Friday, November 13, 2009

Zeichnung von Moritz von Schwind


„Schubertiade” von Moritz von Schwind, 1868 aus der Erinnerung gezeichnet. Das Bild zeigt Franz Schubert am Klavier sowie Josef von Spaun, Johann Michael Vogl, Franz Lachner, Moritz von Schwind, Wilhelm August Rieder, Leopold Kupelwieser, Eduard von Bauernfeld, Franz von Schober, Franz Grillparzer und auf dem Bild an der Wand Komtess Karoline Esterházy. Bezirksmuseum, Wien-Meidling, Österreich
This image is in the public domain because its copyright has expired.

One of my several favourite classical composers is Franz Schubert. I am particularly fond of the “Wanderer Fantasy” for piano, D. 760; the song (Lieder) cycle “Winterreise”, D. 911; the String Quartet in D minor, D. 810, with the variations on “Death and the Maiden”; and the Piano Quintet in A major, D. 667 (popularly known as the “Trout Quintet”).

In 1977, the German electronic band Kraftwerk recorded a tribute song called “Franz Schubert”, which can be found on the album Trans-Europe Express.
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Some paintings by Ilya Repin and Vasily Ivanovich Surikov


“Венчание Николая II и великой княжны Александры Федоровны” (“Wedding of Nicholas II and Grand Duchess Alexandra Feodorovna”) by Ilya Repin, 1894, oil on canvas, 98.5 x 125.5 cm, The State Russian Museum, St. Petersburg, Russia
This image is in the public domain because its copyright has expired.


“Выбор великокняжеской невесты” (“Grand Duke Choosing His Bride”) by Ilya Repin, 1885, oil on canvas, 65 x 101 cm, The State Art Gallery, Perm, Russia
This image is in the public domain because its copyright has expired.


“Бурлаки на Волге” (“Barge Haulers on the Volga”) by Ilya Repin, 1870-1873, oil on canvas, 131.5 x 281 cm, The State Russian Museum, St. Petersburg, Russia
This image is in the public domain because its copyright has expired.


“Крестный ход в Курской губернии” (“Kurskaya korennaya”) (“Easter Procession in the Region of Kursk”) by Ilya Repin, 1880-1883, oil on canvas, 175 x 280 cm, The State Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow, Russia
This image is in the public domain because its copyright has expired.


“Запорожцы пишут письмо Турецкому султану” (“Reply of the Zaporozhian Cossacks to Sultan Mehmed IV of the Ottoman Empire”) by Ilya Repin, 1880-1891, oil on canvas, 203 x 358 cm, The State Russian Museum, St. Petersburg, Russia
This image is in the public domain because its copyright has expired.


“Boyarynya Morozova” (“Boyarina Morozova”) by Vasily Ivanovich Surikov, 1887, oil on canvas, The State Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow, Russia. The painting depicts the defiant Old Believer Feodosiya’s arrest by the Czar authorities, the Nikonians, in 1671. She holds two fingers raised, thus showing the old “proper” way of making the Sign of the cross on oneself: with two fingers, rather than with three.
This image is in the public domain because its copyright has expired.


“Покорение Сибири Ермаком” (“Pokoreniye Sibiri Yermakom”) (“Yermak’s conquest of Siberia”) by Vasily Ivanovich Surikov, 1895, oil on canvas, 285 x 599 cm, The State Russian Museum, St. Petersburg, Russia
This image is in the public domain because its copyright has expired.


“Morning of Streltsy’s execution” by Vasily Ivanovich Surikov, 1881, oil on canvas, 218 х 379 cm, The State Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow, Russia. The painting depicts the execution of the Streltsy on the Red Square, as a consequence of the failed Streltsy Uprising of 1698.
This image is in the public domain because its copyright has expired.


“Taking a Snow Fortress” by Vasily Ivanovich Surikov
This image is in the public domain because its copyright has expired.


“Меншиков в Берёзово” (“Menshikov in Berezovo”) by Vasily Ivanovich Surikov, 1888, The State Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow, Russia
This image is in the public domain because its copyright has expired.

Some paintings by Moritz von Schwind, Ferdinand Georg Waldmüller, and Ferdinand Hodler


“Der Ritt Kunos von Falkenstein” by Moritz von Schwind, c. 1850-1860, oil on canvas, Museum der bildenden Künste, Leipzig, Deutschland
The work of art depicted in this image and the reproduction thereof are in the public domain worldwide. The reproduction is part of a collection of reproductions compiled by The Yorck Project. The compilation copyright is held by Zenodot Verlagsgesellschaft mbH and licensed under the GNU Free Documentation License.


“Rübezahl” by Moritz von Schwind, 1851, oil on canvas, Schack-Galerie, München, Deutschland
This image is in the public domain because its copyright has expired.


“Im Hause des Künstlers” (“In the artist’s house”) by Moritz von Schwind, c. 1860, oil on canvas, 71 x 51 cm, Schack-Galerie, München, Deutschland
The work of art depicted in this image and the reproduction thereof are in the public domain worldwide. The reproduction is part of a collection of reproductions compiled by The Yorck Project. The compilation copyright is held by Zenodot Verlagsgesellschaft mbH and licensed under the GNU Free Documentation License.


“Hochzeitsreise” (“Honeymoon”) by Moritz von Schwind, 1867, oil on canvas, 52 x 41 cm, Schack-Galerie, München, Deutschland
The work of art depicted in this image and the reproduction thereof are in the public domain worldwide. The reproduction is part of a collection of reproductions compiled by The Yorck Project. The compilation copyright is held by Zenodot Verlagsgesellschaft mbH and licensed under the GNU Free Documentation License.


“Am Fronleichnamsmorgen” by Ferdinand Georg Waldmüller, 1857, oil on canvas, 65 x 82 cm, Österreichische Galerie, Wien, Österreich
The work of art depicted in this image and the reproduction thereof are in the public domain worldwide. The reproduction is part of a collection of reproductions compiled by The Yorck Project. The compilation copyright is held by Zenodot Verlagsgesellschaft mbH and licensed under the GNU Free Documentation License.


“Die Erwartete” (“The Expected”) by Ferdinand Georg Waldmüller, 1860, oil on canvas, Neue Pinakothek, München, Deutschland
The work of art depicted in this image and the reproduction thereof are in the public domain worldwide. The reproduction is part of a collection of reproductions compiled by The Yorck Project. The compilation copyright is held by Zenodot Verlagsgesellschaft mbH and licensed under the GNU Free Documentation License.


“Der Genfer See von Chexbres aus” (“Lake Geneva as seen from Chexbres”) by Ferdinand Hodler, 1905, oil on canvas, 82,5 x 104 cm, Kunstmuseum Basel, Basel, Schweiz
The work of art depicted in this image and the reproduction thereof are in the public domain worldwide. The reproduction is part of a collection of reproductions compiled by The Yorck Project. The compilation copyright is held by Zenodot Verlagsgesellschaft mbH and licensed under the GNU Free Documentation License.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

“Death in Blue”


No. 21 Squadron, Bomber Command, RAF


Rare colour photo from World War II showing a Bristol Blenheim Mk. IV being serviced.
Photograph taken by a British government photographer, hence copyright expired (50 years). This artistic work created by the United Kingdom Government is in the public domain. HMSO has declared that the expiry of Crown Copyrights applies worldwide.

Bristol Blenheim Mk. IV: Crew of 3; Length of 42 ft 7 in (12.98 m); Wingspan of 56 ft 4 in (17.17 m); Height of 9 ft 10 in (3.0 m); Wing area of 469 ft² (43.6 m²); Empty weight of 9,790 lb (4,450 kg); Loaded weight of 14,400 lb (6,545 kg); two Bristol Mercury XV radial engines at 920 hp (690 kW) each; three-bladed Hamilton Standard propellers; Maximum speed of 266 mph (231 kn, 428 km/h); Range of 1,460 miles (1,270 nmi, 2,351 km); Service ceiling of 27,260 ft (8,310 m); Rate of climb of 1,500 ft/min (7.6 m/s); Wing loading of 30.7 lb/ft² (150 kg/m²); Power/mass of 0.13 hp/lb (.21 kW/kg); Armament of one .303 in (7.7 mm) Browning machine gun in port wing; one or two .303 in (7.7 mm) Browning machine guns in rear-firing under-nose blister or Nash & Thomson FN.54 turret; two .303 in (7.7 mm) Browning machine guns in dorsal turret; Bombs of 1200 lb (540 kg)—four 250 lb (113 kg) bombs or two 500 lb (227 kg) bombs internally and eight 40 lb (18 kg) bombs externally.

“Death in Blue”

The clear, blue sky, brushed by a few distant vapour trails, spun, twirled, in slow clock-wise motion. Nothing but silence. Peace.

We left on a low altitude coastal reconnaissance earlier that afternoon. The early September sun was already a little thinner. I was the dorsal turret gunner of the Bristol Blenheim Mk. IV, call letters YH-F, a high-speed light bomber searching the North Sea and northern region of the Channel waters for German shipping. We had to be careful of Bf 109s, Bf 110s, He 111s, and Do 17s possibly in the area. We were from No. 21 Squadron, No. 2 Group, attached to Coastal Command since June 1940. We were based at Lossiemouth on the northeast coast of Scotland, up between Inverness and Aberdeen.

I swung my hydraulically-assisted gun turret of two Browning .303s the full 360 degrees in slow, steady ellipticals and lemniscates across the sky. It appeared to be a routine run flirting at the edges of boredom. I arced through the blinding sun. A short, deep jolt of pain followed a staccato burst from the golden glare. It cut through my chest. The aluminum and plexiglass dome came apart in shreds, shards, and strips. I somersaulted into the blue. The roar of the two 920 hp Bristol Mercury XV radial engines fell away. I was at peace as the light chop of the sea reached up to encircle me in her arms. Cold and yet warm at the same time.

I was a nineteen year old farmer’s son from West Yorkshire. The Royal Air Force meant life in itchy blue grey wool uniform, leather flight jacket, and flying helmet and goggles.

We were pushed through a rapid training in ground and flight school. I joined No. 21 Squadron in June 1940 with the rank of sergeant, just days after it became attached to Coastal Command, moving from Watton, Norfolk. I was proud of our motto, Viribus vincimus—By strength we conquer, and of our badge of a hand erased at the wrist, holding a dumb-bell, by the authority of King George VI in July 1938. The squadron was re-formed at Bircham Newton in December 1935 after being disbanded eleven months after the First World War.

Many times in childhood I awoke from nightmares of falling through the sky. They started in my ninth year. Bit by bit the past returned—the full-colour scenes, cinematic reels, running through my mind, through my sleep, each time a little more lucid. Mother or father would come to my bedside, always calm, singing German lullabies, saying a child’s prayer by Rudolf Steiner. I asked many questions about life, death, and life after death. By my teen years, studies of Steiner’s epistemological works and lectures were my solace, the key to my searching, feeding the spiritual yearning, while the image of falling through the sky filled itself with a life of memory, clear and concise in its delineations and details.

Around puberty in the summer of 1975, a few months shy of my thirteenth birthday, my fascination with aviation became an obsession, finding its fullest expression in all matters of World War Two aviation, but in particular with the RAF and the Battle of Britain. In September I joined the RCAC (Royal Canadian Air Cadets) at 744 Cowichan Squadron with the sole intent of becoming a pilot. The blue grey wool uniform was like coming home again.

© Copyright short story by Stephan Alexander Scharnberg, August 2007

Remembrance Day


“Coquelicots” (“Poppies Blooming”) by Claude Monet, 1873, oil on canvas, 50 x 65 cm, Musée d’Orsay, Paris, France
The work of art depicted in this image and the reproduction thereof are in the public domain worldwide. The reproduction is part of a collection of reproductions compiled by The Yorck Project. The compilation copyright is held by Zenodot Verlagsgesellschaft mbH and licensed under the GNU Free Documentation License.

“In Flanders Fields” by Lt. Col. John McCrae (1872-1918)

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below ...

We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields ...

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields ...

This is another painting I have enjoyed, visiting at the Orsay. It always reminds me of Remembrance Day.

Friday, November 6, 2009

October 2009


Naramata, B.C., Canada, Saturday, October 10th, 2009


At English Bay, Stanley Park, Vancouver, B.C., Canada, Wednesday, October 21st, 2009






Pitt Meadows, B.C., Canada, Tuesday, October 27th, 2009







© Copyright photographs by Viktoria Iakovleva, October 2009

More beautiful women in art


“Dans le pré”, also known as “In the Meadow (Picking Flowers)”, by Pierre-Auguste Renoir, 1890, oil on canvas, 81.3 x 65.4 cm, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, USA
This image is in the public domain because its copyright has expired.


“Sur la terrasse”, also known as “The Two Sisters (On the Terrace)”, by Pierre-Auguste Renoir, 1881, oil on canvas, 100.5 x 81 cm, Art Institute of Chicago, Chicago, Illinois, USA
This image is in the public domain because its copyright has expired.

