Travel post: Lauterbrunnen

I finally understand the phrase “the hills are alive with the sound of music.” It‘s a Swiss wind chime here, with the gong-like sounds of cow bells mixing with the light ringing coming from the sheep’s collars, the rushing 72 waterfalls that surround the valley and the odd Yahoo! from the paragliders.

The sheep bells are in concert with the mountain peaks, and I wonder if the skydivers can hear the rustling of my feet on the path. The muted screams of death-defying delight don’t even raise a flick of a sheep’s ear; the animals of the Lauterbrunnen Valley are used to the odd reverberation from the jumpers, like the occasional ting of a triangle in an orchestra.

Vertigo keeps me grounded during my stay, as the 10-hour overnight train from Berlin proved more stomach-churning than slumberous.

In fact, the only perplexed party in the Valley is a four-year-old girl with a bowl haircut of pure blonde, blue eyes, and a floor-length (pasture-length?) dress of pink. She’s fallen out of another time, or painting, or stereotype. She’s stumped at seeing me, and I think it’s perhaps of my Mediterranean features.

Only, no, perhaps that’s not it.

This Swiss Tinkerbell is befuddled because I’m the only person on the ground. Everyone else is masquerading as James Bond on the Schilthorn or spooning their paragliding instructor. The fact that I have two legs solidly on her path, as opposed to hanging sleeplessly in the air, is out of place.

The advantage of being earthbound is that I get a sense of rural life in motion. And the view from the bottom is just as breathtaking as from the top.

Spare cowbells line a farmer’s shed as if he’s expecting strays or waiting to ceremoniously bestow it on his youngest calf when she’s ready. Perhaps there’s an age-old adage here: every time a skydiver yelps, a cow gets her bell. The bells are lined up the way Westerners suspend pots and pans in the kitchen. This is domestic chic in the Valley.

I also spend time at all the local spots: 1 post office, 1 bakery, 1 bank, 1 pub, 1 grocery store, 1 Internet cafe. What else do you need, really?

You can blame the contagious buzz in the air on the servings at the café, but it’s really coming off the thrill junkies. Sit anywhere long enough and you’re bound to live vicariously. I’m double-dipping from the pot of Swiss travels: having staring contests with the cows but also feeling the hikers’ rush of shaking hands with the Alps.

The Valley is self-contained beauty. The monolithic peaks hear the echoes of my animal chorus, and my Tinkerbell is always aware of helicopters in the distance. Everyone wants ascension, wants the altitude to bathe them in baptism, but you’re perhaps just as connected down below as you are above.