketing assets of Borel, Cyma, Doxa, and Tavannes (and perhaps other companies) were merged. Regrettably, Jean-Louis was having medical problems. It was not possible for us to see him. I did have a good talk with him and Madelaine by telephone. They expressed regrets and hoped that we would really get together "on our next visit."
(Swiss flag icon.)
Another contact was Jean Calame who lived in La-Chaux-de-Fonds. Success here. His wife was at this time visiting her sister in Missouri, but Jean, who as an engineer drives those superb locomotives for the Swiss Federal Railroad, as luck would have it had a day off. In his keeping we were able to see much of the countryside and enjoyed a splendid cheese fondue at a chalet in the highlands of Les Bernets. We also visited his lovely home and saw the improvements wrought by his skilled hands.
After two days in the Juras, we headed for Interlaken via Bern, Switzerland's capital and its second largest city, glimpsing as we sped at farms and villages where the industrious Swiss could be seen pursuing their daily tasks against a colorful blanket of greens and yellows which extended to a horizon of azure blue dotted by powder-puff clouds.
(Swiss flag icon.)
For the tourist as for its citizens, Bern is a city ideally laid out. The cathedral and magnificent government buildings hold the high ground which overlooks a sea of red roofs in an expanse delimited by the sweeping U of the Aare River. Running west to east, several streets in parallel connect the Union Station to the Bear-Pit, which remains a popular attraction, just over the river. What a show one of the bears put on! The main thoroughfare changes its name as one progresses under the arcaded shops in buildings once inhabited by the patrician families of Bern.
(Swiss flag icon.)
There is a stretch where the market is held twice a week. Close to one of the magnificent old town gates with its clock tower shoppers or casual pedestrians may play sidewalk chess with pieces two feet high. And not too far away is the office which was once occupied by Allen Dulles, my sometime chief at CIA, when, as a young American foreign service officer, he signed the passports which enabled the Borel family to head for Ellis Island.
In Bern, as elsewhere, we were struck by the vast admixture of foreigners to the Swiss population. Indeed, the outsiders trying to become insiders now constitute a quarter of the inhabitants, posing problems not unlike those experienced in our own country. Surprising us, two successive casual street we contacts made turned out to be Albanians! We were fascinated to see and hear street entertainment by a group of Peruvian indians. Dressed in traditional red wool garb and black hats, they played the Pan flute and sung with all their hearts, hoping to sell recordings of their music.
Along the Kramgasse, I ran into an old friend: the Piper atop one of the street water fountains. There was the actual statue of the piper whose picture I had seen in a Swiss calendar, moving me to write a bit of verse:
Paying the Piper
Throughout the course of living out our lives
How prone we are to satisfy a thirst
Unthinking that when morrow's bill arrives
The shining bubble bought by then has burst.
With precious gold we do not have we buy
The empty promised thrill we do not need
With fate we seal a bargain to comply
With strictest terms we never plan to heed.
You who in Hamlin played play for us still
We too have rats, though of another strain,
And children aping grownups without will
Now follow false notes to be lost again.
Yes, those who ask to have the piper play
Must then, invariably, the piper pay.
(Swiss flag icon.)
Interlaken is an ideal base from which to cover central Switzerland. The village and its immediate environs are satisfyingly beautiful; therefore one finds fulfillment by simply hiking in any direction. Beyond, it matters little where one heads, be it by train or by boat, for there beauty abounds also.
In our explorations, we generally followed the same pattern: Breakfast at the hotel at seven; departure from the appropriate station around eight; lunch and sometimes tea (Oh the joy of meringue glacee) during the course of our travels; and a tardy supper at the hotel on our return. Thus one day, having checked weather conditions at the top, we wound our way to the Jungfraujoch via Grindelwald and returned via Wengen, with a detour to Lauterbrunnen and Murren. It was a long day, full of spectacular scenes of which one never tires. Emerging from the ice palace carved within the glacier to the snow covered sunlit slopes is beyond describing, though the experience continues to move poets to try, some, such as Rossetti, approaching success:
The Hill Summit
This feast-day of the sun, his altar there
In the broad west has blazed for vesper-song:
And I have loitered in the vale too long
And gaze now a belated worshipper.
Yet may I not forget that I was ‘ware,
So journeying, of his face at intervals
Transfigured where the fringed horizon falls, --
A fiery bush with coruscating hair.
