This was the point at which my plans ended and my whims were expected to take charge. I really didn’t know what I was supposed to do with myself for the next two weeks, except that I wanted to make a sort of pilgrimage to the southern French city of Carcassonne in honor of my friend Anna, but I had decided that I would at least go see Switzerland, as I have always dreamed of doing, and then wing it from there. So, with the only specific Swiss destinations on my Someday list being in the Lausanne-Montreux region, I booked a TGV to Geneva and sat back to enjoy the gentle countryside of east-central France on the way.

After changing trains at the woefully confusing Geneva train station, I continued toward Lausanne, where I hoped to spend a couple of days checking out the Olympic Museum as well as some sites down the lakeshore and maybe a steam train day-trip north of town. But as the train approached Lausanne I caught sight of the mountains looming so majestically across Lake Geneva…and I said (internally, though my body language was pretty demonstrative as I was almost plastered against the train window) “Ooo! THAT! That is what I want—more of that!” Mountains, snow, altitude, and dramatic scenery. I was terribly excited and determined at the Lausanne station that there was a train going toward Montreux and Territet (on my list because of the writer Bryher), which I immediately boarded.

The further the train went east and south along the lakeshore, the more impressive the scenery ahead became, so I thanked myself for having bought that Eurail pass and decided to stay on the train as long as the scenery kept improving (or to the end of the line, wherever that was…I’d hopped the train without noticing what its terminus would be). And with each stop it was better and better, as the mountains flanking the Rhône river revealed themselves after each bend of the tracks. Also, I was seeing more and more vineyards, a ridiculous profusion of which was obvious around the town of Sion as the train passed through that region.

The train finally came to a complete halt at Sierre (just east of Sion). Mind you, I hadn’t brought a guidebook of any kind on this trip, not even a dictionary in fact, so only a Michelin map of Switzerland told me anything about where I was. And although I wanted to continue up the Rhône to the glacier which is its source, I discovered at Sierre that I was at the point where the French-speaking part of Switzerland gives way to the German-speaking part…and at this point my German is pretty much limited to counting to 29 and saying that Mr Smith is a businessman and his daughter is a student, the table, the pen, the cow, thank you, goodbye. And I really didn’t want to wander around helplessly and stupidly unable to communicate at all in lands I didn’t know and hadn’t researched, so I reluctantly put that journey aside for a future date.

After getting a brief description of Sierre and its surroundings from the girl at the Tourist Info desk at the train station, I was thinking I would just get a room at a local hotel (despite her advice that lodging in Sierre was unfortunately pricey); there was a regional wine-country walking tour that looked worth doing, and certainly the scenery was abundant all around. But then she mentioned that the city had just celebrated Carnaval the night before and that the celebrations were now moving down the river and would be continuing in Sion that night and throughout the weekend. As I strolled around Sierre after this and noticed the confetti all over the cobblestone streets, I made up my mind that Sion would be the place to be that night. So I got on the next train heading back down the river.


Le Brasserie Grand Pont

6 rue du Grand-Pont
1950 Sion
027 322 20 96

This place got top marks for my dining thus far on the trip—not that the previous meals or restaurants sucked—on the basis of impressive presentation, substance, and service, all of which floored me. Things almost started off badly with a green salad with a too-strong balsamic vinaigrette, but then everything turned around when the main dish arrived: pigeon marinated in seven spices, which came with a side of basmati rice. I could only identify a few of the pigeon’s spices—the ones scattered on the plate for decoration (star anise, stick cinnamon, and mixed peppercorns). It was wonderful.

I forgot to make note of the wine I had, but it was a local red, I think of a Syrah. The waitress was indulgently patient with my French and appreciated my vocal appreciation of the dinner. She also mentioned that the sparsely populated restaurant, which seats probably 40 or more in very open seating, is usually full; I correctly surmised that the usual patrons were all home recovering from Carnaval revels (this was the Sunday night after the bulk of the partying).

Au Vieux Valais

rue St-Théodule 3
Sion
027 322 16 7

Not a joyous dining experience, I’m afraid. I was quite weary and hungry after walking for most of the day amid awesome scenery, and yet when my meal came I lost interest in eating: it was basically a platter of thinly sliced cured meats, with a few pickles and pickled pearl onions, and nothing else, not even mustard. And bread on the side, which seemed to be kind of overdoing the dryness of the whole spread. I didn’t even make note of the wine I had, which now I don’t remember at all except that it was probably a white and therefore completely wrong for the food.

My waiter (named Sébastien, I think) seemed nice but not terribly interested in working any more that night…so I choked along on my pile of meat until I could pay and leave.

In many ways, Sion was the highlight of my entire trip, but it would be more accurate to say that Switzerland was.

