Good Friday
April 6, 2012

The fog envelops the valley, as it has yesterday and the day before. Yesterday it rained all day, a soft, windless rain. Sizzo told me the farmers needed it, as it had been dry and crops are just starting to sprout. The Apfelweg --the Apple Way-- near the Kueglerhof is lined with young saplings sprouting pale pink flowers under which the fruit will grow. These will not grow to be spreading trees, but more like vines, allowing for larger scale production than letting trees grow naturally would.

When the fog comes in it lies there until a rise in the temperature burns it off. Seeing it I am reminded of my upcoming walk in the Pyrenees and remember the young man who lost the path and perished in April 2007, having become separated from his walking partners. Seeing the fog blanket the valley and even the terraces of the Kueglerhof, I can now understand how this can happen.

I am sorry to leave the Kueglerhof and Tirolo di Merano. Yesterday, April 5,I spent two days visiting the Museum of Tyrolean History as a guest of Sizzo's. It is a beautifully designed educational institution: headsets in Italian, German and English are available at the touch of a button to provide further information besides the already detailed information about the objects on view. The history of the Tyrol begins with the prehistoric period, continues to the period when Tyrol became a fief of the Wittelsbach family, through to the period of Hapsburg dominance. From 1200 through the middle of the sixteenth century , the Tyrol was at the heart of a conflict between the the Holy Roman Empire. , and the sovereign lords of Tyrol, eager to preserve their lands from Papal interference in matters great and small. This sometimes took the form of conflict over the sovereign's personal lives as when Margaret, the only surviving child of Meinhard, the last Wittelsbach Count, separated from her husband by literally barring the castle door to his return.

At the time of Margaret's separation from her husband and unconsecrated remarriage, bishops of the Church had armed forces to assist them in their enforcement actions against straying vassals of the Holy Roman Empire, whose ultimate heads were the Pope and the Emperor . The Bishop of Chur, in Switzerland, keen to enforce the Pope's ban on Margaret's remarriage, travelled to Schloss Tirol, accompanied by a retinue of soldiers on horseback to force Margaret to take back her husband. Unfortunately for the Bishop, he was easily taken by Margaret's own band of soldiers. He was imprisoned until he took a more reasonable view of the matter, sanctioning Margaret's second marriage. Sadly for the Tyrol, Margaret had a son, who did not survive her. As a result, by her will she turned over the Tyrol to a Hapsburg cousin. This event marks the end of Tyrol's existence as a sovereign land, its absorption into the Habsburg kingdom, and event for which Margaret's name lives in infamy. Next year, 2013, marks the 650th anniversary of the advent of Hapsburg rule. "We will have to commemorate it somehow," Sizzo tells me.

Today I go to Mustair via the 11:14 a.m. train to Malles/Mals (all names in the Tyrol and the Engadine are given in High German and the local dialect), where I pick up a bus to take me to Mustair (the exception) and the Benedictine convent of San Gian in the Engadine region of Swtizerland. It being Good Friday, today is a fast day, and not too soon: I enjoyed wonderful meals at the Kueglerhof. --I have also taken on the burden of a few extra magazines and books given to me by Sizzo and Mary. Thankfully, if I can get myself to Mustair, and then Zurich, Monday, I can unload my excess baggage at the apartment of a friend there.

***

The trip to Mustair turns out to be wonderfully free of mishap: a taxi driver picks me up at the Kueglerhof, even carryiing my large knapsack to the trunk of his car, saying that I will have plenty of time to take it up myself. He drives to the train station in Merano along the hiking paths that bisect the fields of apple trees, winding down from the heights of Meran, taking the scenic route. When I tell him that I was in Meran forty years ago and that I was a student of Sizzo's, he tells me he and Sizzo were playmates. He gets me to the train station with time to spare.

Actually, I am able to get the train to Mals/Malles one hour earlier than I intended. This is a brand new local train, the Sudtiroler, making all stops between Bozen/Bolzano and Malles/Mals. Lots of locals get on and off at each stop, along with a variety of dogs from a Papillon (carried in a kind of knapsack for dogs), to a fluffy brown poodle to a large Belgian shepherd. Everyone says hello to each other, and jokes in a friendly way.

Arriving at Mals (let us settle on this name for the town), I have occasion to inaugurate use of the folding stool I bought in New York. Happily, this lightweight three-legged item does not sent me sprawling, but sits comfortably. Within minutes, the bus for Mustair arrives. A large postal coach, I recognize the markings from a visit to Mustair made last January. I put my three largest bags in the trunk, and we are off.

