Been Awhile, Hasn’t It?

As I write this, I am sitting in a sun-filled house near Pecos, New Mexico. Literally sitting — as in house-sitting and cat-sitting — for the season. I am in the perfect place, at the perfect time. Taking a much needed break from a life (my life) that was not working for me anymore. On this lovely Winter Solstice Day, I feel a sense of coming out of the darkness in more than just the physical sense.

Lots of changes have happened in the last (almost) 2 years, some of it good, some of it, shall we say, “challenging?” I will spare you the gory details, other than to say I moved back to Victor (alone) in the summer of 2018. After some months of emotional turmoil and soul-searching, I am finding solace and contentment in my own company. Maybe that was long overdue.

The house-sitting job has been a Godsend in the sense that I have the next 3 or 4 months to clean out the mental and emotional clutter and pull myself together. I’ve only been here a few weeks, but the light is beginning to shine on my soul again and I feel more clear and sure that I am going to be just fine.

So much for the dreaded “Dark Night of the Soul” and all that.

There has been an absence of balance in my life. Too much pushing to paint, paint, paint, whether or not I had anything to “say”. Production over process. No wonder I was losing interest. I know buried somewhere inside, there is still an artist’s VOICE fighting to emerge.  This feels like me trying to birth a new version of myself.

Until I know what that looks like, I guess I will be in labor…

New Beginnings

Yeah, I have been very negligent of my blog for — well, for a long dang time. Sooo, long story short: After living in Denver and Victor off and on for several years, I spent most of last year in Denver. Ick. If anything, that made it clear that I do not like cities… big or small.

We spent most of 2017 finding and moving to a bright spot in the mountains. Months of house hunting! Our wish list was long: proximity to a town, but not too close; a water feature (preferably a river, lake or stream) (but a fountain might work, too); no neighbors (or not-to-close neighbors); a couple of acres (at least); beautiful scenery; amenities (like dishwasher, garage, sunroom, lots of windows, etc, etc, etc). Sounds good on paper.

Yeah, we had to compromise. It IS Colorado after all. The prices in this state are through the roof. We found a great spot on acreage with a stream, privacy, views and most of what we wanted. The sunroom and garage — maybe later.

There was the trauma of decluttering, packing, storing, moving, unpacking, replacing stuff that the movers trashed … you know all the life-things that get in the way of making transitions easy. But we are finally here, in the mountains, but not too high. Basking in sunshine almost every day and enjoying the flocks of redwing blackbirds and Stellars jays that feast in the not-to-close neighbors yard. At night, sometimes we are blessed with coyotes howling or an owl hooting. And, OH MY! the night skies are amazing!

My painting took a back seat for far too long. I finally got the spare bedroom converted (sort of) to a studio and the paintings are starting to happen. Feels good to be back in the saddle, so to speak.

“Let’s Play”, SOLD by Studio 8369 Art Gallery, Grand Lake, CO

The day I set up my studio and started painting, my gallery (Studio 8369) in Grand Lake sold one of my paintings. A good sign, I think. I’ve started several paintings from photos I took at last year’s American Frontier Productions photo shoot. And I just finished a commission — a surprise for the soon-to-be new owner.

Looking forward to some high creativity for the rest of the year. Hope I catch up with you somewhere out there in art-land!

Aftermath

 Some revelations after wandering, painting and failing in Europe in 1998.

The trip to Europe really recharged me. I could see the benefit of having a job– money to do something fun! Or different. Then again, that day job was really draining my energy and leaving me nothing for my art except for financial resources (hmmm….).

While I still enjoyed my job and the feeling of financial independence (if counting on a paycheck can be called independence), I also had a taste of freedom. Aimless wandering, seeing new places, painting for hours every day. It felt like the kind of life I could really get into.

But (and this is one of what I call those “big butts”), I had a wonderful house and a house payment, an interesting project at work. And I wasn’t really sure if I could make enough money at art to keep the financial commitments rolling. I was in a live-in relationship that cemented the financial obligations, making it more difficult to go off tilting at windmills. (hmmm, at that time, it never occurred to me that I could earn enough money with my art..)

Yet the seed was planted and it began to grow. I wanted to paint and see the world, not live at the whim of an employer (or a boyfriend).  One thing for sure, I needed to “up” my painting game!