And now that I have climbed and won this height,
I must tread downward through the sloping shade
And travel the bewildered tracks till night.
Yet for this hour I still may here be stayed
And see the gold air and the silver fade
And the last bird fly into the last light.
Dante Gabriel Rossetti
(Swiss flag icon.)
On another day, we took the boat to Thun, spending much of our time wandering the streets of that old city and climbing the hill to the castle and the many stairs within it, viewing the exhibits of this first rate museum. The return was by bus as far as the caves of St. Beatus, deep into the hills along the eastern coast of the Thurnersee. Filled with speleological wonders, the passageways were just high enough to make uncertain whether someone approaching six feet in height could make his way walking erect. Which meant that I emerged having spent the better part of two hours hunched over for fear of striking my head on the sharp, wet rocks overhead. Then wondering how to expedite our return to Interlaken, we happily were invited by four Koreans to join them for a speedy ride back in their Mercedes rental.
(Swiss flag icon.)
Still another day, a Sunday, we seleted Kandersteg as our destination. We had considered going to Zermatt to see the Matterhorn. This would have been a long trip under the best of conditions. When we learned that the weather forecast for that area was questionable, and that an avalanche had temporarily made impassable a part of the rail line, necessitating transfer to bus (adding certain length to our journey), we opted for Kandersteg.
We started the day by attending early service at Interlaken's Anglican church, conducted by a visiting rector from London. Be it recorded that Elaine, Jane, and I constituted half the congregation that heard a fine sermon delivered in flawless Oxonian English.
Kandersteg is a place beloved by skiers, hikers, balloonists, and hang-glide enthusiasts. My wife and I visited here in September 1987 and found the place remarkably free of the bustle of fringe business and recreational activities that now denigrate so many formerly idyllic retreats. Little had changed since. In a repeat of the earlier visit, we took the ski-lift as high as it would go, then hiked to the Oeschinensee, a glacial mountain tarn nestled at the summit. I found the lake much reduced in size owing to persisting dry spells. There, on its bank, we had our picnic lunch. Yes, the whimsical notice near the picnic area is still there: Do not leave rubbish here, but take it with you and put it in your own dust-bin! From the summit we returned to the valley on foot, discovering in the process muscles we did not know we had.
The Upper Kander valley in the Bernese Oberland is one having some connection with the Borel family. Twice my brother John was in residence there. The air in this region is often helpful to those suffering from pulmonary weaknesses. As an enfant (circa 1916) John was a bit frail and was therefore placed for a time with a family at Adelboden. And from mid-1929 through the spring of 1930, while I was in Zurich, he was with a family at Frutigan.
(Swiss flag icon.)
It was during our stay at Interlaken that we met the inimitable Eddie Singer. Regrettably we have no picture of him. We first engaged him in conversation while waiting for a bus. A man probably in his late seventies, medium in height, with straight thinning white hair combed straight back, rotund in build, in clothes which would not have been purchased on Bond Street, he had the frank, no nonsensical response to life that made him utterly charming and amusing to be with. We assumed he was either bachelor or widower, for he moved about alone. Wherever we went we ran into him, or found out that he had preceded us, or that he planned to go where we had just been.
Eddie lived outside London, near Heathrow airport: "Can't imagine why anyone would want to live in London. Dirty place, you know." He was quick to let us know that "You Americans certainly murder the English language." We found ourselves on the same boat headed for Thun. On our arrival, I invited Eddie to join us. For a time he did, and we walked together. But he seemed quickly in the grip of emphysema and begged off; he had to walk slowly and was not match for the demands of the journey, involving as it did ascending and descending rugged hills and long, narrow stairways. We wish you well, Eddie, wherever you are!
(Swiss flag icon.)
With our arrival in Zürich, the journey took on a more personal patina. Our hotel, the Leonard, was located on the Limatquai not far from the main railroad station, and therefore just off Zürich's main thoroughfare, the Bahnhofstrasse. It is said that this is the world's most expensive place to shop and I believe it. So located, we were within easy walking or tram distance from the places I was most anxious to show Elaine and Jane. Late afternoons or evenings would be used to call on the few friends whom I had alerted to our coming.
It may be that, as Thomas Wolfe said, you can't go home again. But a return to one's birthplace, where one has lived his earliest years, has spent a portion of his later teens, and has since from time to time returned, must have special meaning. I found this to be so.
