Finding my Roots

Something that many of you might not know is that I’m 1/8th Swiss (my maiden name is Meier), which is something that I might drop in a conversation here in Switzerland if I think it will be useful - like renting an apartment, or during the Swiss National Fête.  I might even bring it up during the Swiss Cheese Awards that we’ll be attending later this month in Bellinzona (in Tincino, the Italian-speaking part of Switzerland), but that will be in another blog.

Anyway, I’m getting away from my story.  My parents were just here visiting and we went to Schaffhausen (in northern Switzerland) to do some family genealogy research to find more information about my father’s grandfather, Solomon Meier. He was born in Rudlingan in 1843, and left for the US when he was 29.  He settled in northern Ohio (where I was born and lived until I was 12), married a German woman (from Mecklenburg Germany) and had 8 children.  When he came to the US, he  bought land and farmed in the Toledo area.

My parents - Les and Mary Meier

One of my dad’s cousins had been to Rudlingan to do some research, and wrote that it was assumed that Solomon left because of the possibility of having to go to war.  However, our research found that there was no war at the time, but Switzerland was a poor country then, and there were periods where the harvests were meager and the rural farmers suffered. Since the land was passed from parents to children, the plots became too small to support many families. We had always thought that my great-grandfather was a farmer, but we found out that his father and his brother were zimmermen (carpenters), so most likely the older brother, Johannes, carried on the family business, and Solomon took his chances in the new world.  He hopped on the Nemisis in April of 1872, and arrived in New York about a month later.

When I called Rudlingan's town hall to ask if we could see the old birth and marriage records, I was told that all the records were in Schaffhausen in two different government offices (depending on the date – pre or post 1875).  I contacted the archivist for the older records, and he was extremely friendly, and offered to open the office for us if we came on a Monday, even though they were normally closed.  He “suggested” that we write to the other office to ask if we could see the newer records as well, which I did.  The response that I got to my request to come was simple, “No you can not, we do not allow reviewing records for family research, we are too busy, if you want to come for a copy you can come on Tuesday morning.”  So I was left with, no you cannot, then… come on Tuesday morning – hmm?

We arrived on a Tuesday and were greeted with open arms by Martin at the first Schaffhausen office.  The archive room was over a hundred years old, with a 12-inch thick ornately decorated door.  Martin had the Rudlingan books out for us, and had already found our great-great grandfather’s name, with his family listed (there was Solomon, spelled Solomo).  He explained that at the time the churches kept the records, and many times the names were written phonetically and could vary depending on who did the recording.

 Door to the archive room

 Decorations above the door

 Stained glass in the archive room

Solomon's birth record

 The beautiful 150-year old books with the names written in ornate calligraphy were spellbinding – books so old and fragile that they were put on special pedestals to review.  There were many Meiers and even more first names like Jacob, Anna Barbara, and Johannes (all of Solomon’s brothers and sisters). We were trying to find the line of Solomon’s older brother who stayed in Switzerland, to see if we could find any living relatives.  Just as we were about to leave, we found the reference to the newer book with the list of his 9 children. We left with a bookmark and an offer to Martin to come to visit us in the US (he has never been to the US and has family in Palo Alto).

I tried to convince my father that we shouldn’t go to the other office, in fear of Rose Marie, who said that “we couldn’t get records/come on Tuesday morning”, because now it was Tuesday afternoon.  Even Martin knew of her and her particular personality.  But my dad wanted to find some living relatives, and I was curious myself, so we found ourselves at the window of the other office asking for Rose Marie.  The secretary raised an eyebrow when I asked for her (i.e. are you sure you want to do this?), but she dutifully went to get her.  Rose Marie appeared before me with a frown on her face and said, “I told you that we don’t do this”.  I replied with a smile, “You said we could come for copies, and we would like a copy from this page of this book."

Meanwhile, my parents were behind me smiling at her, and they see her pointing to her watch, telling me that she doesn’t have time, that she has a call to take.  I said that it was not in a rush, I live in Lausanne, and could give her our address to send the copy.  I saw a slight softening of her features.  She went to her call, came back with the book to the page that we wanted, and said that it would cost 50 CHF ($50) for the main copy and 10F for each of the children (Johannes would have to have 9 children), and that for some reason, they couldn't photocopy it,  it would be a re-written transcript of the page. I said that we would discuss it and I would let her know.  Meanwhile, my parents are still behind me smiling away, and as I was packing up and told her that Schaffhausen was a beautiful area, and voila, the sun came out and she started to smile.  We cracked the Rose Marie code!

