A few years ago my family and I took a European vacation. We started in the small Swiss village of Zermatt, taking a train from Milan in order to get there. The journey had been only the slightest bit stressful what with the language barrier, but we made it safe and sound, arriving later in the evening and buzzing with anticipation. We wasted no time in getting to the hotel to drop off our effects and then stepped back out onto the cobbled street. There was not a soul to be seen. I'm not kidding. It was silent as the hills and looked as if every citizen had packed up and left on the first train outta there!
Beckoned forth by my uncompromising stomach, I led the way in search of a place where my loved ones and I might find some form of sustenance. But as the search for dinner continued without success I began to picture what all death by starvation would entail. Surely it wouldn't be pleasant. I had just begun to decide which family member I would miss least if forced to turn to cannibalism when the mystical sound of music and soft chatter met our ears, leading us skipping and dancing towards its source like the children after the Pied Piper of Hamelin. Savory smells of cooking food soon joined the assault on our senses and before we knew it we were standing in the middle of a proper little diner! It was all I could do not to drop down on my knees in prayer, hands clasped and shaking above my head, body aquiver with jubilation.
Let me now take the time to address you with the food of Zermatt, Switzerland. I personally found much success with my ordering choices, sticking closely to various pastas, but I fear I cannot say the same for the other members of my family, my brother in particular. Intrigued by the words "Wiener Schnitzel" he decided to be adventurous with his meal—a heretofore unprecedented event—and ordered the Wiener Schnitzel salad. This, however, turned out to be a monumental error in judgment. Whilst I basked in the creamy-goodness of my four cheese macaroni, he was left prodding his fork experimentally at the bowl of green leaves accompanied by thinly sliced hotdogs. Now as some of you may know, Wiener Schnitzel is meat that is breaded and fried, usually veal. Not hotdogs. I do not know why the meal was so falsely advertised, but perhaps we should count it as one of God's small blessings. I'm fairly positive my finicky brother would have died right there on the spot should he have been presented with veal amongst his lettuce leaves.
Beckoned forth by my uncompromising stomach, I led the way in search of a place where my loved ones and I might find some form of sustenance. But as the search for dinner continued without success I began to picture what all death by starvation would entail. Surely it wouldn't be pleasant. I had just begun to decide which family member I would miss least if forced to turn to cannibalism when the mystical sound of music and soft chatter met our ears, leading us skipping and dancing towards its source like the children after the Pied Piper of Hamelin. Savory smells of cooking food soon joined the assault on our senses and before we knew it we were standing in the middle of a proper little diner! It was all I could do not to drop down on my knees in prayer, hands clasped and shaking above my head, body aquiver with jubilation.
Let me now take the time to address you with the food of Zermatt, Switzerland. I personally found much success with my ordering choices, sticking closely to various pastas, but I fear I cannot say the same for the other members of my family, my brother in particular. Intrigued by the words "Wiener Schnitzel" he decided to be adventurous with his meal—a heretofore unprecedented event—and ordered the Wiener Schnitzel salad. This, however, turned out to be a monumental error in judgment. Whilst I basked in the creamy-goodness of my four cheese macaroni, he was left prodding his fork experimentally at the bowl of green leaves accompanied by thinly sliced hotdogs. Now as some of you may know, Wiener Schnitzel is meat that is breaded and fried, usually veal. Not hotdogs. I do not know why the meal was so falsely advertised, but perhaps we should count it as one of God's small blessings. I'm fairly positive my finicky brother would have died right there on the spot should he have been presented with veal amongst his lettuce leaves.
The next day we set out to experience all that Zermatt had to offer. The main road in town cuts its way through the quaint, brightly-shuttered buildings and ends at a path leading to the hallmark of Zermatt. The Matterhorn. This, in my opinion, is the prime reason for coming to Zermatt. With its peak jutting grandly out of the earth at 13,000 feet above sea level, I couldn't take my eyes away from it. The sheer majesty of it all filled me with such a glistening sense of wonder that I demanded to my family we go for a hike at once.
We started out the cool summer day looking respectable in jeans, sneakers, and long sleeved shirts. At this point our tourist status was more of a question than a certainty, but as we continued our ascent, this all changed. The exertion was too much and it became necessary to roll up our pant-legs and sleeves. Dignity went right out the window. We might as well have had "TOURIST" tattooed on our foreheads. I do not mean to mislead you into thinking we hiked anything that resembled a respectable distance, but it was a strenuous trek for amateurs such as ourselves nevertheless. I am convinced that if not for the bubbling enthusiasm the mountain inspired within me, I would have found myself vomiting by the side of the road.
The way up was never-ending, as if every step we took was bringing us nowhere. I remember closing my eyes and breathing in the clean, crisp air of the mountain, listening to the roaring speech of the river as it followed us from its position deep within the gorge to our left. We paused here for a moment, peering down into the frothing white of the churning waters. It was at this rather significant moment during our nature excursion that my brother took it upon himself to pretend as though he were going to push my mother over the edge of the cliff. Both parents responded to this unfortunate lapse in intelligence with a fierce alacrity that could have subdued a grizzly bear. They regarded him with identical looks of profound disillusion and pummeled him with rhetorical questions that all centralized around his lack of basic mental capacity.
We traveled on for a bit longer, me leading the pack with my brother bringing up the rear, tale tucked between his legs. A forested area had just begun taking form to our right when my mom plopped herself down on a rock, my dad coming to stand beside her in silent camaraderie. Mood lightened considerably by the discovery of an interesting stone, my brother too came to a pause beside my parents, forcing me to stop my ascent with marked impatience. After a few moments rest it was brought to my attention that though everyone found the Matterhorn as equally awe-inspiring as I, they had no desire to reach its summit, and certainly not before lunch. So, wheezing and red-faced, we all turned around and began to make our way back down to the foot of the mountain.
I wasn't pleased to note how much less time it seemed to take going down than it had going up.
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