These are two prints of women, framed with glass, both in very large format, that grace my walls. Pierre-August Renoir (February 25th, 1841-December 3rd, 1919) is my favourite artist in any genre. I have admired his paintings, particularly his women, clothed and nude, since my childhood years. Every Christmas, one of my few gifts would always be a small or medium wall calendar, sometimes in the traditional monthly format, other times in the less common weekly format. Some represented one artist—Raphael, Rembrandt, Albrecht Dürer, Hieronymus Bosch, Pieter Bruegel the Elder, Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Claude Monet, Édouard Manet, Henri Matisse, Carl Larsson—and others an assortment of artists and genres—the Pre-Raphaelites and the Impressionists. My aesthetic tastes were already formed by the time I started Grade One at age seven, in 1969, the year I was finally able to speak English well-enough to start elementary school, after being immersed in it for a year in Kindergarten after an earlier childhood almost exclusively lived in the German language, despite the fact I was born in Canada and not in Germany as many people, such as my co-workers at both jobs, still assume right up to the present day.

Beautiful women in art


“Madame Barbe de Rimsky-Korsakov” by Franz Xaver Winterhalter, 1864, oil on canvas, 117 x 90 cm, Musée d’Orsay, Paris, France
This image is in the public domain because its copyright has expired.

Franz Xaver Winterhalter (April 20th, 1805-July 8th, 1873) was a German painter and lithographer, known for his portraits of royalty in the mid-nineteenth century. His name has become associated with fashionable court portraiture. Among his best known works are “Empress Eugénie Surrounded by her Ladies in Waiting”, 1855, and the portraits he made of Empress Elisabeth of Austria, 1865.
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

I have loved this painting for many years. I have a large print, framed in a simple wood frame and glass, purchased years ago at the Vancouver Flea Market on Terminal Avenue when I first moved to Vancouver in 1988. She graces the dining room wall next to our tall china cabinet. I consider this woman to be the most beautiful of any woman I have seen portrayed in art—paintings, drawings, sculpture, photography. I have visited many museums throughout Europe and a few in Canada, I have perused many coffee table art books—I have many, too. Madame de Barbe de Rimsky-Korsakov, 1833-1878, is the woman that trumps them all. She was the aunt of the famous Russian composer Nikolai Andreyevich Rimsky-Korsakov. Her name was Varvara (Варвара in Russian) and she was called La Vénus tartare in France. She was the wife of the other Nikolay Rimsky-Korsakov. Her husband, considered a handsome man, came from a rich aristocratic family. They were married when she was 16 or 17 and he was 20, and are mentioned in Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy. After they divorced, Varvara left for France. Prince Obolensky writes that she was known throughout France for her beauty and charm. Varvara died at the age of 45. Her son Nikolay returned to Russia to his father, later marrying the daughter of Natalia Pushkina-Lanskaya.

On my Europe trip in September 2006, I was in Paris for the first three days of my vacation, and the last four days, too. One of the last days, we spent several hours in the Musée d’Orsay, an excellent museum, a must-see if you visit the City of Lights. I prefer the Orsay over the also-worthwhile Louvre. I saw this painting there. I stood and sat twenty minutes or more before Varvara’s beauty. Later, closer to closing time, I returned for another good, long look.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

In this time of growing dark


“Breakfast under the big birch” (“Frukost under stora björken”) by Carl Larsson, 1896, watercolour, 32 x 43 cm, in the Nationalmuseum, Stockholm, Sweden
This image is in the public domain because its copyright has expired.


“Spring” (“Våren”) by Carl Larsson, 1907
This image is in the public domain because its copyright has expired.

In this time of growing dark, I seek out and enjoy art, photography, music, prose, and poetry that represent and portray the summer that was and the spring to come, lightness and light, spring and new growth, summer and abundance—the light in the dark. The first half of autumn is my favourite time of the year (Indian Summer, mid-September to late October). But now it is my least favourite time of the year (late October to the first candle on the Advent wreath, bringing renewed hope and new light). With every day daylight lessens, the nights lengthen. It becomes more and more difficult to catch the sun and bask under clear blue skies. But I do not care to head far south to some warm tourist mecca. No white sand beaches and sterile resorts for me. Let me find the light in the darker places.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

“Harking back”






© Copyright photographs by Viktoria Iakovleva, September 2009

Harking back to late September last,
A time that has already passed.
The scent faded and gone,
The leaves and petals fled,
Where they shall sleep,
Into souls have bled.
Stirred awake with every thought,
Again to life
With every pleasant memory wrought.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Queyras, Hautes-Alpes, France

October 15th, 1984, each house in Perceval started their annual two weeks relâche (vacation).


This year saw Maison François heading into the Queyras region, part of the Hautes-Alpes. Our roadtrip took us through Genève, crossing into France just before St-Julien-en-Genevois, then edging past Annecy on its western shoulder, past Aix-les-Bains, through Chambéry and Grenoble, then eastward at le-Pont-de-Claix and onward by way of le Bourg-d’Oisans just southwest of l’Alpe-d’Huez, la Grave, the Col du Lautaret, le Monêtier-les-Bains, Chantemerle, Briançon, Cervières, Château-Queyras, Ville-Vieille, Molines-en-Queyras, and slightly east of Pierre Grosse, up the hill to le Coin, halfway between Pierre Grosse and Fontgillarde, on the road to the Col Agnel on the French-Italian border, in an old chalet at about 2,000 metres altitude.


Le Coin sits roughly three kilometres north of St-Véran, the highest permanently inhabitated village in France.


During the break, I penned three short poems, having taken a stab at three separate little verses in the few months prior. The lengthiest example has long been lost in Claudia’s estate, but “In the Wind” is still in my possession,


I’ve my house in the wind of no memory

And I’ve my knowledge in the Book of Winds.

I’ve my glory in the wind of freedom

And I’ll have my end in the Wind of the Spirits.


and so is “Down by the river”,


I was walking down by the river one day

when I met a beautiful girl.


And she asked me from where I came

And I said:

I am from the stars, skies, sun, and moon.


And she asked me where I was going

And I said:

To the mountains, forests, rivers, and ocean.


I am a creation of our Father in heaven

And you, beautiful girl, are too.


Everyone received some short personal time off. I used my 1½ days for a solo hike, Wednesday, October 17th, up behind the village to the Crête de Batailler, turning right at the Pas du Chai at 2660 metres, the easterly footpath to the Sommet de Batailler at 2748 metres (photo of red backpack) and the altitude markers at 2779 and 2862 metres, at about 15.00 taking a self-portrait with the Kodak on a tripod at 2805 metres, reaching the 2890 metre point where the short southwesterly Crête de Peyre Nière branches off in a mild descent, onward over some rough and narrow footholds to the 2912 metre Pic du Fond de Peyhin, squeezing through a tight spot between jagged rock and stepping into near-tragedy when I slid and tumbled just shy of 300 metres, judging by the map contour lines, southwesterly down a steep slope of shale, rocks, and old snow, landing in a playful mountain stream, the Riou des Rousses, my Royal Canadian Army fatigues torn, coming to rest on my back, padded by the full red backpack.


That night saw me sleeping on a footpath, through browned grasses, in the Pra Soubeyran at about 2500 metres, the few hours fog replaced by a crisp, cold starry sky. The infinite count of stars all seemed to be within hand reach—it is the rare occasion I have seen as many filling the heavens as on that night. The moon made its appearance around 4.00, then a gorgeous sunrise about 2½ hours later, suddenly awakening me in a bright burst cresting over the crête, the first cow bells of jerseys tolling far below in Fontgillarde, the backpack and all-season sleeping bag rimed white with hoar frost. Sleeping fully-clothed had kept me warm. I just wish I still had that first lengthy poem I wrote.


The weather was superbly graced by blue skies every day, fog building up just about every evening, and crowned with a dusting of snow one day before our return.


We sought our road home by a somewhat roundabout, longer route—the D 205 to Molines-en-Queyras, the D 5 to Ville-Vieille, the D 947 through Château-Queyras, then the D 902 southwest from Château-Queyras along the river Guil into Guillestre and on southward through Vars and the Cols de Vars at 2111 metres, St-Paul, then soon the D 900 westward along the Ubaye, past Barcelonnette, which feeds the Lac de Serre-Ponçon just beyond le Lauzet-Ubaye, where we turned south for Digne in the Alpes-de-Haute-Provence, then the N 85 westerly along the Bléone, northerly again where it joins the Durance, and still the N 85 through Sisteron, Gap, into Grenoble, then the Autoroute via Chambéry, Aix-les-Bains, and Annecy, and the N 201 through St.Julien-en-Genevois again, into Genève, and home to St-Prex.


Monday, November 2, 2009

Vintage Volkswagen campers


At the Henry Ford Museum and Greenfield Village, Dearborn, Michigan, USA. I consider this the ideal camper ... the first generation, split window, VW Camper.
Photograph by Hempdiddy, March 2007. This image has been (or is hereby) released into the public domain by its creator. This applies worldwide.


This is an interior view of a second generation, bay window, 1970 VW Westfalia.
Photograph by ArronX, May 2006. This file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 License. Some rights reserved

I owned a pale yellow early-1968 VW Westfalia (bay window, the second generation), with a near-identical interior, same layout and colour scheme, as the photo above. She was purchased new from the official VW dealer somewhere in or near downtown San Diego. I still have her original sales receipt, owner’s manual, and service manual—regularly serviced and stamped. She appeared to be based in Indio, Coachella Valley, California, while in my possession still sporting an AAA (The Automobile Club of Southern California) decal in bottom right corner of the windshield. She was a member of some surf club based in San Clemente. Imported up to Victoria, B.C. in the early 1980s, legend has it this camper drove to the famous 1969 Woodstock Festival in Bethel, New York! and back to the West Coast; and that John Muir, VW mechanic extraordinaire and writer of the famous manual, How To Keep Your Volkswagen Alive: A Manual Of Step By Step Procedures for the Compleat Idiot, once serviced and tuned my baby’s 1600 cc motor. Alas, after owning her from 1992 t0 2000, I gave her up to a VW enthusiast-restorer-collector in Coquitlam, B.C., wanting to give her one more good life. At the time I was broke. I couldn’t afford the $10,000.00 or $15,000.00 restoration she needed and deserved.

I named her Sophia. I took her camping many times (southern Vancouver Island, Saltspring Island, Hornby Island, Alice Lake up past Squamish, Hicks Lake near Harrison Hot Springs), including a road trip to Grande Prairie, Alberta, August 1994, up the Coquihalla Highway and Summit from Hope, Merritt, Kamloops, Blue River, Valemount, Jasper, then Hinton through Grande Cache to Grande Prairie on Highway 40 (at the time still known as “the Highway to Hell”, the last year it was sand and gravel surface strewn with the debris of blown tires, pieces of wood, and branches, before a proper paving) to Grande Prairie, back by way of Dawson Creek, Prince George, Quesnel, Lac La Hache, 100 Mile House, Clinton, Cache Creek, Ashcroft, Spences Bridge, Lytton, down the Fraser Canyon, Hope, and back to New Westminster. I sure miss that camper. One day I’ll search for another fine specimen of the bay windows.

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

German childhood books


Wilhelm Busch, 1832-1908
This image is in the public domain because its copyright has expired.


“Max und Moritz”, Zeichnung von Wilhelm Busch, Titelbild zu seiner gleichnamigen Erzählung
This image is in the public domain because its copyright has expired.


“Drei Hühner und ein Hahn”, Erster Streich, Max und Moritz: eine Bubengeschichte in sieben Streichen von Wilhelm Busch (Verlag von Braun und Schneider, München, 1906) Dreiundfünfzigste Auflage
http://www.gutenberg.net


Der Struwwelpeter, created in 1845, illustration from the book Der Struwwelpeter by Heinrich Hoffmann (Literarische Anstalt Rütten & Loening, Frankfurt am Main, 1917) 400. Auflage
Die Urheberrechts-Schutzdauer des hier abgebildeten flächigen Kunstwerks ist weltweit abgelaufen, da der Künstler bereits seit über 70 Jahren tot ist. Es ist somit gemeinfrei (public domain). Ebenfalls gemeinfrei ist die vorliegende Reproduktion des Werkes, da sie keine eigene Schöpfungshöhe aufweist.


Ludwig Richter’s Familienhausbuch (Opera-Verlag, Taunusstein, Deutschland, 1976) hardcover


Brautzug im Frühling (Bridal Procession in Spring), 1847, 93 x 150 cm, painting on canvas by Ludwig Richter, 1803-1884, in the Schloß Pillnitz, Dresden, Deutschland
The work of art depicted in this image and the reproduction thereof are in the public domain worldwide. The reproduction is part of a collection of reproductions compiled by The Yorck Project. The compilation copyright is held by Zenodot Verlagsgesellschaft mbH and licensed under the GNU Free Documentation License.

Three of my favourite childhood books are Das grosse Wilhelm Busch Hausbuch (a big, fat volume full of pictures and tales), Der Struwwelpeter by Heinrich Hoffmann, and Ludwig Richter’s Familienhausbuch.

I still have these three, either the original copies my siblings and I shared then, or newer editions acquired in the last 25 years or so.

First they were read to us, then when I could read myself, I devoured many of the picture stories with rhymed text, all in German (the first two books I mention here). They are satirical morality tales. We had an old edition of the Wilhelm Busch book, passed down from my maternal grandmother, Ottilie Dapprich. The most famous of his characters for most German children are “Max und Moritz”. I was introduced to the Ludwig Richter book when I was nine or ten years old.