Anyway, Martin says that all the records are being put online by the first of the year, so we’re going to wait. When we went to Rudlingan it was so wonderful to see my parents’ reaction to the beautiful village on the Rhine river, with vineyards going from the hill right to water’s edge. It was magical to imagine which house was Solomon’s and what circumstances would make him leave such a gorgeous place.

Odermatt Bed and Breakfast in Eglisau (next to Rudlingan) on the Rhine River

Not So Lost in Lausanne

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what it means to be lost.  Especially when I’m on my bike, heading to a town on a new route.  I’m not really lost, I know which way I’m headed, but I just haven’t taken that particular road before.  Sometimes I get a bit “mixed up” and head into a forest, where the road turns to gravel, and then an overgrown path, then where no bike has ever gone and have to turn around.  But was I lost?  Not really… I know exactly where I want to go, I was just trying to find a new way to get there. 

I’m getting much more adventurous on the bike, venturing away from the marked bike routes onto the small country roads.  There are a few landmarks that we’ve learned to help us find our way – villages and towns that are at the crossroads of our marked routes are now our landmarks.  Places like Chalet à Gobet, Le Mont, Cugy, Thierrens, Moudon, Yverdon les Bain.  If you know where those towns are, it’s pretty hard to get “really” lost.  And there are plenty of water fountains in the small villages along the way to fill up your water bottle.

Today I ventured out for a 50-mile bike ride – through Chalet à Gobet (a beautiful forest to the north, which is covered with hiking and cross country skiing trails) looking for the signs to Moudon, which is down in the valley.  Our typical 50-mile bike rides usually have about 4000 feet of climbing because Lausanne is on a hill, which requires a to climb to get out of town.  If we descend off the plateau, we have to go back up to get home, and if we descend to Lac Leman (Lake Geneva) then we have to climb up the steep hills of Lausanne.  A lot of my bike route planning involves trying to avoid some of the steeper hills on the way home, which sometimes (like today) leads me to even more climbing and miles to avoid a short steep hill.

Coming out of Chalet à Gobet, I saw a sign for Oron, a town that we had seen on another ride, and thought – why not, turned, and after about 5 miles started down a steep descent.  Uh-oh, a descent means pain coming home, but I was committed at that point.  After about 10 miles I ended up going on a road that led to the forest, then the gravel, then the path…not again…and then had to turn around and climb back up the hill and ask a woman putting out her laundry the directions (by bike) to Moudon.  She went into her house to get an expert opinion.  Out came her 10-year old daughter to tell me how to get there by bike – through some small paths, passing by two bus stops.  Her directions were perfect.

Here are some of the sights we've seen this past month of 600 miles of cycling throughout Switzerland.

Lac Leman (Lake Geneva)

LaVaux Vineyards - stunning views of the French and Swiss Alps and Lac Leman

Jura Mountains (East of Lausanne) - Reminds us of the Santa Cruz Mountains 

(except with views of Mont Blanc, the Eiger and Jungfrau on a clear day)

Toblerones protecting the French border

(just like the chocolate!)

Chillon Chateau (Montreaux) - on a ride around Lac Leman to Evian-Les Bains with a

ferry ride back

A Biker's Prayer*

Thank You for this day.  Thank You for this bike.  Thank You for this chance to ride.  Give me the strength to ride fast and the stamina to ride far.  Shield me from catastrophe and bring me safely home at ride’s end.  May my spinning wheels sing a song of praise to You.  May each turn of my pedals be an act of thanksgiving for the blessing of this day.  May our ride together go on forever.  Amen.

* The card I keep in my bike pack courtesy of Valley Presbyterian Church (given out on "Biker's Sunday") 

Vive Le France!

What do you do when you wife goes on a 3-day bike ride with her friend?  Here in Lausanne you jump on a boat across Lake Leman (ie Lake Geneva) and ride your bike in the French Alps!  Just me and about 10 other cyclists on the ferry at 7AM (and after 30 minutes and the required café au lait from the talkative woman manning the concession bar) you arrive in Evian les Bains.  

Absolutely beautiful - flowers everywhere.  The Alps are right there and the route is straight up from Evian heading toward Abondance (note to self: serious cow and cheese country, bring Laurie here**).  Small roads but very conscientious French drivers who wait behind until the coast is clear then pass with a wide birth.  Seems much safer than Skyline.  First assent was unplanned detour up Col de la Taillet (1035 meters).

Being in France, I found a bakery and fortified myself with pain au chocolate mid morning and rode on to Bellevaux to find some lunch.   A local that I asked seemed to think the best bet was a place called "Bar," which turned out to be perfect despite the name.