The bus driver, a cheerful man in his fifties, given to singing snatches of songs, chats with two men seated behind him on either side. One is a very old Tyrolean farmer, judging from his sinewy, sun-dried frame and slightly stooped walk. He is wearing the traditional Green felt hat with cord around the base of the brim, complete with decorative button carved from bone. He is wearing a pair of RayBans, which is occasion for some teasing, which he takes good-naturedly.

Seated opposite him is a somewhat younger man with a beard that grows down six inches from his chin. His smooth skin and bright blue eyes, along with his well-fed appearance, are the marks of someone who has lived by something other than the sweat of his brow. Nonetheless, he is as Tyrolean as the old farmer. Along with the bus driver, the three make good use of being thrown together for the duration of the ride, exchanging jokes in the way those who know and like each other well do. The elderly farmer leaves the bus at Glurns/Glorenza, a lovely old town with Hapsburg arms painted on the building next to where the bus stops; the younger man leaves it at Taufers/Tubre.

The trip is too short. At Mals I count eight majestic peaks, all snow covered, shining in the strong sunshine. In Glurns/Glorenza's main square, I see visitors enjoy luncheon al fresco. Taufer/Tubre, while smaller, also looks worth exploring. However, the border looms. We pass the restaurant just at the border between Switzerland and Italy on the Italian side. When I was here in January, a Swiss Customs Officer had his midday meal passed over the border to him by the restaurant's owners, although of course it was too cold for visitors. Now there are several tables of smiling guests, including a friend of the bus driver's, who is the object of his good-natured chaffing over what an easy life the friend is living.

We stop for a minute at the border, while the border policeman on duty has a chance to survey the passengers: While he chats with the driver, he determines whether any of us are a reason to board the bus. There is no need and we are waved on. The bus stop at the Cloister of San Gian is the next stop. Two minutes later, I am dropped off at the Cloister.

I walk around to the entrance for visitors, which is through the main gate, and to the right. I ring the bell and the door opens: Merly, the oblate I met when I was here in January, greets me warmly, gives me my room key and tells me that the Good Friday service will begin at 3:00 p.m.

Saturday, April 7, 2012

I go to the Good Friday service in the cloister's small chapel: the priest, Pater Gregor, a Benedictine, is a relatively young man --his predecessor, Pater Columban, also a Benedictine, was in his seventies-- and is resplendent in his vestments: gold embroidered red cloak, cotton shift with lace border and collar, over the soutane. The service begins with the priest kneeling, then prostrating himself before the cross.

The Passion Play is read, with the priest, and two sisters playing the parts. After, there is a homily I can see the Pater Gregor has written out by hand, followed by an undraping of the cross, which is enfolded red cloth.

The priest slowly, deliberately pulls up the red fabric covering the back of the cross, folding it over the arms. After doing so, he repeats the movement of folding the fabric draped across the front, then with both hands grabbing the bolt and gently pulling it away from the cruicifix to reveal a flat, thin wooden cross painted black. The wood of the cross is wider towards the middle, where the "S" of Christ's silhouette emerges from the planes of the cross . The expression of the painted Christ, wounds on his side, hands and feet, is poignantly lifelike.

After the unveiling of the cross, the priest, followed by each of the nuns, kneels before the cross and makes a gesture of veneration: some kneel before it, some bow, then bring their hands to their lips and then to the image of the wounds in Christ's feet, Others prostrate themselves, still others embrace the image.

There are final prayers, then communion and a last prayer. The priest, and then the nuns, file out silently, one by one.

***

At dinner, one of the nuns joins us to bring us welcome from the Community. Sister Birgitte is young and energetic, blue-eyed and sunburnt. She leads us in a brief prayer before the meal, and after. She worked in Shanghai for several years, then in New York, and knows Hong Kong well enough to tell that Hong Kong hospitals are flooded with pregnant mainland women seeking to deliver there in order to give their children Hong Kong's better health care. All stereotypes about nuns being humorless and unattactive are given the lie, looking at Sister Birgitte's radiant face.

April 7, 2012
Merano

I go back to Merano for the day, to visit the town I knew only from stopping here to get to Tirolo di Merano. It is known for its terme, or mineral springs, which drew visitors like Empress Elisabeth, the wife Emperor Franz Joseph II, the famous "Sissi". The "Kurhaus" --the neoclassic building where patrons of the waters went to drink their prescribed dose-- stands by the stream that runs through the town. The stream has been bridged in a few spots. Villas on each side of the stream were built by the wealthy, with footbridges joining each bank of the stream. Behind, the view up to the mountains makes the spot especially picturesque.