Monday, October 5, 2009

In the Suisse Romande on moped and bicycle

1983 Peugeot PX 8 L ten-speed. My Peugeot was the same year and model, identical to this one in the photo, in silver-grey, plastered by me with thumbnail-size decals of the 26 cantonal shields of Switzerland.


Typical Swiss bicycle licence plate. Every Swiss cyclist, in every Canton, had one of these mounted somewhere at the rear of their vélo, usually either on the rear fender or on the tail end of a bike rack. I purchased a licence plate each year just like this one, at a reasonable cost, slightly narrower than a cigarette pack. My moped sported a larger yellow licence plate, for which I had a moped operators permit!

* * *


It was the first days of September 1985. Catherine Doucet’s family had a used moped sitting at home up in Mauborget on the Massif du Chasseron in the Jura. They ran the Hôtel de la Croix Fédérale there.


It was a late 1970s Kreidler MF 21 Florett 50 cc, silver and apple green, which we purchased from her brother for sFr. 500,00 with a full tank of gas, new tires (the rear a snow), thorough maintenance and tune-up, the muffler retarded to a maximum of 32 km/h. This became law in 1981 to curb youth injuries and deaths, riding at excessive speeds—making this one also a vélomoteur, necessitating only a yellow Vaudois moped licence, sFr. 50,00, not difficult to obtain in Lausanne with my B.C. Driver’s Licence after writing a small exam. Remove the retarder, get caught, and lose your moped to the metal crusher, sent back as a shoebox-size cube of metal in the mail, billed sFr. 40,00 for the trouble.


I now had an expedient way to get into Perceval for courses and work. I also delivered the monthly allowances to my co-workers and séminaristes in the various group homes, riding from the Morges branch of the UBS (Union Banque Suisse), carrying thousands of Swiss francs every month, on two occasions as much as 60,000 sFr. of annual vacation funds. On occasion Elke Sixt borrowed the Kreidler, too. I frequently drove into Morges, St-Sulpice, and Lausanne on my free days—easy and cheap on gas—and even on occasion ventured further afield into Rolle, Nyon, Genève, and into the villages further inland from the lake—Etoy, Lavigny, Aubonne, Apples, Ballens, Bière, Berolle, Montricher, l’Isle, and Romainmôtier.


I purchased a motorcycle helmet to go with my thick, heavy, genuine black biker’s leather jacket and blue and white Palestinian scarf (foulard)—the latest in moped fashion at the time.


* * *


Late May 1986, we received a lengthy dose of hot, muggy weather. About twice a week the elevated barometer pressure would release with an evening of thunderstorms passing over the Léman region. By morning everything was fresh and wet with a cool breeze, but soon the sunshine hazed over again.


On this weekend du visite, Margit, a young woman from Denmark, Raymond, and myself decided to bike around Lac Léman, about 180 kilometres in two days.


She borrowed a bronze three-speed, Raymond rode his semi-matte black vintage Swiss Army bicycle, and I my trustworthy 1983 Peugeot PX 8 L ten-speed. The Swiss Army bike was the MO-05 model, the production year and the Swiss cross stamped on the seatpost lug. These bikes were produced in the country by the renowned top-quality Swiss bicycle manufacturer Condor SA. I seem to recall the year 1938, which does not quite make sense as the bike appears to have been a post-war Militärvelo, judging by the details I noted in the 1980s and list here. Maybe it had been retrofitted by the military at some point in it’s long career. It was a basic model, stripped down of all its non-essential fittings for use as a messenger transport, single-speed with rod-operated front spoon brake, cable-operated rear drum brake on left side, and rear coaster brake, wide leather seat, weighing a hefty 52 lbs.! It had strong, straight rear drop-outs, oversized frame tubes, spokes and front hub nickel plated, the saddle numbered and stamped with the Swiss cross, big, black pedals with big treads. I bought the bike from him the following autumn, using it myself or lending it out, but unfortunate that it was rather impractical and expensive to export home to Canada. At the time the Swiss were more protective of their national icons leaving the country than they are today. I gave it to one of the Byrde family sons, which I now rue as it was then already a cool collector’s item and today it would make an awesome single-speed bike. One day I would love to import a vintage specimen straight from Switzerland. It would cost well over $1,600.00 for purchase and shipping.


We left late Friday afternoon, the route du lac No. 1 and sometimes smaller local roads west from St-Prex, cycling through Buchillon (side road), Allaman, Rolle, slight detour through Bursinel and Dully, Prangins, Nyon, then hit by a strong, sudden shower drenching us through before we could pull out some protective wear. But it was still warm from the bouts of mugginess.


This alternating weather would continue throughout the two day tour.


About two kilometres past Nyon we pedaled into the TCS (Touring Club Suisse) campground, run by a bilingual Canadian woman from Montréal. We pitched our tents during a short rainless moment and the proprietress let us cook our supper in her kitchen. The tents did their job keeping us dry.


We were on our way just before seven, now having pulled out our rain ponchos, doffing them again around noon when we felt the increasing constriction, sweating with the returning mugginess.


Many other times, riding moped, one of my bikes, or hitch-hiking in the other direction, the shoreline west of Nyon I remember being depicted in Hergé’s The Calculus Affair, when Tintin, Captain Haddock, and Snowy heading for Nyon in a taxi are cut off, forced to swerve, and plunge into the lake.


Our secondary route through Crans was soon behind us, then the pocket of Céligny/GE, Founex, back on the main road with Pré-Claudy, Coppet, “à bientôt” Vaud and “bonjour” Genève with Versoix-la-Ville, Versoix, and Bellevue feeling our rubber, here the No. 1 now known as the Route de Lausanne after merging with the Autoroute N 1.


At the Jardin Botanique and behind it the Palais des Nations on our right, the Avenue de la Paix met us at the Place A. Thomas, the G.A.T.T. on the lake side. Here our road became the Rue de Lausanne with the beautiful grounds of the Parc Villa Barton in La Perle du Lac, the Villa Bartholoni occupied by the Musée des Sciences and the Parc Mon Repos with the Mont aux Morts memorial between us and the lake, then left along the Avenue de France becoming the Quai Woodrow Wilson along the lakeshore and the Quai du Mont-Blanc at the Jetée and Bains des Pâquis, left onto the Pont du Mont-Blanc, here passing a couple in Australian bushman hats walking two tall horses packed with western saddles and side bags going the other way—when I greeted them in English he responded with a “g’day mate!”—the bridge crossing the last tip of the lake rushing into the Rhône at the prow of the little Ile J.-J.-Rousseau.


Then across the Place du Port we met the Quai Général Guisan at a 45° angle, bordering the south edge of the Jardin Anglais, then another 45° left along the Quai Gustave Ador and past the causeway to the Jet d’Eau playing in the summer, at up to 150 metres the highest fountain in the world.


At the Place de Traînant, just past the Parc de la Grange and the Parc des Eaux-Vives, the road bent a mild bit to become the Quai de Cologny, passing Genève-Plage, through Cologny, then at Vésenaz leaving the main road for the lakeshore route through Collonge-Bellerive and past Anières.


We were on our way to the border. We entered France at Hermance, the three French officers with just a “Passports, s’il vous plaît” and a quick glance—I asked for and received a stamp in mine for souvenir purposes.


Almost right away you could sense this was not Switzerland. The villages were almost entirely grey, lacking the colour and brightness of painted shutters, window boxes in full bloom, and life outdoors evident on the other side. Here things appeared to be a little forlorn, a little decayed around the edges, an unspoken sadness on the edge of awareness. This feeling I was to have almost every time, wherever and whenever I crossed into rural France during overcast weather. Even in coldest, greyest, windiest winter, Switzerland seemed livelier and brighter. Strange how subtle tugs at the senses could tell of such differences. We were at the same lake, the same silvery-grey and mirror smoothness when hazy and windless, but here it felt like the villages were almost abandoned despite parked cars about and prowling cats. And when we saw two old sidewheelers tied up, rotting on the water, later at Tourronde and Meillerie, the feeling was confirmed—I almost expected spectres to coming sailing in, rising from the lake depths. Despite a green countryside, only Yvoire and Evian-les-Bains appeared to have colour and life.


It was two and a half kilometres along the D 25 to the village of Véreitre, another two to Chens-sur-Léman, three for Messery, and three and a half into the medieval town Yvoire for a somewhat expensive midday dinner in a restaurant near the medieval fortress. Yvoire, sitting at the tip of the Léman peninsula, more or less straight across from Nyon, that delimits the two principal sections of Lake Geneva, the petit lac and the grand lac (small lake and large lake), is deemed one of the most beautiful villages in France. It teems and overflows with bright flowers, the colours sating the senses.


We needed to get some major kilometres behind us, so after a quick half hour walk around after the filling meal, off we were again, three kilometres to Excenevex on the Golfe de Coudrée and another three and a half to join with the main road again, the N 5 at Sciez, and non-stop onward through Jussy and Marclaz into Thonon-les-Bains, with only a quick pause for water from an open public spring in town.


Then Vongy and into Amphion-les-Bains, now the road following the lakeshore, the famous Evian-les-Bains for another spring water drink, then onward through Grande Rive, Maxilly-Petite Rive, Tourronde, Meillerie, Locum, Bret, and suddenly the French-Swiss frontier at St-Gingolph, waved through with barely a second glance and four klicks along the now-named No. 21 for le Bouveret, passing Le Fenalet and La Clesette hugging the shore, the forest leading up to the Pointe de la Chaumeny, 2067,3 metres, and Le Grammont, 2171,8 metres, just behind.


We were back on the cheerier side. At the south end of town we left the main road turning left, passing a campground on the bank of the little Le Tové, crossing it and moments later the rail line and a small canal into the fields of La Praille to cross the Rhône on a foot bridge.


Now it was paths and lanes through the leafy woodlands of the river delta crossing the Vieux Rhône, passing the farmstead Chaux Rossa, a small lake and three small fields, the farm La Praille and over another foot bridge at the Grand Canal.


Here we turned left a short bit and through a tiny wooded area in marshy ground for the shoreline campground at Les Grangettes. It was early evening and we were about two and a half kilometres west of Villeneuve.


Margit and Raymond decided to tent the night here. It was a pleasant site but for some reason I put it in my head that I would continue with quite a few more kilometres and hours back to St-Prex. And I was under the impression those two were a little flirtatious and amorous. I decided to give them their space.


I continued along the shoreline path and a farm road across the Eau Froide into Villeneuve, making Montreux my goal for supper, leaning and locking my bike against the train station railing for a meal in the Restaurant de la Gare—a succulent saucisse aux choux correctly paired as is customary with its distinctly different mate the saucisson de Payerne, washed down with a glass of local red.


Back on the pedals, along the route du lac through La Tour-de-Peilz, Vevey, all the little villages to Lausanne-Ouchy—this route from Villeneuve to St-Prex familiar cycling territory for me.


Soon the sun was down. On came my headlight powered by a tire-mounted dynamo, growing tired, sore butt and legs, the single goal on my mind—Perceval. St-Sulpice, Morges, and St-Prex, up the narrow, winding road in the dark, so fatigued I was starting to hallucinate, and like a broken record with the mantra, “you’re almost there, you’re almost there!” I was feeling wobbly on the bike, shots of pain from the long hours on the narrow seat. My fingers and hands felt big and fat, my legs like lead.


I arrived a few minutes before midnight and crawled straight to bed.


Thursday, October 1, 2009

More hitch-hiking

In the first few years after my Camphill experience in Switzerland I undertook two return trips to Europe, late September-early October 1989 and November 1991.


Westdeutschland was the focus of my first return—relatives in Siegen, friend Almut and her sister Gudrun in Kassel from where my youngest sister Alison Oona and I rented a grey two-door Opel Kadett E sporting Hamburg plates. We drove to grandfather in Höhbeck-Brünkendorf, Landkreis Lüchow-Dannenberg, in Niedersachsen, then the freeway south, stopping in on Alison’s godmother in Reutlingen, Matzke’s in Stuttgart, then down to the Bodensee by way of Stockach and along the Überlinger See through Ludwigshafen, Überlingen, stopping in Meersburg for the noon meal—local cooking in a decent-priced establishment, then Immenstaad, Friedrichshafen, Kreßbronn and Lindau where we stopped about an hour for a walk along some of its peninsular lakeshore.


From here it was inland but still eastward, along the Deutsche Alpenstraße, the 308, leisurely and scenically winding our way along past the villages of Lindenberg, Oberstaufen, Immenstadt, Wertach, Nesselwang now on the 310, Pfronten, Füssen and northeast on the 17 through Steingaden and Peiting, the road cutting across to Weilheim as the 472 through Hohenpeißenberg and Peißenberg. Now through the countryside between the Ammersee and Starnberger See for Starnberg at the latter’s northern end, the 2 feeding us to the city centre to drop the car off at Hertz in München with 30 minutes and a few kilometres to spare on our rental agreement and kilometres limit, before we were hit with extra costs and penalties. We then rode the S-Bahn out to Wessling, staying where Alison was living at the Kloyer’s grocery store, part of the Edeka chain.