While my companions were making their first acquaintance with the sights and sounds of the city, I was seeing the reflections or hearing the echoes of distant events, smudged or muted a bit to be sure by the passage of the decades. There indeed, on the Gasometerstrasse, was the German-speaking Kindergarten I had attended. And within a block or so, the entrance to the first floor apartment from which we had in October 1917 made our departure for America. Close by was the park, in the back of the Swiss National Museum, where Mother had taken us to play. A different story now. A portion of the park serves as haven for those in the grip of the drug culture. They are predominantly the young. The help afforded them seems to be limited to giving them clean needles in an effort to moderate the spread of epidemic. As we walked among these young people, and they numbered in the scores, some were busy looking for a likely vein to stab; others addressed us to ask the time of day. (It was ten in the morning.)
On the Glockengasse, in the shadow of St. Peter's, we stood before the building where my father, affectionately known to all as Poppie, had worked as material man for the Hoch company, wholesalers to watchmakers of parts and supplies necessary to restore the heartbeat to the timepieces of the Swiss.
The we stood before the French Reformed Church at the intersection of Promenadegasse and Schanzengasse where my parents were married on New Year's eve in 1910, and where I was baptized October 6, 1912. (Note: The preacher's handwritten record on the back of my birth certificate erroneously gives the year as 1910.) During my year in Zürich, before entering the University of Kansas, I attended services here regularly, and admired greatly the flawless French in which the sermons were delivered. In 1972, Miriam and I brought our sons, Douglas and Mark, here. And in 1982, we were here with daughter Nancy and her husband John during one of the two great trips we have taken together. To me, it has always seemed appropriate to gather at this place, which, in a world of change, remains a constant.
(Swiss flag icon.)
One afternoon, we boarded the train for a twenty minute ride to Langnau, a village rising above the southern coast of Lake Zürich, to see members of the family Curchod. Rene Curchod is my oldest friend. We have maintained a frendship throughout the seventy-nine years of our lives. Until the Borels left for America, Borels and Cuchods lived across the street from each other. Indeed, even earlier, my father, as a bachelor, had once proposed marriage to Rene's mother.
In order to have time to look around before the appointed time of our arrival, we left a half hour early. But Rene, anxious to see his old friend, was already at the station when we got off the train. He had organized a tea at a local inn with members of the family (brothers, sister, spouses, daughter). But first we were to visit the apartment in the retirement complex into which he and his wife Gritli had moved since giving up their home. I found my friends comfortably situated on the top floor of a four story building commanding the hill, which itself overlooks the countryside. Time, as it does, was taking its toll: the state of their health seemed as a fragile flower. And Gritli, the consummate housewife, misses dreadfully not having her own kitchen, while she fights depression brought on by failing eyesight and the onset of Parkinson's diseases. But they both, as each must, are making the best of things. The Altersheim (home for the aged) provided by the municipality for its senior citizens is lovely in every aspect. These Swiss elderly would in our land be envied their accommodations as a splendid place in which to spend the quiet later years of life.
But I have given too gloomy a picture. The tea party (again the favorite meringues heaped with whipped cream) was a two-hour event of pure joy. Here were seven people nearing or over eighty years of age, joined by three delightful ladies of a younger generation. There was reminiscing, catching up on family news, getting acquainted and reacquainted, the whole affair alive with conversations in French, English, and German, a veritable miniature Babel. How satisfying at this time in life to fashion or to participate in such gatherings!
(Swiss flag icon.)
That evening, Elaine, Jane, and I went to a restaurant near our hotel that specialized in the cuisine of the Roman Swiss (i.e., the French speaking Swiss). We ordered a Raclette, a dish consisting of special cheese melted and scraped onto the plate, served with small new potatoes, peas, and tiny onions. Very nice!
(Swiss flag icon.)
The night before our departure we were again away from downtown Zürich, this time in Herrliberg, a village on the northeren coast of the lake, roughly opposite from where we had spent the previous afternoon. We were guests of Hans and Rita Huggler-Huelin. Hans, retired chief of operations for Swissair, was widower when he married Rita, a reitred nurse, not previously married, who had spent her career ministering to employees of the Swiss company Maggi (soups, etc.). Rita, daughter of my late Godfather, Robert Huelin, had been a sister to me during my student days in Zürich when I lived with her family.