Upon arrival at the Sion train station, I set out in search of lodging, a quest which seemed to be doomed at first because I couldn’t figure out where anything was—the Tourist Info desk had just closed when I arrived, the city’s Tourist Office was closed for the weekend, and bookstores and businesses were closed in anticipation of the festivities that night (which were already getting underway as I wandered up the slope to the old parts of the city). At the Zodiac café/bar (rue de Conthey 4) I bought a Heineken and asked in vain where I might find hotels in town. Just as I was getting ready to head back onto the street, which was now filling up with partying people in a wild array of costumes and wigs, I got sprayed with Silly String by someone at a nearby table.

And that was a good kickoff for the Sion Carnaval, considering that I had no idea what was in store. After wandering back toward the train station I spotted the Hôtel du Rhône and, keeping in mind the revelry I was seeing everywhere, booked a room for three nights. I dropped off my bags and headed right back to the center of town.

For the next two nights Sion was just a gas, a riot of costumes and music and chatter, an all-night-long street party spread around the ancient city center. Everywhere I walked the streets were covered with confetti and a scattering of beer bottles and Silly String cans; some 15 or more wildly-costumed marching bands (of 10-30 people each) were parading around throughout the weekend playing thunderously—especially ridiculous was that not one but TWO of these bands were playing “The Sound of Silence.”

And then there were the costumes. I tried to discreetly take notes on the looniness around me just so I would be able to remember this weekend in years to come, but even so I could only cover some of the most prominent visuals. Many of the costumes were ensembles worn by anywhere from 3 to 20 people, and they included the following: pirates, kings, chain-gang prisoners, Amerindians, punk vikings, Santa’s elves (including one whose shirt said his name was “Encule”), cowboys, cavemen, cardinals, guys with yellow wigs in yellow shirts which read “Brice” (the name of a local menswear store), one monk, one fat-period Elvis, babies with giant pacifiers and bottles, ninjas, centurions, a big snowman, guys in housewife drag with big boobs, a barrel of Iraq oil, a guy with a watering can for a head, and countless “indescribables” which were a riot of metallic colors and blinking lights (including flashing red lights inside sousaphones and trombones, which completely cracked me up).

There also seemed to be a Marco Polo kind of theme to things, and on Sunday as I was eating a tuna pizza (with a glass of La Tremaille, 1999, Rouvinez) at some little pizzeria along the Grand Pont a parade went by with many people in coolie hats and Chinese silk costumes; they also had a dromedary, which even in this unusual situation was bizarre to see in Switzerland. And all the while there were firecrackers, marching bands, children running around buzzed out of their minds with the adrenaline of it all, and people visiting.

The first morning I spent in Sion I awoke well before the city was stirring—unsurprisingly, as I had zonked out much earlier than normal whereas the city had partied into the morning hours. But with no businesses open I opted to just stroll, heading west until I was just north of the airport and found a stairway leading to one of the tiny vineyard patches on the north coast of the main road. There were no No Trespassing signs, no gates, nothing barring me, so I simply started climbing. Several hundred rustic stone steps later I reached a dead-end vineyard and sat on an outcropping of the white marble-like rock wall which formed its upper edge, and I wrote for awhile in my journal about all I’d seen in the past 24 hours.

Later that day, before the parade, I walked up to Valère, one of the two châteaux which hover over the city on their rocky ridges. I found there a very nice museum (still being developed, with many very impressive artifacts) about the city’s history, an old church that was remarkably subtle considering its location and heritage, and attractively frustrating walls and buildings that I couldn’t access. The view back to the town was lovely…but then my eyes kept straying to the other main château jutting out from the city: Tourbillon. And, after visiting the city’s archeological museum (free, because it was the first Sunday of the month) and having lunch (and seeing the dromedary), I strode up the rocky path to Tourbillon.

The view down to the Rhône valley just got better and better as I climbed, and when the path ended abruptly at a clump of rocks at the northwest edge of the ruined château’s walls I was left literally breathless by the 600±-foot drop to the valley below—no guard rails, no warning signs, nothing, just the way exciting places should be…. As staggering as that was, visually, I was still overwhelmed by the panorama as I walked around the walls of Tourbillon—the crowning moment of this was seeing the peak of the the Matterhorn (which from studying my map I knew should be visible directly across the Rhône from Sion), a shape I would know anywhere, as it had been referenced so many times in my life. This, with the entire valley around me in all its splendour, was easily the most impressive scenery I had ever seen in my life.

It was just ironic that this level would be surpassed the very next day. I decided to go for a stroll up into the mountains on the north side of town, following a highway along a small river upstream toward its glacial source (though not all the way, as that would be around 20 miles one-way). I packed a couple of sandwiches, a candy bar, a liter of water, and a couple of newspapers (in case the view was a letdown) and set off from Sion around 10:30 in the morning. The road climbed through various smaller and smaller towns, losing most of its traffic along the way, before ending unexpectedly on the far side of Chandolin (just after a restaurant called Pont du Diable and a small roadside chapel dating from 1989 which was built into the side of a rock outcropping) with a pile of snow where the snowplow had given up clearing the road.