I headed home two weeks before the Wall came down—November 9th, 1989. Alison ended up being in Berlin the night East Germans started flooding into the West and the Wall started coming down—she and her then boyfriend Matthias helped chip away at a section with picks, she brought home ten apple-sized graffiti-marked pieces that ended up sitting on our parent’s fireplace mantel.


Deutschland achieved reunification on October 3rd, 1990. Just over a year later I returned for my second visit. Again, I flew into Frankfurt am Main. I took the train to Basel, transferring to a Regionalzug for Dornach-Arlesheim, climbing the hill for Gesa’s ground floor suite, also visiting at her workplace, the Sonnenhof.


A number of locals also alit here, distinct among them certain younger and older women in their long, flowing dresses and coats, long braided or loose hair, emitting the somewhat haughty air of serious Eurythmists and Anthroposophists. It brought to mind the little German joke of the SBB train conductor announcing the approaching stop with, “Alle für Dornach-Arlesheim, bitte abschweben!” instead of the standard “… alle bitte absteigen!” (Everyone for Dornach-Arlesheim could float from the train instead of stepping-off). This stereotype was somewhat confirmed by the reality of seeing these ladies flowing, as if levitating a foot or two above the ground, slightly excarnated, from the train.


Gesa was not well, soon bed-ridden. As a result, she could not see me more than a day or two. I decided on hitch-hiking down to Perceval for a four day visit, then return to Arlesheim.


Walking through St-Prex, I came upon Draga slowly strolling along with her now frail mother on her right arm. Draga looked stressed and fatigued but greeted me with a warm smile and Bonjour! Quelle surprise! We exchanged the common French greeting of three light kisses cheek to cheek. I am reminded of a joke Isabelle once told me in the early days, two cheek kisses signified friends/acquaintances, three meant the two of you had slept together. But I am quite sure this is not the truth, although it is fun to believe.


It was my last glimpse of Perceval as I sloped down through the vineyards and under the rail line to the road for Morges, one last time hitching a ride in this area—after twenty minutes caught one with a young brunette in a black skirted business suit, driving a silver Alfa Romeo consistently over the speed limit, slamming her shifter through the gears, in a rush for Lausanne and a business meeting. She dumped me just before the Morges-Est freeway on-ramp, necessitating a short walk under the Autoroute, setting myself up for the next ride on the road for Romanel-sur-Morges and Cossonay. My idea paid off quickly—nabbing a ride with a Migros supermarket delivery van within minutes. A Lausanne station was blaring the latest pop hits. The young fellow was headed left, I wanted to the right, so I alit at the fork in the road a little past La Sarraz.


Now it took a while for my next kindly stranger—about 35 vehicles passed until a leather-faced old farmer rolled by on a red Massey-Ferguson tractor towing a shallow trailer laden with beet root. He slowed but did not stop, waving at me to hop on. I threw my red backpack into the trailer—he looked twice over a shoulder, staring at the Canada flag prominently sewn on the flap—and I sat on the dented fender over the big, knobby right wheel. The dead stub of a cigarette stuck to a corner of his mouth. I accepted his offer of a fresh unfiltered Gauloise. We talked of my reasons travelling here, he asked one or two Canada things, wondered to where I was headed. Just before Orbe he turned left, leaving the road for a muddy dirt track—his farmstead. With a “Merci bien!” I walked the last kilometre or so into Orbe, trying for my next ride in the midst of town.


I was surprised to have a ride minutes later with two distinctly older ladies, grey hair pinned up in buns, clothed in tweed, quite proper looking, in a grey-green Peugeot 504 stationwagon. They were rather chatty. They had lots of questions. I soon learned they were both long-ago retired local school teachers, the one in her early nineties! and the other in her late eighties—driving quite confidently—very much alert and up on many things. I wondered aloud that they would dare give a young man a ride. They responded almost in unison, “Mais vous avez l’air de quelqu’un honnête et sans malheur” (but you have the air of someone honest and without malice”). It was one of the most pleasant rides ever in all my time hitch-hiking through Europe. They went out of their way, a good six kilometres, delivering me to the Autoroute on-ramp at Yverdon-Ouest when their actual goal was the fair bit earlier Mathod.


Maybe twenty-five minutes later I lucked upon a businessman somewhere in his mid-fifties, headed for Biel/Bienne in his grey-blue BMW 535i—my longest ride this trip. We conversed in French, English, and German. He showed me the only way mobile phones can be legally and safely used in a moving vehicle in Switzerland, attached to the dash, a line running to a microphone on the sun visor, callers heard over the car stereo speakers—one of those big, cumbersome phones in the early days of this technology.


Biel was his end of the road. I walked northwest through town, stopping in at the McDonald’s for a couple of cheeseburgers and a Cardinal beer before sticking out my thumb again.


I set myself up at the start of the steadily-climbing E 27, eventually my next charitable driver a middle-aged blond woman transporting her two Afghan hounds in a dark blue Volvo stationwagon, up the Taube-mochschlucht, past Frinvillier and La Heutte, running more or less parallel with the local rail line and La Suze that feeds the Bieler See. In the cold heights of Sonceboz we encountered some of the first dustings of the season’s snow, winding our way up a couple of fairly mild hairpins bookending the Col de Pierre Pertuis at 827 metres. Next came her town of Tavannes—time for my next ride.


It was the same young rocker in his dirty white Citröen BX who had brought me from Delémont to Moutier five days earlier! This time back to Delémont! where it took a while until a tall, skinny worn-out looking, chain smoking woman who could have been the stereotypical biker chick from Surrey, B.C., sporting long unkempt hair, black t-shirt and jeans, well-worn black leather jacket. She drove some non-descript dirty, white Opel Kadett. Upon hearing of Dornach as my goal for today, and my interest in Anthroposophy, she wavered between some admiration for Waldorf schools and criticisms of les fous là-haut (the crazies up on the hill) at the Goetheanum. She became a little tense at my defense of Anthroposophy and Anthroposophists but still dropped me off at the Autobahn exit for Arlesheim with a friendly aurevoir”.


The last bit uphill on foot in the growing dark, it was now close to 17.45, the crisp chill nipping at my face and hands. Raymond happened to pass through Dornach and Arlesheim a couple of days later. He and I visited Ana Cecilia in the local hospital, recovering from some unspoken, unnamed illness—she was currently studying at the Goetheanum. Then we travelled by train to Luxembourg.


We walked down to the station for a Regionalzug into Basel, there boarding the Basel-Frankfurt train with stops in Freiburg and Offenburg where we transferred to a small two-car train crossing the Rhein and German-French border at Kehl. Here we realized we could have been more efficient in our travel plans, catching the Edelweiss in Basel—running Basel-Strasbourg-Metz-Luxembourg-Bruxelles/Maastricht-Amsterdam. Now we had to wait a few hours for the next train, so we walked the nearby streets of Strasbourg in the cold darkening evening, eventually settling on a glass each of Kronenbourg on tap, accompanied by some sort of sausage in a bun for Raymond and a croques monsieur for myself. Finally the train to Luxembourg with a stop in Metz, arriving late evening, a street bus to his parents on the rue des Pins in Strassen, about four or five kilometres west by northwest of the city of Luxembourg. Strassen is located along the 6, the Route d’Arlon.


Late evenings I devoured Hiram A. Bingham’s The Dawnwatchers: A Novel of the Twenty-First Century.


We toured the many city sights and the airport.


The next big outing was a day trip to Trier, Raymond’s mentally challenged Down’s Syndrome sister accompanying us.


Another day we drove the E 27 northeast to Echternach, passing through Junglinster and the Suisse Luxembourgeoise region. Enroute we detoured slightly to visit an ancient oak tree standing alone in a field, halfway to the village of Hersberg, about 500 metres north of the main road there where the CR 137 is met in a t-bone by the side road from the village.


One whole day was spent in Esch-sur-Sûre and surrounding countryside. We drove in his father’s dark blue stationwagon north on the N 7 route through Mersch to Ettelbruck, then northwest along the N 15 through Feulen-Nieder, past Heiderscheid and descending four hairpin bends, left onto the N 27, parking moments later at the eastern edge of this medieval town. From here we were on foot, climbing a steep trail from the eastern end of the parking lot, a northerly ascent for the thin line of woods curving along the ridge overlooking the Sûre wrapping around the town almost directly below.


I felt like a knight in the early days of this town, having just alit from my steed, seeing for the first time again in some years my home after long journeys far and wide across Europe including a Crusade to the Middle East.


Our path opened out into green, gently undulating fields—somewhat surprising to me considering how late in the year we were—walking northwest until we came upon a tiny chapel at the bend of the CR 316 country road that led us a little westward to the village of Kaundorf and further fields, crossing the CR 318, into Mecher and a descent along another section of the CR 316 for the village of Bavigne at the northwestern finger of the dammed waters of the Sûre above the dam, resembling a thin lake. We had encountered a few spots of piled up timber logged from the nearby slopes, and even two tree fallers.


Now southeasterly along the opposite shore of this finger we came upon the slightly smaller upper dam near the village of Liefrange, then following trails along the wooded slopes of the Sûre again, crossing the lower dam and descending the N 27 road to the castle ruins watching over Esch-sur-Sûre.


We also stopped in on his family’s old abandoned farmstead, a few kilometres north of their suburban home, that lately was receiving some preliminary repairs—the start of a long, extensive restoration Raymond planned on carrying out so as to one day live there permanently.


I took an early train into Trier, walking through town, taking my time to admire an open archeological dig newly discovered to reveal Roman ruins under a parking lot. Eventually I made my way to the traffic circle and Autobahn on-ramp. It started to drizzle, lightly getting me wet before a young women in a red Volkswagen Passat stationwagon, sporting two empty children car seats and a small hairy dog, took me along until her exit for her vineyard village about halfway along the Mosel valley. I waited over an hour wait until a middle aged man in a bright red rental van brought me into the outskirts of Koblenz. From here I decided onward to Essen by train, trying to make an on-time arrival for a prearranged visit with Almut and her boyfriend. I stayed two nights and one full day. They drove me through the industrial areas of the Essen and Ruhrtal, and we toured the Villa Krupp.


Finally, one more time to grandfather for what turned out to be the last time I saw him. He lived to be 100 years old, passing away in his sleep a few weeks after his birthday on October 18th, 1996.


The last few days I stopped in on Gesa one more time before heading home for the West Coast.


Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Hiking Le Moléson, Suisse Romande

Mid-September 1985 was a weekend du visite at Perceval, Camphill. Co-worker and friend Elke Sixt, from Stuttgart, and I decided to take advantage of the free weekend with a two day excursion, planning to hike Le Moléson, Saturday morning taking the CFF train, St-Prex-Lausanne, then a régional to Palézieux-Gare, where we boarded the TPF (Transport Public Fribourgeois) for Châtel-St-Denis.


The skies were overcast, a muted silver-grey.


We hoisted our backpacks and headed through town and east along the road and field path just north of Fruence before crossing the Autoroute N 12 for Les Paccots about another three kilometres, then turning north near the hamlet of Les Rosalys, almost immediately crossing a stream, Dévins des Dailles, and soon after a larger one, Veveyse de Châtel—following a small northeasterly valley of woods past Vieux Gîte and between the two small patches of meadow and the farmsteads Moillertson and Les Pueys, winding our way up at La Pudze and Chalet-Jncrota along the western slope of the Teysachaux, 1909 metres, and further along the farms Le Villard and Gros Plané where we left the narrow paved country lane for the foot path east to the farmhouse Petit Plané at 1478 metres.


Here another trail, now ascending southward for our goal, Le Moléson at 2002 metres. By now, the fog had rolled in so thick, we could see no more than a few metres ahead. On occasion, we heard the small bells of sheep, and suddenly there loomed the building at the top of the gondola ascending from Moléson-Village.


We stopped for a tripod photo with my always-reliable Nikon FE2 and lunched on bread and slices of smoked ham and fragments of Gruyère cheese.


Then, we had to find the trail down the other side, which we found, almost by accident, when I came close to stepping off into the pea soup at the steep edge nearby, thereafter maintaining a heightened awareness of our descent.


Down the steep slope we stepped, soon passing a Sennerhütte, alpine dairy, at Tsuatsau-d’en Haut, 1735 metres, with an exchange of “bonjour” with the young Fribourgeois repairing a broken window, now beneath the fog. Down we continued past -d’en Bas at 1349 metres, and picked our way down to the upper arms of La Marive, the gurgling stream soothing to the ear. Soon, the homestead of Plan Maro at 1136 metres, and a few zigzags later the Chapelle de l’Evi at 938 metres.


Suddenly, another 500 metres along and we heard the clanging and scraping of metal above. We both looked up to our left and, about 30 metres above, a grey metal door opened in the rock face of a cliff, revealing a Swiss soldier in full gear, dragging on a cigarette. He looked down, saw us, and slammed the door shut. This was again proof of the existence of tunnels and other hidden chambers and such in the Swiss mountains.


Soon, we were in Albeuve, situated on the rail line feeding Bulle, Gruyères, Château-d’Oex, and beyond. We rode the train down to Montbovon and transferred to the MOB (Montreux Oberland Bernois), riding through the western end of the Golden Pass into Montreux, arriving early evening for dinner.