While Tirolo di Merano appeals to hiking enthusiasts, Merano, with its great number of cafes and lauben --covered shopping arcades-- appeals to tourists of a more sedentary nature. The streets are full of Easter shoppers, and on the main street, affluent shoppers throng the small shops, particularly those selling speck, Tyrolean ham, a speciakty. While in Tirolo di Merano the lingua franca is German, here more Italian is heard.

In one shop, a fixture in Merano since the 19th century, shoppers inside are eyeing the cheeses and cured meats on offer. One expensively-dressed woman carries under her arm, a small dachshund, whose interest in the victuals is unmistakable.

The ride to Merano is an easy one: there is a Swiss Auto da Posta that stops at the Closter San Gian stop and crosses the border, stopping at Malls/Malles. (I took it on the way in to Mustair yesterday.) From there, I take the local rail back to Merano, and a bus to the center of the shopping district. It is an easy day, mingling among the Easter shoppers, returning in time for an early dinner so I can attend the Convent's Easter Celebration, which will begin at 5:30 a.m.


Easter Sunday

The service begins in the courtyard of the cloister, where the nuns, ten in all, plus Mely, an oblate, gather around a brazier to prepare the censer. All is done by candlelight, the nuns each holding a candle. They are joined by those staying in the cloister as guests. Pater Gregor is wearing an alb over his white vestment and soutane. He is holding the Easter candle, a white pillar candle decorated with a gold cross. After the censer is filled with fragrant incense and pieces of coal from the brazier, it is carried by Sister Birgitte. After the pillar candle is lit, Pater Gregor takes it in his arms and walks in procession with the nuns following, then the guests.

We walk through the outer door of the cloister, then through a corridor towards a door leading to the chapel. Father Gregor crosses the threshold of the door, then turns about and faces us on the other side of the door, the candle in his arms, his face lambent from the candle's glow. The nuns give us each a candle and we process into the chapel, entering through the side the nuns use. We walk to the section of the chapel where guests sit, which is perpendicular to the area reserved for the nuns and the service begins. Almechtige und heilige Gott --Almighty and Holy God-- sings Pater Gregor.

The Easter Service is sung in the candle-lit chapel, the Pater Gregor using a small light dropped between the pages of liturgy volume. When the time comes for the readings, the candles are extinguished and the light in the chapel turned on. The nun playing the little organ in the back of the chapel plays the carillon bells. In the background, the church bells can be heard pealing. At the moment preceding communion, Pater Gregor says in Swiss German, "May the Peace of the Lord Be With You Always. Let us now offer each other a sign of Peace." There are about ten of us non-religious in the chapel and we greet each other with firm handshakes. I recognize a couple who were also guests when I visited in January, a carpenter and a teacher of Feldenkreis exercises. The congregation then waits while Mother Pia, the abbess, greets each of us one by one, smiling.

We receive Communion, and after cleansing the chalice and the paten, Pater Pius sings the blessing. We sing a hymn in closing and the service is over.

Of course, I understood very little, except that the service is a mirror-image of the
service said at my home parish, and parishes around the world.


***
After the Mass, Merly prepares breakfast for the guests. All excepting me are German speakers, three Swiss, one German one. The talk turns to a toaster everyone remembers as a child, made by a Swiss company called Jura, which now outsources much of its production to China. Someone mentions they recently bought an appliance from Jura thinking that they were buying "Swiss-made", only to take the item home and see that it was manufactured in China. Someone else makes reference to a book written by a couple who decided to try to live without using any products made in China, which was extremely difficult. The sense is that the ubiquity of Chinese products is not, in the long run, good for Switzerland, despite the appeal of the lower sales price.

***

The subject of the Swiss economy comes up again at dinner, which takes place away from the convent, at a restaurant in Mustair. Switzerland's private banks, which at one time charged a "negative interest rate" --that is, it charged a fee for taking deposits, rather than paying interest on them --are now being pressured by German and American legal authorities to cooperate in the taxing by identifying German and American citizens keeping money in Swiss accounts to avoid paying taxes. This has always been a major industry in Switzerland, which also negotiates individual tax treaties with wealthy individuals seeking Swiss residency status.