After some pathetic attempts to joke with the owner in French, he brought me the biggest sandwich I have ever seen, basically a baguette cut lengthwise and piled high with ham and Tomme de Savoy. Thankfully the route was flat until I hit the climb up Col de la Ramas.  

I had forgotten that I had done this climb 5-6 years ago while visiting Geneva, but when I saw where I had to go it all came screaming back.  Check out the road carved out of the rock cliff on the left.  Don't look down...

Tops out at 1619 meters but are some pretty good stretches of 12-14% grade before you are done.

The downhill to Morzine was spectacular but I was pretty well wiped out at that point.  Thankfully a bit past Morzine the route back to Evian via Thonon is mostly downhill.  

Caught the 6PM boat back to Lausanne and was too pooped to ride back up the hill, so both my bike and I took the metro home.  Final stats: 93 miles and 10,100 feet of climbing.  What a day! 

**Editor's note:  Not sure why cows and cheese remind Doug of Laurie, but will let this slide.

Ich bin links

My friend Debbie (see the "100% Swiss" blog) and I recently went on a 3-day bike ride in northern Switzerland from St. Gallen to Basel. We rode along Lake Constance (the Bodensee in German), through Schaffhausen, home of the famous Rhine Falls, through forests and gentle rolling countryside all the way to Basel, which is in the northwest corner of the country, bordered by Germany to the north and France to the west.

Debbie conveniently speaks German from her days working in Germany and as an au pair in Austria.  The majority of Swiss speak Swiss German, which is mostly a spoken language that is apparently different than German German (or high German).   There are a few essential phrases that cyclists need while on the road – “hello” (or just a wave of the hand or nod of the head), “on your left” (or right), and “thank you” (if you’re the polite type – like I am).  I just loved saying “Ich bin links” or “Ich bin reichs” (on your left or right) and watching everyone move to the appropriate side.  I just had one instance of someone stubbornly staying in the way, in spite of my increasing insistence (in German) that I was on his left.  He finally stopped, moved to the wrong side, and when I approached he said “allons-y”  (opps, that’s French).

Doug and I have been cocooned in the French speaking section of Switzerland – which extends from Geneva to Montreux and most of the plateau areas north of Lausanne.  The dividing line is at about Fribourg.  It’s also apparently the dividing line for preferring beer to wine – or maybe those are just the German tourists that I’ve been seeing.  I should take back what I said – I’ve been immersed in the French speaking part of Switzerland.  Doug’s been commuting to German-speaking Berne, the Swiss capital, to work at the Inselspital Berne.  He’s resisting learning German, but after my trip I suggested that he just embrace learning a new language – it’s fun to speak, and you can make people move over to the side as you walk down the hospital corridor. 

Beautiful Stein-am-Rhine

Painted frescos

 New friend- what happens in the Bodensee, stays in the Bodensee

Old wooden bridge along the ride.
The Rhine is so clean you can see to the bottom,
notice the swimmer in the foreground.

Any guesses what this is?  Hint: it's not a car wash

Rhine Falls in Schauffhausen

Rudlingen - birthplace of my great-grandfather, Solomon Meier

100% Swiss

The Swiss National Holiday is on August 1^st, and about a week before the holiday all the grocery stores start to put out the Swiss paraphernalia – flags, candles, hard-boiled eggs (yes, I couldn’t resist the cute Swiss-flag decorated hard boiled eggs at the local grocery store), and (drum roll) FIREWORKS.  They’re legal here in Switzerland – oh Bauer boys, you would have loved this!

We were lucky to be invited by my friend Debbie (a friend from nursing school days who has been here over 20 years) to her village festival.  We went to a brunch at a working farm – it was an amazing display of food – cheeses of all kinds, yogurt from the local creamery, charcuterie, pastries, tarts and beer and wine. The brunch was held in a huge, new barn that was scrubbed down to perfection and decorated for the event.  The cows here in Switzerland live in deluxe living conditions!

 Baby calf just days old

 Never too early for a toast!

That evening we returned for the evening meal, speeches from the mayor, singing the Swiss national anthem (apparently so complex that everyone needs a cheat-sheet), an excellent performance from the local brass band (one of the trumpet players happened to be Debbie’s husband), a parade with the children carrying their lanterns to a big field for a bonfire and fireworks.  The fireworks that you can purchase here aren’t just your usual sparklers - some of them had timed fuses for a display that could rival the World Series.  After the individual firework displays were done, we walked back for the “official” display with the bonfire burning behind us (reportedly being watched by the local volunteer fire department).  The official fireworks display was spectacular - sweet since we left the US on the afternoon of July 4^th and completely missed our own independence day.