We had originally intended to sleep in the mountains for one night—hence our backpacks—but surprised ourselves how fast we finished the trek in one day.


Elke suggested the Caveau des vignerons for raclette and a local white wine, which we enjoyed at a leisurely pace.


We got into Lausanne about 21.00 and were met with a 1½ hour wait—all trains between Lausanne and Genève delayed, as trains had to detour through the freight rail yard at Renens—the cause, an accident between two rail yard shunters and the 12 noon train régional for Morges and St-Prex, the passenger train having neglected to stop between the yellow and red signals at 777 metres further on towards Morges. The driver had suffered a heart attack. All told, five fatalities—the driver, a conductor, and three first class passengers in the coach immediately behind the engine, a twisted wreck resembling crumpled paper, and 30-40 others with minor to serious injuries. One of the mother’s travelling to Perceval, for her child for the weekend, received minor leg injuries. We did not make it home until late, close to eleven.


Monday, September 28, 2009

Pitt Meadows, B.C., Canada, early Saturday morning, September 26th, 2009













© Copyright photographs by Viktoria Iakovleva, September 2009

Friday, September 25, 2009

Escaping Duncan to Westdeutschland

I was bursting with idealism, but immature and arrogant, a braggard, precocious and voluble, restless, and thin-skinned and sensitive, a daydreaming bookworm, eager to see the world—or at least Europe.


I graduated from Grade Twelve at Cowichan Senior Secondary in June 1981. I could not wait to get out of Duncan, which I disliked and resented for its small town mentality, sometimes referred to as Drunken Duncan, armpit of the Island—I do look upon this town somewhat kinder these days. I skipped the graduation ceremony, flying off to Westdeutschland the same day most of my 400 plus peers walked on to the stage to accept their graduation papers.


It was Vancouver via Calgary to Frankfurt am Main with Air Canada (1972 Lockheed L-1011-385-1 Tristar 1, c/n 193M-1019, C-FTNA, “501”, Air Canada; ex. Eastern Airlines N312EA).


I was seated a few rows from the rear, a middle seat in the middle section between the two aisles. This particular aircraft sported traces of Eastern Airlines interior decor as these two companies split the seasons with two Tristars, summers in Canada, winters in the U.S. I found it an interesting feature that Tristars held five lavatories in the rear, wrapped in a crescent, the access narrow between these and the rear galley.


The full flight was uneventful until somewhere over the North Atlantic, Iceland already behind us, the Captain announced that an unscheduled stop was necessary due to higher than usual fuel consumption from heavy head winds having forced us to fly at a lower altitude. A moment later the seatbelt signs came on as we went into a rapid descent. A little earlier the skies had been coming up a cloudless blue as the morning arrived. Soon many were puking up the breakfast served less than an hour ago—I too needed the paper bag located in the seat back in front of me. This was the only time I ever felt sick, flying.


We touched down on a bumpy runway at Prestwick, Scotland, the cracks sprouting clumps of grass. It was Sunday shortly before seven o’clock local time. The airport was closed and appeared deserted. We were kept onboard during the refuelling but the flight attendants did open every door to air out the stench and let us breathe in the fresh, crisp Scottish air.


I arrived in the land of “Atomkraft? Nein Danke”—the common yellow with red cartoon sun lapel buttons—and “Lieber Todt als Rot” (Rather Dead than Red). Frankfurt am Main International Airport in the early 1980s was a high security bastion, the green-uniformed Bundesgrenzpolizei patrolling and guarding with machine guns and German shepherds. Luggage left on its own would be confiscated, removed, and destroyed by bomb squad specialists. Yellow Wanted posters showing the mug shots of various at-large terrorists were displayed throughout the terminals. Westdeutschland was not quite yet out of the long, violent shadows of the RAF—Rote Armee Faktion’s very active reign of terror of the 1970s.


I went through two passport controls, scanned and scrutinized, just to pass from the international to the domestic terminals, my next flight scheduled for over two hours later. Enroute one had to pick up and recheck one’s own baggage as nothing was transferred by the airlines.


I boarded my Lufthansa flight to Stuttgart (1980 Boeing 737-230(A), c/n 22116/701, D-ABFD, City Jet Bamberg, Lufthansa).


Stuttgart and Klaus Matzke greeted me in the hot, muggy haze. The Matzke’s lived in the attic suite of a Wohnhaus on Waldmeisterweg in Gablenberg.

To visit the Waldorf school I would walk the short Enzian Weg, turn right a few steps along Im Buchwald, then left to descend the series of stairs—Buchwaldstaffel—and along Libanonstraße at Bergstraße, crossing Klingenstraße, Hauptstraße, Wunnensteinstraße, right on Schwarenbergstraße, left a bit on Wagenburgstraße to curve uphill on the right just before the Wagenburgtunnel, straight to the stairs below and above the back stretch of Ameisenbergstraße, coming out on top at Zur Uhlandshöhe right next to the minigolf. I entered by a gate across from the Sternwarte. Other times I boarded the Nr. 8 tram on Hauptstraße, transferring to a bus at Ostend Platz, the neighbourhood our paternal grandmother Othilie Rott lived in an apartment when we visited her in summer 1968 (my first trip to Europe, this now my second). I would exit at Urachplatz and after a couple of side streets sometimes cut around in a curve the eastern side of the hill to come along Ameisenbergstrasse where Die Christengemeinschaft (The Christian Community) had a house for the Erzoberlenker—Rudolf Frieling until 1986, then Taco Bay and his family until 2005.


One of their daughters was in Martin Matzke’s class—Emily Joan Bay. We crossed paths again in early 1990, in North Burnaby and Vancouver.


Two girls I remember well, also in Martin’s class, were the tall Löhnert twins, although their first names now elude me. They were best known by their nicknames, die Lölas, wearing the current teen girl styles of the time, looking much like Nina Hagen on her eponymous first record album cover.


I first heard of Nina on the Matzke boys’ transistor radio in their bedroom with a view of the Fernsehturm, listening to SWF-Süd West Funk. I became an instant fan, remaining so to this day. Within a few days I bought a copy (vinyl LP) of that 1978 album Nina Hagen Band, CBS 83136, at a small music kiosk in the Klett-Passage under the Stuttgart Hauptbahnhof (main train station).


Quickly, “Der Spinner” became my favourite song and my travelling anthem.


Ich lauf’n Bahnsteig lang und weiss nich’

Ob ich hier weg fahr’ oder was

Ej, guck mal, da kommt’n Schnellzug und fährt weiter

’N Bulle von der Bahn taucht auf


Ich halt den Brief in meiner Hand fest

Da steht, du fühlst dich tot wie Stein


Und das du dir jetzt’n Wald suchst

Um dir im Mos’n Bett zu bau’n

Dein Riesen Saxophon ist natürlich auch da

Und Flöten, Flöten soll’n auf der Wiese wachsen


Die alte Frau bezahlt mit Kleingeld

Wir warten auf den nächsten Zug


Ich frag die Alte, wo der Wald is’

Sie sagt „Mein Udo is’ schon lange tot”


In meiner Tasche klebt’n Bonbon

Wir steigen in unser’n Zug


Bei Wertheim gab es Salamander

Ich bring dir einen mit ins Moos


Als ich in Hamburg aus’m Zug steig

Lauf ich durch Strassen bis zur Elbe hin

Down To The River


Da seh’ ich dich am Ufer steh’n

Ich fass dich an und so, du hörst nichts

Du sagst, du musst zum andern Ufer

Die Fähre fährt am nächsten Tag


Ich dachte, dass du tief im Wald wohnst

Ich wusste nichts von deinen Ufern


We drove up to Coburg in Klaus Matzke’s yellow Ford Granada four door sedan, staying with friend’s overnight. Enroute we stopped in several towns.


Schwäbisch Gmünd was our first. I admired the medieval architecture of some half-timbered houses and the former town hall, the Grät Mansion, but not the Baroque-styled terraced square of the Marktplatz with its double-statued fountain to the Virgin. It and the Rococo are too ornate and over-the-top gilded lavishness for my liking. Walking back to the car at the edge of town, we peered over the side of the bridge into the murky, grey swift flow of the Kocher.

Next we stopped in Bad Mergentheim to visit Grünewald’s Stuppacher Madonna. For years this painting was hidden under another.

Then, onward to Würzburg. We toured the Residenz, one of Germany’s biggest Baroque palaces. I preferred the three sculptures by Tilman Riemenschneider, 1460-1531, in the Dom, with its austere and harmonious exterior and nave, in contrast, again, to the Baroque, an example of which was apparent in the stucco decoration in the upper reaches of the chancel.

Next we passed through Schweinfurt and Bamberg. Soon we were in Coburg, visiting the Veste Coburg—a Franconian castle of Sachsen-Coburg royalty fame—and some relatives of Klaus. I think it was an aunt of his and her son, and daughter-in-law, a banker with the Deutsche Bank, fresh returned from a multi-year stint in Singapore.


The next morning we spent exploring the Veste. After the Mittagsessen, we made a local side trip to the Wasserschloss in nearby Untersiemau. It suffered damage in the Thirty Year’s War, not to be restored until the 20th century.


And we drove along a little country road that ran tight against the Deutsche Demokratische Republik border. One metre tall wood posts, painted white with horizontal bands of sky blue, marked the actual borderline along the narrow gravel shoulder. We pulled over at a grass shoulder on the edge of a farmer’s field, and crossed the road to have a close look at the two VoPo—Volkspolizei, in their field grey uniforms, each with a rifle over their shoulders. One held binoculars, the other a note pad and a Leica camera. Within minutes a U.S. Army jeep pulled up, a black Sergeant and a white Private alighting, followed by a tour bus that spilled its contingent of gum-chewing American tourists, trigger-happy with their cameras. Klaus explained how the VoPos would usually watch the frontier within inches of the posts. The border defenses—1,381 kilometres of concrete and steel walls, chain-link fences, turrets, mine fields, patrolling dogs, automatic firing devices pointing to Bundesrepublik Deutschland territory, and watchtowers separating the unequal halves—were about a kilometre back in this area. The Iron Curtain was the most militarised and heavily guarded border in the world. Between was a sort of no man’s land. They always worked in pairs, to discourage any ideas of bolting for the West. But, Klaus added, the VoPos were considered idealogical, loyal, and patriotic to the communist state.


The American Sergeant exchanged gum with the VoPos. They accepted without hesitation. I can not remember what the Americans got in return. Soon the East Germans were chewing. I uncapped the Kodak Retina IIIS, snapping a few shots. One VoPo returned the gesture, snapping several of myself and the Matzke’s. We were close enough to shake hands.


Earlier, before leaving the car, Klaus had warned us not to put even one foot past the posts. It was not unheard of, and not worth testing the rumours, that on occasion the East Germans would quickly pull someone across if one did not watch one’s step, then hold the unfortunate Westie for a few hours or days in exchange for money or other considerations.


To this day, I am not sure this was really true—was it the West’s fear of the communist state?, translated into myth. But, as I said, not worth testing.


And who knows what they did with our photos, possibly filed away in some vast archives in East Berlin, becoming part of the mountain of files tossed about willy-nilly, rummaged through, eventually probably destroyed, when many citizens hunted through them after the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989. But, in the summer of 1981, none of us could ever have imagined that in our lifetime the East would come apart from the inside, and go on a shopping trip, vacation road trip, or move westward to reunification.


I am reminded of The File: A Personal History by Timothy Garton Ash.


Enroute back, we toured the Transitional Gothic Bamberger Dom with its 13th century equestrian statue, Der Bamberger Reiter, deemed to represent the ideal of the Knight-King of the Middle Ages.


In Rothenburg ob der Tauber I carved my name, city, country, and date in the railing of the eastern parapets of the walled town. Shame on me for this little act of tourist vandalism.


My flight home was aboard another Lufthansa 737-230(A), Stuttgart to Frankfurt am Main, and again through the high security and passport controls, arriving at the Air Canada gate counter where it was soon clear they had overbooked the flight by about 30 people. This forced them to offer an overnight stay in a local hotel and DM 300,00 in cash—a lot of money for me at the time, but yet I did not bite as I was eager to get home and still fit in some summer fun, river tubing on the Cowichan.


I returned via Calgary to Vancouver and B.C. Ferries, Tsawwassen-Swartz Bay, (1974 Lockheed L-1011-385-1-15 Tristar 100, c/n 193E/1058, C-FTNI, “509”, Air Canada; ex. test reg. N64854).


Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Morning light and even’ song


The end of summer, the beginning of autumn, Burnaby Lake, Burnaby, B.C., Canada, early Saturday morning, September 12th, 2009



Evening light, the Georgia Strait and beyond seen from Kitsilano Point, Vancouver, B.C., Canada, Sunday, September 13th, 2009


© Copyright photographs by Viktoria Iakovleva, September 2009


After the sun’s downing, the sunset drowning,
The fading light calms the heart
And softens the soul.
The colours fleece, darken, and whirl—
Ever-shifting moods, day slowly dimmed.