The most knowledgeable person at table --a former Swiss banker-- observes that while personally he sees no distinction between tax avoidance and tax fraud when it comes to parking money in Swiss accounts, practically speaking, even if Germany and the United States make it illegal for citizens of these countries to do so, individuals will still be able to negotiate tax treaties with Switzerland that will be profitable to Switzerland, in exchange for Swiss residency. He points out also that while Switzerland is pressured by Germany and the United States over the Swiss accounts of their citizens, no one pressures Singapore, which permits wealthy foreigners to open secret bank accounts, and has, as a result, taken some of the business away from Switzerland. Switzerland is pressured because, he believes, having no leverage, it can be pressured, while Singapore, which could threaten to ally itself with China, rather than the West, cannot be. All of which is bad news for Switzerland, whose wealth management industry is a major contributor to Switzerland's prosperity.


April 10, 2012
Easter Monday

It is a beautiful, sunny day in Mustair. I leave on the 11:30 a.m. Auto da Posta for Zernez. From Zernez I take the train to Landquart, and from there to Zurich. The train tracks run alongside the Waldensee, the long lake set against a cliffside whose views inspired Romantic poets with thoughts of the sublime, and which Liszt entitled one of the pieces in his work, Years Of Pilgrimage.

I will have a two day break in Zurich, a chance to think out what might be necessary for me to have to spend two a nights In pilgrim hostels --the headlamp I can use to get to the bathroom in the middle of the night, chewing gum, for instance-- before actually setting out from Besancon, where I will first spend two days with Elise Becker, my redoubtable friend there.

Today it is a month since I left New York. What I have learned in a month of traveling about is that I cannot make the trip to Santiago de Compostela, even from Sarria, as I am presently equipped. The swelling in my ankle has diminished, but travelling from Saint Jean Pied de Port to Refuge d'Orisson will be challenging with just the one backpack.

Wednesday April 12, 2012
To Besancon

The two days in Zurich were largely spent thinking through the best way to proceed to Saint Jean. My friend in Zurich will be in Beaune, in the Burgundy next Tuesday through Friday, so we agree that whether I am able to take the Route Napoleon to Refuge d'Orisson or have to stay in Saint Jean another night on account of bad weather, I will travel to Bayonne Sunday night and stay until Tuesday, when I leave for Beaune.

I am carrying only what I can carry in my large backpack, which is how the pilgrimage has to be done, whether the entire Camino Frances or from Sarria, the minimum distance from Santiago anyone can walk and earn the Compostelle. So I now am carrying only clothes for hiking, toiletries, my IPad2 and some food for the journey.

The weather is projected to be bad all through the week. Temperatures in Saint Jean Pied de Port will be cold, ranging from two degrees Celsius to seven degrees Celsius, with heavy rain. Friday I will arrive at the train station the at about 10:30 p.m., then walk about 15 minutes to rue de la Citadelle, where Maison Bernat, my refuge fore night is located. In the morning I have to stop in at the Pilgrim Office and pick up my credencial, the Pilgrim's Passport, which entitles the holder to stay in the refugios. After I have done that, I need to start walking to Refuge d'Orisson.

The website says that it is a two and a half hour walk to the Refuge. Pilgrims are only allowed to stay one night in any of them, and conditions vary. The Confraternity of Saint James, an English association, publishes a guide to the Camino Frances with information about the quality of the various refugios on the route. "Bedbugs continue to be a problem", it says. Hopefully not in the two I have booked.

The descent to Roncesvalles from the heights of the Pyrenees is long --six hours miinimum-- and can be treacherous in bad weather. If locals say do not attempt that stage of the Camino, only the foolhardy proceed. I have already decided that in addition to picking up my credeencial, my only goal in being in Saint Jean is to see the bridge into Spain, a UNESCO World Heritage Site. I will be disppointed not to be able to reach the Refuge d'Orisson --it will also mean forgoing the moneys paid for the night's lodging and paying extra for a room in Saint Jean. However, Sunday, April 15, whether I am at Refuge d'Orisson or in Saint Jean, I must make my way to Bayonne, where I have booked a hotel for two nights before proceeding to Beaune Tuesday, April 17.

From Beaune I will travel back to Zurich to reclaim all that I left behind there and proceed to Nice, where I will stay two weeks, just to rest. On May 9 I travel to Paris and stay there for a night before proceeding to Galicia on May 10. I will either spend a night in Santiago de Compostela or go directly to my cousin's apartment in Esteiro, by the Ria de Muros y Noya. There I will drop all that I do not need and travel to Sarria, to actually walk the one hundred kilometers to Santiago before I need to leave for Dublin on May 31.