Undaunted as well as clueless, I climbed over the snow pile and struggled up the road, which was covered with around a foot of snow with a little ice underneath; there were a few other sets of tracks, mostly from humans and mostly from the last day or two as far as I could tell, so I didn’t feel like I was doing anything extraordinary or unwise…although as I passed several rockslides and snowslides at the edge of this VERY steep valley (picture a very tall, narrow capital “V”) which put me precariously close to the edge and the sheer drop down to the river far below (the Morge), I began to think perhaps I had better be on maximum alert for any sound of falling objects.

After some hours of this, I began to worry about how much further I could go up the road before the onset of dusk caught me up there—I haven’t worn a watch since 1990 and haven’t carried any other timepiece since 5 or 6 years ago, so I was relying on my instincts and general awareness—and I repeatedly consulted the only map I had that indicated anything about this particular road’s features. Just as I was deciding that, given the difficulty of the road conditions I should head back, I spotted a small arched rock bridge some ways up the valley and realized that was probably that “Pont du Diable” of the restaurant’s name back in Chandolin. It looked sufficiently significant, so I steeled myself for the task and continued my slow advance.

At the bridge, which was a short-but-risky snowbound climb above the 1950s highway bridge, I paused to write in my journal and take stock of the situation. I took in the magnificent view around me, including the hair-raising cleft spanned by the bridge and the intimidating mass of the mountainside I had been inching along the edge of, and I confirmed my earlier choice to bring no camera on this trip…I have found in the past that cameras and I disagree on what I actually see, and my pictures always fall so far short of the grandeur and splendour of my experiences as to ruin my memories of things I know were spectacular, and I resent that lessening of my ability to appreciate afterwards. And in this case, I was being blown away by Switzerland, a country I had no idea was so stupendously scenic; nothing, including the awesome scenery shown in Peter Jackson’s recent “Lord of the Rings” films, prepared me for seeing a landscape as overwhelmingly beautiful and violent as this.

My map seemed to indicate that after the two tunnels which followed the Pont du Diable there would be a few hairpin turns, and then the road would join another which also led to Sanetsch, near the glacial source of this stream, but the situation on the ground offered little to encourage my confidence in this assessment. First the lower of the two tunnels was covered in ice at its lowest end, with stalagmites of ice in the middle of the road caused by a slow dripping of water through the roof of the tunnel. Then the road itself continued with no sign of another road ahead. But there was still plenty of light, though clearly the day had passed its mid-point, so I continued with mounting trepidation. I took comfort in the relative absence of rockslide evidence as the road climbed.

Of course everything turned out all right—the road did meet up with the other highway (which, being the more direct route to Sanetsch, was fully cleared of snow), the weather held, and I sat for several minutes to let my snow-soaked socks and shoes dry a bit before heading back down the valley on the cleared road.

The walk back toward the Rhône valley was slightly more beautiful than the climb up had been, in part because of the reduced danger and in part because the west side of the ravine offered a more open view, including, some distance below my present altitude, the road I’d taken northward, with the mountainside looming hugely above it; to my surprise I saw another intrepid fool heading up the road and wondered if he knew what he was doing….

But the walk also wound around other ravines along the side of the main one, diving into pockets of mountain shadow full of pines and snow. This was one of the things I had wanted most: a sense of “Christmas weather,” of that Germanic winteriness that Seattle never seems to get in its eternally bland temperateness, which I always feel robbed of when yet another dreary December passes in Seattle with nothing seasonal to mark the end of the year. And I decided that I wanted to come back to Sion and the Alps for Christmas of 2003, to do it right, and that I had better build a regular German studying time into my weekly routines back in the States, because it was my sense of being on the verge of going well over my head linguistically that held me back from travelling further east when I got to Sierre.

The road back was uneventful but charmingly scenic, winding through several villages that probably were once quaint and rustic and are now just slightly anachronistic, with a feel of rusticity that wasn’t really sustained by scrutiny—I saw not a single cow, for instance, though there was a scent of farmyards hanging around like a memory. I followed the road through Daillon and Erde but abandoned it at Conthey, where there was a signposted paved walking tour through some of the public vineyards; the signs told about the nature of the region’s soil and weather, how the bisses irrigated the vineyards, and what sorts of grapes were grown there. All in all very pleasant. I followed the banks of the river Morge, which by now was much larger than it had been in its steep valley, until I reached the main Rhône valley highway and walked back to Sion along it.

And then I ruined the mood of the past couple of days with a depressing night at a restaurant, where my French was so bad I wanted to just curl up and die. Also, I finally looked at my hotel bill and realized that Switzerland is expensive and that to stay in Sion another day would be fiscally devastating due to the fact that I still had nearly two weeks to go on this vacation. So the next day I took the train back to Lausanne, to fulfill the hopes I’d had for local stuff there, but a lady at the train station info desk advised me that finding a hotel with a vacancy would be very difficult at the moment, as the Geneva Auto Show was about to get underway.

And I decided there and then to go back to France for the rest of my vacation, and that the rest of Switzerland would just have to wait. I booked a TGV ticket to Marseille, though my actual intention was to get off the train at a more logical transfer point for the journey to Carcassonne, and I left Switzerland that morning.