(Stephan Alexander Scharnberg, September 2009)

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Nairn Falls Provincial Park, B.C., Canada


Soo River at 5:12 pm, Tuesday, September 1st, 2009

Nairn Falls Provincial Park sits along the fast flowing Green River. Some of the trails and campsites have steep banks and drop-offs. Despite passing by to and from Lillooet and points much farther north several times in the past (almost) three decades, I have not stopped to visit this park since I camped there as a teen with my family in the summer of 1980 at the debut of our province-wide road trip with family friends from Stuttgart, West Germany.


At 6:00 pm, One Mile Lake, two kilometres north of Nairn Falls Provincial Park on Highway 99.


At 6:10 pm


At 6:16 pm


Soo River at 9:17 am, Wednesday, September 2nd, 2009

It is a 35 kilometre tributary of the Green River, joining it just north of Whistler after descending from the south flank of the Pemberton Icefield, generally running eastward as a serpentine marshland in the Soo Valley to a short canyon just before reaching the Green River valley, flowing about 3½ kilometres parallel to the Green River before joining it. Volcanic formations can be seen the upper reaches of the Soo Valley.


At 9:20 am


At 9:23 am


At 9:38 am


At 11:10 am

© Copyright photographs by Viktoria Iakovleva, September 2009

Viktoria and friends went camping in Nairn Falls Provincial Park, 170 hectares and established in 1966 soon after the opening of Highway 99, located twenty minutes north of Whistler. It makes a good base camp for exploring the Whistler-Blackcomb area, the Pemberton Valley, Garibaldi Provincial Park, and easy access to the river. The park was created to help to protect Nairn Falls. The double waterfall is 60 metres high and connected by a small canyon which chokes the flow of the Green River before it makes its way to the Pemberton Valley lowlands, joining the Lillooet River just before it enters Lillooet Lake. A 1½ km hiking trail leads to the viewpoint.

Friday, August 28, 2009

Hitch-hiking in Europe

During my years in Europe—summer 1981, 1982-1987, September to mid-October 1989, November 1991—I carried around a dog-eared copy of Hitch-hikers Guide to Europe: how to see Europe by the skin of your teeth by Ken Welsh (Pan Books, London, 1981) paperback.

This was my thumbing bible, as Im sure it was for many who tramped around Europe the cheapest way possible. Now, I wasnt without the financial means—I did also often use the excellent rail systems in the various Western European countries (Switzerland, Westdeutschland, France, Luxembourg, Italy, Spain) but hitch-hiking was another way to see the countryside and to meet the citizens of those countries. As a Canadian, with a Canada flag prominently stitched to my big red back pack, I never really had any problems getting that next ride. If there was a long wait, it was because of the line ahead of me or the poor location.

* * *

The night of July 5th, Claudia, Julia, and I attended the 18th Annual Montreux International Jazz Festival (1984). We saw the reggae band Aswad, Téléphone from France, and a burned-out Johnny Winter.

I had the day off but the girls did not. After an enjoyable night we started hitch-hiking home at 2.00—we had kept it light on the beer, and lately cutting down on our smoking, too—Marlboro and Camel unfiltered—first catching a ride in a crimson BMW 3-series all the way to Morges, then waited a half hour for a taxi up to Perceval by 3.30, costing us a collective sFr. 45,00.

Deep Purple recorded “Smoke on the Water”, appearing on their Made In Japan album. The Casino burned to the ground December 4th, 1971, after someone fired a roman candle into the ceiling in the middle of Don Preston’s synthesizer solo in “King Kong”. Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention lost most of their gear and instruments.

We all came out to Montreux
On the Lake Geneva shoreline
To make records with a mobile
We didn’t have much time
Frank Zappa and the Mothers
Were at the best place around
But some stupid with a flare gun
Burned the place to the ground
Smoke on the water, fire in the sky

They burned down the gambling house
It died with an awful sound
Funky Claude was running in and out
Pulling kids out the ground
When it all was over
We had to find another place
But Swiss time was running out
It seemed that we would lose the race
Smoke on the water, fire in the sky

We ended up at the Grand Hotel
It was empty cold and bare
But with the rolling truck stones thing just outside
Making our music there
With a few red lights and a few old beds
We make a place to sweat
No matter what we get out of this
I know we’ll never forget
Smoke on the water, fire in the sky

Hitch-hiking in Switzerland was generally known to be safe—those picking us up usually friendly and sometimes willing to talk. Known as l’auto-stop (faire du stop) in French Switzerland, as Trampen (per Anhalter fahren) in German.
Another evening, Saturday, July 14th, many of us stagières and séminaristes (including Maddalena, Mórag, Claudia and her sister Antje, Bernd-Uwe and sister Beate, Fernando, Angelines, Maria-Jésus, Jean-Luc, and myself) went down to a secluded lakeshore spot to celebrate the Fête d’Été with a campfire picnic and roast, singing and guitar, drinking, smoking, and swimming.

From the route du lac, a little more than a third of the way between St-Prex and Morges and across from the Le Boiron farmstead, our entourage of a metallic light blue 1972 VW Beetle, 2 CV Canards, Renault 4s and 5s, turned right onto a gravel road, parking half way along at wood’s edge, then on foot through the leafy trees to a short sandy beach and fire pit about 200 metres west of the mouth of Le Boiron, quietly and calmly feeding the lake.

Around sundown, Claudia and I waded a little further west from the group and stripped down to swim and cavort naked in the cool, pleasant water.

Now the plan was, July 15th, I would train it to Stuttgart via Lausanne, Bern, Zürich, and Schaffhausen, visiting the Matzke’s, then the Paffrath’s in Pforzheim, hitching to Grandfather’s in Höhbeck-Brünkendorf, back to Konstanz and Allensbach to see Claudia, August 9th, and back in St-Prex by August 12th.

It was the 750th Anniversary (1234-1984) of the village of St-Prex, a community-wide celebration including Perceval, with municipality tents set up on various lawns and park lands, local vintners plying their whites and reds, in local custom drank in little 10 dl glasses. I purchased a set of six commemorating St-Prex, emblazoned with the town’s official red and white crest.

Almost at the last minute, the evening before my holidays, it was decided in an emergency meeting that I was to return the second week to help Mórag with a difficult Greek-Turkish boy who was not going home for anything beyond a day visit, as his parents beat him soundly everytime they argued and fought, tempers flying.

My first week I did take the train to Konstanz, hitchhiked to Stuttgart (Matzke’s), and then Pforzheim (mother’s godchild’s parents), and the train back via Karlsruhe, Basel, Bern, and Lausanne.

Strangely, several songs from the München pop-rock group, Spyder Murphy Gang, stand out in my mind from that quick stab into Westdeutschland—“Freizeit ’81” from their Tutti Frutti album, “Skandal im Sperrbezirk” and “Schickeria” from Dolce Vita, and “Achterbahn” from Rock’n Roll Schuah.

The week with Kristo was peaceful and restful—he seemed relieved there was the small contingency remaining at Maison François.

In that second week our good friend and co-worker, fellow seminarist-to-be, Maddalena Angerame from Varese, northern Italy, tragically drowned Wednesday, July 24th, while rescuing and saving her little nephew who had visited us just a few months earlier.

This happened in a little lake near her home town. He survived, but Maddalena succumbed in exhaustion close to shore, despite being a trained lifeguard. The ultimate selfless act that someone could do—one’s own life for another.

A week earlier Maddalena had confided in Mórag how she was no longer afraid of death! and had insisted on clearing all her debts before leaving on holidays—the fourth day of which she left this world.

Now our planned seminar group of twelve was eleven—still the largest seminar year Perceval had seen yet. Now we had one of us guiding our group from the other side.

That same week Mórag, Julia, myself, and a few others went to the 9th Annual Festival Nyon Paléo, many musicians featured including Alan Stivell, the Breton folk harpist, and Georges Moustaki, the famous French chansonnier. I had already heard a few of his songs from several co-workers’ cassette collections. He soon became my all-time favourite singer-songwriter, and remains so to this day.

Georges Moustaki was born Giuseppe Mustacchi, of Greek-Italian-Egyptian origin, in 1934 in Alexandria, Egypt.

A few favourites stand out from that summer, such as “Le Métèque”,

Avec ma gueule de métèque,
De Juif errant, de pâtre grec
Et mes cheveux aux quatre vents,
Avec mes yeux tout délavés
Qui me donnent l’air de rêver,
Moi qui ne rêve plus souvent,
Avec mes mains de maraudeur,
de musicien et de rôdeur
Qui ont pillé tant de jardins,
Avec ma bouche qui a bu,
Qui a embrassé et mordu
Sans jamais assouvir sa faim ...

Avec ma gueule de métèque,
De Juif errant, de pâtre grec,
De vouleur et de vagabond,
Avec ma peau qui s’est frottée
Au soleil de tous les étés
Et tout ce qui portait jupon,
Avec mon coeur qui a su faire
Souffrir autant qu’il a souffert
Sans pour cela faire d’histoires,
Avec mon âme qui n’a plus
La moindre chance de salut
Pour éviter le purgatoire ...

Avec ma gueule de métèque,
De Juif errant, de pâtre grec
Et mes cheveux aux quatre vents,
Je viendrai, ma douce captive,
Mon âme soeur, ma source vive,
Je viendrai boire tes vingt ans
Et je serai Prince de sang,
Rêveur ou bien adolescent,
Comme il te plaira de choisir;
Et nous ferons de chaque jour
Toute une éternité d’amour
Que nous vivrons à en mourir.

Et nous ferons de chaque jour
Toute une éternité d’amour
Que nous vivrons à en mourir.

and the song “Ma Liberté”,

Ma liberté
Longtemps je t’ai gardée
Comme une perle rare
Ma liberté
C’est toi qui m’as aidé
À larguer les amarres
Pour aller n’importe où
Pour aller jusqu’au bout
Des chemins de fortune
Pour cueillir en rêvant
Une rose des vents
Sur un rayon de lune

Ma liberté
Devant tes volontés
Mon âme était soumise
Ma liberté
Je t’avais tout donné
Ma dernière chemise
Et combien j’ai souffert
Pour pouvoir satisfaire
Tes moindres exigences
J’ai changé de pays
J’ai perdu mes amis
Pour gagner ta confiance

Ma liberté
Tu as su désarmer
Toutes mes habitudes
Ma liberté
Toi qui m’as fait aimer
Même la solitude
Toi qui m’as fait sourire
Quand je voyais finir
Une belle aventure
Toi qui m’as protégé
Quand j’allais me cacher
Pour soigner mes blessures

Ma liberté
Pourtant je t’ai quittée
Une nuit de décembre
J’ai déserté
Les chemins écartés
Que nous suivions ensemble
Lorsque sans me méfier
Les pieds et poings liés
Je me suis laissé faire
Et je t’ai trahie pour
Une prison d’amour
Et sa belle geolière

Et je t’ai trahie pour
Une prison d’amour
Et sa belle geolière

and there is also the song “Sarah”,

La femme qui est dans mon lit
N’a plus vingt ans depuis longtemps
Les yeux cernés
Par les années
Par les amours
Au jour le jour
La bouche usée
Par les baisers
Trop souvent mais
Trop mal donnés
Le teint blafard
Malgré le fard
Plus pâle qu’une
Tache de lune

La femme qui est dans mon lit
N’a plus vingt ans depuis longtemps
Les seins trop lourds
De trop d’amours
Ne portent pas
Le nom d’appâts
Le corps lassé
Trop caressé
Trop souvent mais
Trop mal aimé
Le dos voûté
Semble porter
Les souvenirs
Qu’elle a dû fuir

La femme qui est dans mon lit
N’a plus vingt ans depuis longtemps
Ne riez pas
N’y touchez pas
Gardez vos larmes
Et vos sarcasmes
Lorsque la nuit
Nous réunit
Son corps, ses mains
S’offrent aux miens
Et c’est son coeur
Couvert de pleurs
Et de blessures
Qui me rassure

Saturday, July 28th, I was on vacation again, up to Allensbach with Claudia in her yellow Renault 5.

On the Autobahn northeast of Zürich we lost the driverside windshield wiper blade—it nailed the windshield of a grey BMW right behind us. She pulled over, I rummaged through my backpack for the Swiss Army knife, both of us barefoot in the downpour, me in jeans and t-shirt, she in a red dress. I unclipped the other blade and transferred it over. Thereafter the now bladeless wiper arm etched a line into the glass with each pass. Meanwhile, a cassette by the Animals was blasting through the tinny speakers—“We’ve gotta get out of this place” stands out in my mind to this day.

I stayed at Claudia’s until Monday morning, then thumbed from Singen to Hamburg in three days—standing three hours in the muggy heat on the southwestern outskirts of Stuttgart, finally scoring a ride with a business man in a fresh, new silver-grey BMW 733i, by way of Pforzheim, talking politics and devouring a few apples.

In the muggy, hazy heat of Karlsruhe, I caught my next ride near the on-ramp to the autobahn, only waiting about twenty minutes, with a pot-smoking German hippie listening to a music cassette by the German rock group BAP, driving a beat-up red 2CV Ente steering with the pinky of his right hand, past Heidelberg and Mannheim, depositing me at a rest stop on the A 3 Autobahn somewhere just past Wiesbaden and Frankfurt am Main.