***

12:40 p.m.

The train stops in Mulhouse at 13:45 p.m. From there I catch the train to Besancon, where Elise will meet me. The ride is pleasant, lots of houses with Swiss flags flying in the backyard, as can be found all over Switzerland. This part of Switzerland does not have the high peaks around Zurich or the Engadine/Grisons. It is heading for Basel, where there are great museums, but again, no mountains.

I have my lunch on board: silserkranz, a kind of pretzel bread, with prosciutto I brought with me. I am pleased to use my Swiss Army knife for the first time, the scissor attachment coming in handy now. We are coming into Basel, whose modern buildings by the station are low-lying and clean in design, bottle-green facades alternating with silvery titanium. The buildings house upscale tenants: the University of Basel, a company called Osympany among them. Switzerland does modernist architecture better than any country: the buildings are mostly built to human scale, using light-weight materials and placed with enough space for the architect's design not to be crowded against others. Zurich has its first skyscraper, Rogertur [fact-check name], and it seems nothing special, but it is at the far end of the lake of Zurich, out of the way.

We sit at the far end of the station. A sign --an arrow painted green, with one word below, FRANCE indicates that Basle/Bale station was built right on the border of the two countries. Some kind of change requires this layover, although no customs or immigration personnel are to be seen. Finally, a French voice announces that the train is about to leave and that its terminus will be in Brussels. It will be unfortunate for those traveling there, as the city's transport unions have gone on strike.

It is now 1:20 p.m.: the airbrake has been released, whistles sound, the train is underway. We will be in Mulhouse in twenty-five minutes. Soon after four customs personnel enter the car, all wearing ORANGE armbands that say DOUANE. I have my passport at the ready, but they skip over me, only talking to one elderly Frenchman. All but one leave the car after five minutes, while the last stays to check with a female railroad employee. The French conductor is tall, long-haire and blond, pleasant, too. He never checks my ticket, either.

Riding through Saint Louis, the first town on the border, the walls of the industrial buildings are covered in graffitti. Mulhouse station comes up quickly: it seems an unprepossessing town, although the waiting room on the train platform for the connection to Besancon, is heated, a nice touch. Suddenly the population is more mixed than in Switzerland --African women with their hair in braids, Arab men in leather jackets-- and less affluent.

My wait is brief, the train comes in a ten minutes before its scheduled departure. I make my way to the first class car and my place by the window. Now the platform is forgotten: This train is a high speed train, a "TGV" --Train de Gran Vitesse. Inside, the first class car has the look of a cocktail lounge in the 1960s --retro cool, with low lighting on the tables for two. Inviting the traveler to relax are large, ample seats, upholstered in thin black and grey horizontal stripes faintly suggesting zebras or some other exotic animal of the African veldt. It will be a brief ride, and then the train goes on to Monpellier.

In a few minutes we are in the countryside, agricultural land all around. In the distance high hills further mark the landscape --the Ballons d'Alsace-- under an enormous sky, which has become mildly sunny. The houses are solid, whether residences or farm buildings, no obvious decorative touches on the facades, just plain rose or beige stuccoed buildings with red slate roofs. I remember in his book, his book The Identity Of France, Fernand Braudel, the great historian of France did a study of the different roof tile materials used from region to region. The tiles would not be of the same material or style in Provence or Brittany. I must remember to observe the tiles in Saint Jean Pied de Port, at the country's other end.

Besancon

I find out that there are no TGVs available to take me to Saint Jean Pied de Port.

In France different regions have different school holidays through the spring. As a result, the TGV trains are reserved long in advance. The Eurail Pass only has a few seats allocated on each train, so when they are reserved, the next passholder seeking a seat on a train is out of luck.

Which describes my situation exactly.

However, I am lucky enough to have Elise and her husband Jean see this as an opportunity to keep me around longer. Both are studying English and appreciate having someone to practice with; I conversely, am grateful that they would take me in for longer than I originally intended.

We call the refuges I have booked in Saint Jean Pied de Port and the Pyrenees, and cancel. I also get online and cancel my booking in Bayonne. I will be remaining in France-Comte and count my blessings that Elise and Jean are so hospitable. I will not get to experience the miserable weather in the Pyrenees, I will not have to carry a knapsack on my back up and down a mountain in the rain. I will get to practice my French. It is not the pilgrimage I intended, but I will get to travel to see the Le Corbusier Chapel in Belfort before I leave for Dijon on Tuesday. Perhaps that counts for something.