Now Herrliberg is on the rail line which terminates at Rapperswil, so every enquiry made concerning how ro get to where we wanted to go spoke to taking the train that goes to Rapperswil. Which, of course, is what we did, inattentively riding right by Herrliberg, traveling forty minutes and going twice the distance we should have. Having called Rita to tell her we had arrived, we waited at the Rapperswil station while our friends were looking for us at the Herrliberg stations and wondering what had happened to us.
Eventually we got together for a wonderful evening of good food and fellowship. In good health, these two friends lead an idyllic life in a beautiful condo overlooking the lake. Beyond, the horizon glows in golden sunsets, reflecting the alabaster of great Alpine peaks. Hans, a much decorated sharpshooter from his army days, has been a leading figure in the restoration of planes of the Swiss airforce and in the organization of the airforce museum.
For our return to Zürich we took one of those new double-deck passenger rail cars. As always, we could count on the trains running on time. We were much assisted in planning our various excursions by the special schedules of arrivals and departures provided by the Swiss rail administration. Again making good use of one when the following morning the happy threesome headed for Kloten airport. From there, it was a simple matter to board the big PanAm silver bird and fly back, completing our successful sojourn in the land of the Alps.
(Swiss flag icon.)
All stories have their epilogues. This story was written by three actors, fellow travelers on a trip. Each will have her or his own, written in the mind as events we shared flash back. . . . . There I stand, asking the hotelier where my top sheet is as she explains that the current custom is that of the Norse: in making up the bed a duvet is used in lieu of a top sheet and blanket. A duvet is an overgrown pillow of goose down, great for winter, but in May one is soon too warm with it, and without it, too cold. But not to worry, the courteous innkeeper will be glad to change the bed if one wishes. . . . .Now I see the handsome face of a young man we met in Wengen. He has on a sweatshirt bearing the name and seal of Iowa University. So naturally, we strike up a conversation, for it's nice to run into home folks. But no, he's an Australian, wearing the gift of a collegian friend. . . . . Then there were the recent college graduates. No jobs in the offing, they traveled Europe with funds provided by parents and grandparents. Where next to go to find lodgings they could afford? . . . . And the surprising displays of graffiti in the shadow of proclamations announcing the celebrations of the 700th year of the founding of the Swiss Confederation. Where will it all end?
(Swiss flag icon.)
Elaine's Letter of June 2, 1991
I'm sitting here thinking about our Swiss trip. I'm still in heaven! Even the long drawnout return flight couldn't take away from it. People ask me what my favorite part was and each time the answer is different. Was it the train trips with breathtaking views on both sides, the mountain hikes, the meals and conversation around "our" booth at Harder-Minerva? It might have been the castles, churches, statues, and other historical sites or little villages. But then I remember how it felt to see where you lived, the church where you were baptized, your school and meeting your lifetime friends. This was truly special because I did all these things with you. The memories will be mine forever and ever - - nothing will dim them - - not even time. "Thank you" does not seem adequate. I don't have words to express my gratitude.
I can hardly wait for the pictures to be developed and my scrapbook put together. Jane and I plan to work on it at the beach. We will relive the trip each time we enjoy our journal or each time I sit for a break in daily routine and close my eyes.
Julie flies into Charlotte June 27 to go to the beach. More fun to be here before I know it. Nothing ever, however, will ever come even close to our very special Swiss trip. I love you.
Elaine
Jane's Letter of June 3, 1991
It's hard to write a letter that can express how thankful I am for our wonderful trip. Switzerland is everything I ever imagined and more. As beautiful as all those calendar pictures always are, they just can't capture the magnificence of those beautiful mountains, those views of the lakes, chalets, waterfalls, bright yellow fields, and those sweet mountain flowers along the trails.
You and Elaine were perfect traveling companions. I find myself chuckling still as I think back on some of your humor. As much as getting to see Switzerland, I am thankful for having this time with you. It means so much to me. I can't thank you enough.
I've always known how lucky I am to have the parents I do, but all you are and all you do continues to remind me of it!
I love you, Daddy-O. Thank you for the wonderful trip and the lifelong memories we made together.
Love,
Jane
All materials on this website are © copyrighted, with all rights reserved. Nothing may be used or reproduced without written permission from Julia J. Borel. See copyright page for more information.