Here I waited for some time, second-in-line behind a young German fellow who eventually commented on my Canada flag and offered hitching together to his parents in Leverkusen just north of Köln when he heard of my unrealistic hopes in still reaching Hannover that night, somewhat off-course that I was.

Soon after, we got a ride with a Dutch father and teen son towing a small sailboat with a baby blue late 1970s Ford Taunus station wagon.

We stayed with his family the whole next day, swimming at a crowded local outdoor pool and plied with steaks, pork chops, and plenty of DAB Pilsener (Dortmunder Actien-Brauerei)—quoting their current label,

Dortmund, “Brewcity of Germany” is the origin of a special type of the bottom-fermented blond lager, which became world famous as “the Dortmunder”. DAB Original is the leading product in this premium lager quality. It is still brewed according to the original Dortmunder brewing process, using only barley, hops, yeast and water to create the fabulous crisp and fullbodied taste of excellence

—and some other local brews, his father in Coca-Cola Deutschland’s upper management.

Then, together for Hamburg to see his girlfriend, via Wuppertal, Hagen, Dortmund, and Münster with three different rides, and the fourth with a Münster rock musician and producer, discussing music and musicians including the Scorpions and the Michael Schenker Group, past Osnabrück and Bremen into Harburg, where we caught an S-Bahn across the Elbe to the Hamburg Hauptbahnhof and another S-Bahn out to the girlfriend’s parents in Rahlstedt, that night quaffing a few pints of draught Guinness in a local imitation Irish pub.

My ancestors owned and operated a shipbuilding yard at the foot of Dorotheenstraße in the Winterhude neighbourhood—and a marina, boat rentals, and harbour ferry at the foot of Lohmühlenstraße. They had it from the early 1860s until the great worldwide financial crash in the 1920s.

At that time my great grandfather lost everything except his favourite sail boat, the cutter Greten.

We were up early the next morning. Nourished with a breakfast of Rollmopse (pickled, rolled herring filets), softboiled eggs, buttered slices of pumperknickel, and black coffee, the three of us cycled a tandem bicycle, taking turns in overlapping stages, a few blocks along Schweriner Straße to meet with Rahlstedter Straße, soon becoming Stapelfelder Straße—the 435—heading east and crossing to the hamlet of Stapelfeld where the A 1 Autobahn ran north to Lübeck on the Baltic.

I hitched into Trittau—just over twenty years later I would again take up the genealogical research that I had initially started in 1980 with Grandfather Heinrich Scharnberg’s invaluable research and knowledge of our family tree, contacting a Bruno Scharnberg through his website “Stammbaum Scharnberg Trittau”, attempting to find a connection between our Scharnberg branches—and then walked some 30 kilomteres from there down to Lauenburg along the 404 and 209 by way of Schwarzenbek as no one would stop along this fast countryside route with its 120 km/h speed limit, despite the easily distinguishable Canada flag prominently on my backpack, that usually got me my rides, judging by reactions and feedback from those that have stopped for me—plenty of questions, comments, and compliments about Canada. This was the worst luck I was to have, trying to catch a ride.

Then on to Lüneburg where a local family scooped me from the roadside and home for a dinner of medium-rare steaks and red wine, and lots of great discussion. They got me on the last train of the evening for Dannenberg, and then one more hitch, arriving at Grandfather’s doorstep by 22.00 on the Thursday, August 2nd. He was still up, waiting for me past his usual bedtime—we talked until just after one in the morning.

In the next four days he had lots to say—not everything I agreed with—re: his views on Jews, Hitler and the Nazi’s ideas on expansion eastward into the Soviet Union, Gouvernement in Poland during the war, keeping Germanic blood pure, Theosophy, knocking Anthroposophy—until this almost caused an argument between us.

He was already 88 years old, entrenched in his ideas, but easily looking twenty years younger, with a clear mind and physically fit. A strict, largely Rohkost vegetarian, but allowing himself the indulgence of an occasional small piece of dark chocolate. Every evening he and Hanna would watch a lot of TV—something of a paradox in his otherwise health-regimented lifestyle.

Early Monday morning, August 6th, my uncle, Klaus Paasche, drove me to Wolfsburg, Volkswagen’s hometown, nearby where he was currently working on an Autobahn section, as surveyor.

From there I was back on the train, no hitching due to heavy rains and sparse traffic. Klaus had said it was due to the current strikes at Volkswagen and vacation time. Die Bahn took me through Braunschweig, Hannover, Frankfurt am Main, and Mannheim to Stuttgart, then the S-Bahn into Böblingen, home to a Mercedes Benz factory, where I became lost and confused trying to figure out the freeway entrance, finding it around nine in the evening, north of the train station, not south—no money left for further train travel southward. Car traffic was only local—I always made use of black permanent marker and cardboard to state my destinations.

I availed myself of the town’s small park woods for the night, succeeding in a ride quickly, early the next morning from a young American couple in a circa 1956-1957 vintage grey-green VW Beetle sporting US Army Europe plates.

They dropped me right in the heart of Singen, where I quickly got my next one, quite literally out of the Beetle, sign and thumb up barely five seconds and into an orange Opel Kadett, into Allensbach at Claudia’s doorbell about 8.30 for breakfast and then swimming in the lake, followed by a drive around to Insel Reichenau, facing Allensbach, for lunch, a walk, visiting the three churches—St. Georg in Oberzell, St. Maria und Markus in Mittelzell, and St. Peter und Paul—and cake and coffee in a little establishment to finish.

The next day we drove together into Stuttgart to visit some friends of hers (Frank and his girlfriend), spontaneous idea—she commonly came up with these—staying Wednesday to Friday afternoon.

We visited the Neue Staatsgalerie, stopped in on the Freie Waldorfschule Uhlandshöhe, Haussmannstrasse 44—quite familiar to me as it was here I had visited for six weeks in summer 1981 after my high school graduation—walked numerous wooded paths above the city centre including the Monte Scherbelino, a hill of rubble from all the houses and buildings destroyed in local W.W. II bombing raids, and one breakfast stop at the Mozart Café—a stone gazebo-like establishment—where we ordered the house special, ein schwarzes Frühstück, consisting of an espresso cup of black coffee and a Gauloise Brune cigarette. You can imagine the buzz.

Then, on our return drive, stopping in on friends (Gabriela and another young woman) at Lehenhof not far north of the Bodensee (Lake Constance), the oldest Camphill village in Westdeutschland, founded by Dr. Karl König in September 1964, pleasantly located on a hillside heavily laden with many trees of just-ripe cherries on the orchard slopes below.

Saturday morning, August 11th, I made use of my thumb again, from Allensbach to Morges in five hours and three rides, walking the last few kilometres into St-Prex.

* * *

I have hitch-hiked many times back and forth between St-Prex and Morges, Lausanne, Genève, Montreux, Vevey, Neuchâtel, Fribourg, Biel/Bienne, Basel, Winterthur, Zürich, Solothurn, smaller towns in the German region of Switzerland, into villages of the Vaudois hinterland at the foot of the Jura mountains, the Bernois countryside, Valais, up through Westdeutschland by way of Konstanz, Freiburg im Breisgau, Stuttgart, Pforzheim, Karlsruhe, Bonn, Düsseldorf, Köln, Essen, Münster, Hamburg, Lüneburg, Celle, Uelzen, Dannenberg, Hannover, Braunschweig, Kassel, Ingolstadt, and München.

At some point I will detail a few more of these trips.

And, I never thumbed in North America until a few years ago (summers 2002 & 2006) when I did hitch-hike in New Brunswick, Saint John to Moncton and back. Out here on the West Coast I would not dare try this. Maritimers I trust more as they’re generally friendlier than most people.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

The beach at Cox Bay, Tofino, Vancouver Island, B.C., Canada

At 7:46 pm, Tuesday, August 11th, 2009

We of Vancouver Island live

in the last of warmth

and the fading of brightness

on the sliding edge of the beating sea.


Nous habitons sur l’Île de Vancouver

dans le reste de la chaleur

et dans l’affaiblissement de la lumière

au bord de la mer battante.


Wir von Vancouver Island leben

in der letzten Wärme

und der schwindenden Helligkeit

am Rande des schlagenden Meeres.


(line one and translations into French and German by Stephan Alexander Scharnberg, September 1984; lines two, three, and four, of the first verse, are from Earle Birney’s great poem about Vancouver, “November Walk near False Creek Mouth”)


The Music Tide


I heard millions of sounds last night

come floating in on the tide,

crashing against the rocks and

washing over the beaches.

There must be music in the ocean.


(Stephan Alexander Scharnberg, September 1984)


Finally home


I stand westward-looking

at the sinking red sun,

on the sand at the tide.


The salty air of the Pacific,

the big waves washing in

the tide around my bare feet.


Seagulls lazily soaring above,

a few lonesome calls I hear,

some stranded seaweed I see.


The sun disappears towards Japan,

only leaving orange and rose

painted in the clouds and sky.


Peacefully happy but becoming chilled,

to driftwood and forest shadows I go,

leaving the ocean behind.


With my jeans wet and my feet cold,

wearing my Cowichan sweater,

I follow the path among the evergreens.


Drifting into sleep in my sleeping bag,

with contented heart and soul I know:

to the Island I’ve finally come home.


(Stephan Alexander Scharnberg, May 1985)

At 7:24 am, Wednesday, August 12th, 2009

At 7:28 am




At 7:29 am

© Copyright photographs by Viktoria Iakovleva, August 2009

West Coast


Oh! The West Coast

the wild West Coast

as on a high hill I stand

and gaze away across trees and ocean.

The wild land of which I often dream.


La côte ouest


O! la côte ouest

la côte ouest si sauvage

lorsque sur une haute colline je me trouve

en regardant la forêt et la mer.

Le pays sauvage auquel je souvent rêve.


(Stephan Alexander Scharnberg, August 1985)


The ocean


West of my forest world

and under the ocean sky

there lives the Pacific.


An ocean married with the setting sun

and made of far-reaching currents

that can carry a message in a bottle

there to our shores from Japanese fish boats.


Of seagulls and killer whales

and the West Coast fishing fleet.

Of foggy mornings and sunny afternoons,

botanical sea gardens, driftwood,

and wide sandy beaches.


And there often wander my dreams

and me with my two bare feet.


(Stephan Alexander Scharnberg, November 1985)


Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Blog changes

Well, I have returned to the regular working world and to some semblance of my normal daily routine. I enjoyed my seven weeks summer vacation, keeping occupied with my teen son visiting from Saint John, N.B., camping at Lightning Lake in Manning Park, re-roofing with new asphalt tiles my parents’ house, ten days in Kelowna for my wife and I, our older male cat sick (he is now almost back to his old self), our young female cat spayed (there are enough cats in the world), playing tourist in Vancouver, a day trip to beautiful Victoria, a rainy visit to Harrison Hot Springs for several hours of warm waters, some chores and projects around the house and yard, the Rod Stewart concert at GM Place, hosting friends and family, visiting friends and family.

This afternoon I changed my blog title (after weeks of thought on this matter). As much as I like “Love of life, life of love”, it doesn’t quite suit the changes I have in mind. This blog has gone in many directions. I have decided to narrow my scope somewhat, essentially, to travel, books, music, and cinéma. I also plan on devoting more time to writing my travel literature.

I had several choices for the new title. I like simple best, so, the new title is “Words & Roads”.

Friday, July 24, 2009

Reading and writing

Dear readers, here is my first posting since late June. How is everyone’s summer? I have enjoyed a wonderful visit with my teen son from Saint John, New Brunswick—in a week or so I hope to post in detail about our camping trip and such. This morning he returned to his mother and circle of friends. As usual, every July or August, it is sad to see him leave again for another year. He boarded the nine o’clock Air Canada flight, Vancouver-Ottawa-Saint John.

I am reading again—after several years—Paul Theroux’s Sunrise with Seamonsters: Travels & Discoveries 1964-1984 (Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston, 1985) hardcover. I has me thinking about life, my travels past and future, and about the solitary work of writing. This book is one of those special gifts in life, giving me continuing encouragement in my endeavours to write. This is also for all you new and aspiring writers out there.

In his chapter, “V.S. Naipaul”, page 92, I read:

“You should publish it. Send it to a good magazine—forget these little magazines. Don’t be a ‘little magazine’ person. And write something else. Why don’t you write something about this dreadful place?”

“And you need to be calm to write well. Be detached—detachment is very important. It’s not indifference—far from it!”

Then, page 93:

“Never give a person a second chance. If someone lets you down once, he’ll do it again.”

“At this stage of your life your writing will change from week to week. Just let it—keep writing. Style doesn’t matter—it’s the vision that’s important, and writing from a position of strength.”

“Never take people more seriously than they take themselves.”

Friday, June 26, 2009

Rest In Peace, Farrah and Michael

An early thought I had at the news of his passing: What will happen to Michael Jackson’s three children? Apparently, he is the only parent they have known. As strange as his adult life always was, as troubled as Michael was, it seems he loved his children, in large part being quite protective of them when it came to their privacy (although there is the incident where he dangled his youngest son from a Berlin hotel window). Yes, he has been accused of child molestation, but in our western world we luckily have the right to a presumption of innocence until proven guilty. He was a child that never really had the opportunity to grow into an emotionally mature adult, never having had a so-called normal childhood. Some say he was still a ten-year-old boy. They say he was a “Peter Pan”. There is probably some truth to this.

Who will seek custody of the three?—the third, cynically known as “Blanket” in the media, was apparently adopted from Europe, ancestry unknown. Will it be Debbie Rowe?, someone from the Jackson clan? Likely, where the children go, the money will go. Yes, his estate is apparently heavily in debt. Does it still own the Beatles catalogue? (Commonly it is believed Michael Jackson bought out all of their songs and owns the copyrights, but, in reality, he owns only 50% of Sony/ATV Music Publishing, which in turn owns most of the Beatles publishing rights. Paul McCartney, as well as Lennon’s Estate still retain the songwriting rights and receive about 50% of the ongoing publishing revenues for composing the music). Michael’s royalties will continue to come after all the debts are dealt with. How many fans who bought tickets to the fifty sold-out shows(!) will seek reimbursement? I wouldn’t be surprised if many fans decide to keep the tickets as souvenirs, willing to take a financial hit for the now “no shows”.

I’m not a fan of his adult music hits, although I acknowledge that he was extremely talented. His shows, including the one in Vancouver back in November 1984, changed the pop music business forever, in more ways than one—showmanship, stage, lighting, effects, marketing; pushing the industry to new heights of achievement. He deserves the title of “King of Pop”. It is apparent many, many around the world are able and willing to overlook, see past, his many shortcomings, to focus, justifiably, on his amazing talent. I am a fan of his early stardom, even as I admit this did deny him a normal, healthy childhood. I remember such hits as “I Want You Back”, “ABC”, “The Love You Save”, and “I’ll Be There”.

In the late 1990s I knew an English woman (my deceased fiancée; from Bradford, Yorkshire) who moved to the Detroit area in early 1968, finishing high school in Ferndale, Michigan. She graduated Grade 12, then learned her way into a secretarial job at Motown Records, founded by Berry Gordy, Jr., with his publishing company, Jobete Music. She recounted stories of the famous Motown talent that passed through the offices of the agency. Smokey Robinson and Marvin Gaye were the nicest, most gracious men she met there, in particular Smokey; the Jackson 5 were a talented family group but their dad was apparently a tyrant—accusations and stories—it seems likely the emotional and physical abuse have haunted and tormented Michael all his life.

Farrah Fawcett passed away earlier in the day, yesterday morning. I was one of the many adolescent boys in the 1970s who had her famous bikini poster up on their bedroom wall (iconic 1976 poster of Farrah Fawcett, first published in Life magazine in 1976, the best-selling pin-up poster of all time, with more than 12 million copies sold). Although I did not generally watch or have access to TV, I still knew of her enough to admire her flawless beauty. Many girls at the time had to have her hair style, and did, whether with it they looked good or not. I saw maybe one or two episodes of Charlie’s Angels at one or another friend’s house. Farrah only participated for one season of the show, 1976-1977. She starred in a number of theatrical and television movies over the years. And, for a while I did have a copy of the December 1995 issue of Playboy magazine, where she posed nude, causing an uproar in some quarters. It became the best-selling issue of the 1990s with over four million copies sold worldwide.

She bravely, heart-achingly, revealed her hardships and challenges battling cancer.

Farrah’s impact, as pop culture figure and sex symbol, was particularly strong on the Generation Jones teens of the 1970s, my generation. With the passing of these two popular culture icons, the 1970s and the 1980s are officially over.

I, for one, twenty years from now, will remember who died the same day as Michael Jackson.

Rest In Peace, Farrah and Michael.

Michael Joseph Jackson (Friday, August 29th, 1958-Thursday, June 25th, 2009), age 50

Farrah Leni Fawcett (Sunday, February 2nd, 1947-Thursday, June 25th, 2009), age 62

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

I lived in Paradise

I lived in Paradise, on a hillside on the north shore of the Lac Léman. This was not the Paradise of my childhood, but of my early adult years.


It all started with drying dishes. Early December 1981, I was still living at home. This chore was one of the family expectations, just as lolling around without a job or an immediate plan was not. Mother set me an ultimatum—find a job within a week or move out.


A childhood friend from White Rock called a little later that evening with a job offer in a door assembly plant, Surrey Door in Surrey-Newton. And I would be living with them in White Rock.


At the same time, I discussed with my parents the wish of mine to experience Camphill life, originating in 1979 when a former Newton Dee peer of father’s, Hartmut von Jeetze, came to visit, talking about and showing slides of Camphill Copake in upper New York State. I was much impressed by what I heard and saw. The seed was planted.


My parents both had experiences and still some peripheral connections with Camphill and Rudolf Steiner communities—father as a gardener in Camphill Newton Dee, Aberdeen, Scotland from February 1951 to February 1954; mother also as a gardener, in Bussigny near Lausanne, Vaud, Switzerland from April 1955 to October 1956.


I wrote to ten different communities—names and addresses we pulled from a list we had from an Anthroposophical Initiatives directory booklet, focusing on Westdeutschland, France, and Switzerland. Two months later, only two or three had responded. St-Prex was my only hope, the others at that time not needing workers. I answered with a detailed life story, curriculum vitae, reiterating my wish to learn French and gain an initial experience working with Children in Need of Special Care. Plans were made for me to attend, summer 1982 to summer 1983, for a practicum year and a chance to learn the language, leaving the door open for a longer stay dependent on the outcome of my initial year there. I still had a current passport and saved most of my working money for a return airline ticket and some initial spending money.


I already knew from father and reading that the Camphill Movement was born in 1939-1940 out of the initiative of Dr. Karl König. In the late 1930s in Wien he had gathered a small group of students, studying the teachings and indications of Rudolf Steiner. He and the students fled in different directions with the Nazi invasion of Austria. England opened its doors to refugees and Dr. König entered by invitation. He was given a twenty-five acre estate called Kirkton House, about seven miles from Aberdeen, Scotland. One by one the students found their way there during 1939. The war broke out, the men were classified as enemy aliens and interned on the Isle of Man. Meanwhile, the publisher W.F. Macmillan purchased a larger estate called Camphill House, hence the movement’s name, and the women moved there on Saturday, June 1st, 1940, commencing their work with twelve children, one of the first attempts at living in residence with special needs children.


A few weeks were spent at home again; relaxing, swimming, and tubing in the Cowichan River with six-packs of beer, Labatt Blue, tied to the air valve; and getting some gear and possessions together. I purchased the red 1982 edition of Baedeker’s Switzerland, pouring over it in some detail, slung out in our backyard hammock between the walnut tree and a tree pole. I was to show up in Genève as a tourist and Perceval would take care of procuring me a work permit.


Like many, I believed (somewhat) in the clichés about the Swiss—brown cows, Alps, yodelling, chocolate, watches, and cuckoo clocks—but within days of my arrival I was already learning and experiencing how much more of this fascinating people and country there was.


I had always been impressed with Switzerland’s neutrality and admired her form of democracy, which only deepened during my residence there—this small, mountainous confederation on a very unique path of destiny and practicing a direct form of democracy through her constitution, structure of government, and the many cantonal, regional, and federal referendums the Swiss vote on throughout the year. To this day I see the Confoederatio Helvetica as the best and only authentic example of democracy so far in existence. Other nations laying claim to this title are little more than half- or pseudo-democracies.


Over time, Switzerland revealed more and more the multitude of riches in her history, geography, food, literature, and culture, many of her qualities distinct along linguistic lines. I experienced almost nothing of her Romansch and Italian aspects, but sampled a decent taste of her Schwyzerdütsch regions, and became immersed in many aspects of la Suisse Romande, comprised of Genève, the western half of Valais, Neuchâtel, the Jura, most of Fribourg, and above all the canton Vaud with its historical imperative of Liberté et Patrie as the centrepiece of its flag and cantonal shield of white and green. Looking back, La Romandie has become my second homeland, in fact, my spiritual home just as Canada is my physical home and Germany my ancestral home.


I borrowed a half dozen books from the Cowichan branch of the Vancouver Island Public Library, where I worked the last two years of high school earning my escape money correctly reshelving returned books and magazines in the stacks, flirting each shift with my co-worker Laurie Hamilton.


I read that Switzerland’s beginnings can be traced back to the 12th millennium BC. Finds of Stone Age arrowheads have been made at the Bieler See and Lac de Neuchâtel. Near Brig, archaeological digs have uncovered elaborate burial sites indicating settlement of the western region and the Valais in the early Stone Age. From the Iron Age there is evidence of the existence of a pre-celtic culture. Later, the Celtic Helvetii resolved to unite and settle the Jura. The Romans were unable to set foot in the Valais until about 58 BC, when Caesar and Augustus were the first to conquer Helvetian lands, making them part of the Roman Empire. About the year 300, the Primicerius Maurice and his Theban Legion, recruited in Africa, were martyred at Agaunum, today St-Maurice, for refusing to worship the Roman deities and slay their fellow Christians throughout central Europe. Soon thereafter, Christianity spread throughout the southern Swiss region.


I savoured the descriptions of the various regions and drooled over the large-format colour images in the calendars my godmother, Ursula Nitschke in Winterthur, sent us at Christmas each year. In particular: the Jura, made in large part of gentle rolling hills in gradual ascent, lonesome woods and fields in between, and scattered about, attractive little towns and pretty villages; the slopes of the Jura falling to the shores of the Bieler See and the Lac de Neuchâtel, with a number of castles and burgs scattered among the vineyards; in contrast, Biel/Bienne and Neuchâtel, modern industrial towns; across the larger lake the Murtensee and Murten/Morat, and a little further along Fribourg/Freiburg, due to its mostly preserved medieval character, one of Switzerland’s most beautiful cities; down in the farthest western corner of the Confederation, at the lower end of the Lac Léman where the Rhône leaves for its long route through France, Genève, pulsating with life under a somewhat austere protestant past, business-like and of great importance in the world of international politics and science; Jura-like landscape accompanying the lake about halfway, then receding northerly behind the Vaud hinterland; and the Rhône valley predominated by the massive Alps.


I noted the humorous words of the Swiss writer and essayist Ludwig Hohl, 1904-1980, “Die Schweizer sind stolz darauf, so schöne Berge geschaffen zu haben.”


In the years since, my parents find it on occasion amusing to remind me, that span of five years (1982-1987 with a year off in-between) was my Finishing School.


Les Bienveillantes de Jonathan Littell/The Kindly Ones by Jonathan Littell


Les Bienveillantes de Jonathan Littell (Éditions Gallimard, 2006, 1401 pages) paperback. It won both the Grand Prix du roman de l’Académie française 2006 and the Prix Goncourt 2006.


The Kindly Ones by Jonathan Littell (McClelland & Stewart, Toronto, 2009, 992 pages) hardcover

This is a book
I would prefer reading in its original French. Jonathan Littell is a Francophone American. As I am unable to find a copy in French to borrow, I settled for a library copy of the English translation by Charlotte Mandell.

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

Summer is here!

Yeah, am I happy or what?

Summer made her entrance in the pre-dawn hours on Sunday. Now just four days of work remain for me at both jobs (including today). Then my long-awaited vacation starts.

Tomorrow the children have their last full day of school, then Thursday morning until 10 o’clock, at which time they’ll receive their report cards and also take home certificates and the contents of their desks. A few of them have already left in the last week or two for two- and three-month visits to their home countries (Serbia, China, and the Philippines, for example). A couple of children are sick with a summer cold or allergies. The biggest elementary school in B.C., Marlborough, is closed since last week, Wednesday, June 17th, for seven days due to five cases of the infamous (but I think, as yet, still over-rated) H1N1 (swine) flu. They’re scheduled to reopen tomorrow, Wednesday, to finish the school year. Thursday, after our children have gone for the summer—hopefully summer fun!—we staff will continue with the annual clean up and organizing of school inventory and supplies, packing up everything for storage so the custodial staff can give the premises a thorough top-to-bottom clean for Tuesday, September 8th, the day of our return. Then we will all head to a local Chinese restaurant for an extended lunch and some goodbyes for the few staff (teachers and a counsellor) either retiring or relocating to other schools. The remainder of the afternoon, more cleanup awaits us, including Friday after our staff breakfast.

Friday I finish my last evening shift at the group home before my seven weeks of vacation. Ah!, the much-deserved rewards of 21 years of union seniority!

And, this coming Saturday evening, my sixteen-year-old son flies in with Air Canada at about 10:30 pm from Saint John, New Brunswick, for a four-week visit. We’ll do plenty around the Lower Mainland, mostly by bus and bicycle, and on foot, visiting relatives and friends, a few stores, a museum or two, the Canada Day celebrations at Canada Place, the VFMF (Vancouver Folk Music Festival), swim in the salt and the sweet (English Bay and Spanish Banks and Jericho, maybe Sasamat Lake, the outdoor Kitsilano Pool), including one week camping at Lightning Lake in Manning Park and re-roofing our parents’ house (new asphalt shingles).

Likely, I won’t be posting as frequently—once a week, possibly twice. So, everyone, have a great summer. Don’t drink and drive! Stay safe but have fun.