I immersed myself in art. All my spare hours and dollars went into learning as much as I could to maximize my skills.  Painting became my passion and my obsession. My day job was a small death every day. At the easel, my soul came back to life.

The time I spent in Europe brought me back to art and to myself. It was my first solo trip out of the country, an adventure in self-sufficiency and, quite seriously: waaay more fun than working. Yeah, I was very stupid about the workshop. I could have spent more of that time paying attention and learning some new things. For me, the ultimate lesson was that I had a lot to learn!

Once I realized that I didn’t know everything (I know, “surprise!”, right?),  I opened up to failing forward. Every painting does not have to be a masterpiece. In fact, the duds teach more than the successes. And the process becomes the point.  Painting is still hard and it’s still a learning experience. But, dammit, I am doing it! I am finally doing it!

Lavender Fields

Excerpts from my days at a workshop in Provence in 1998. 

Our second morning was spent at a nearby lavender farm — a stunning expanse of purple. I was actually freaking out over all that color. This would be much different than painting rocky mountains and pine trees. I had no idea how to begin. Failure was an option…

I chose to paint a value study of the buildings. The morning light was beautiful and (as I said) the colorful lavender was too scary. As usually happens in plein air painting, by the time I got set up and did a grid, the lighting on the scene had changed completely. So I painted, using the sketch as a guide. When the instructor came around, he said my painting didn’t look like the building.  Um… because the light is different now than when I started?  Or maybe, just maybe, the building I painted did not look like the building I was painting?  I don’t know. Obviously, information that I was not yet ready for.

By afternoon, I’d mustered enough courage to work in color. The grid thing was coming together for me and my sketch went together quickly. In the fields, the lavender harvest was beginning. I am not sure what the process is —  distillation, maybe? A heavy white cloud was pouring from a smoke stack; the smell was intoxicating. I’d heard that lavender is soothing to the nervous system — very soothing. And I was feeling mighty soothed.

A big man in a van pulled over and struck up a conversation. He was from Poland and was writing an article about lavender. He took my picture and asked a few questions. Then he wandered around and taking photos of the other artists. I never heard or saw any more about it, so who knows? Maybe I am famous (notorious?) somewhere in Poland.

Later a French-speaking couple stopped and started a conversation. With my limited French, I am not sure what we talked about. They may have said the lavender smelled and wished me luck with my painting. Or maybe that my art work stunk and I would need all the luck I could get. Sometimes, ignorance truly IS bliss.

The painting days, the vegetarian meals and the over indulgence in wines– it all runs together after awhile. We had days of painting and days of sightseeing. A visit to a local market yielded coffee and pastries — never disappointing.

We visited several medieval towns built on remote summits. Stone buildings and narrow pathways created a stronghold against invaders, I am sure. They DID let artists in, though. Entire towns were eye candy: truly a painter’s paradise.

In one town, I ALMOST painted (totally blocked by then). As I set up my easel, a red, white and black Citroen pulled into my view. A lady hopped out of the car and opened the trunk. It was full of old egg cartons and a huge yellow melon. Using the last of my film, I got a single shot of the scene, then whipped out my sketch book, frantically sketching and making notations, so I could reproduce it all in a painting.

After the car left, the instructor came along to offer some tips. And I immediately wimped out.  I had no confidence to pull off a decent painting – especially with the instructor looking over my shoulder! Still trying to make masterpieces when (in retrospect) I wish I had focused more on LEARNING. I guess I forgot why I was taking a workshop!

After I got back home, I finally attempted a pastel painting of that magical moment.

We wrapped up the day at a restaurant in town, where most of us were delighted to load up on  meat, fat and sugar. The food at the workshop, while quite good, was on the vegetarian side. No fatty, greasy American food for us! After a satisfying repast, we stopped at a local church for a concert.  I remember that we left at halftime (or is that intermission?). As I recall, some of the artists didn’t like the music.  I am not sure what they expected in a tiny little town in rural France, but, as the say, “C’est la vive“.

As the days went by, I had to force myself to paint, no matter how inadequate and insecure I felt. After awhile, my paintings began to get better. Unfortunately, I don’t feel like I ever let myself open up to learning. I was simply repeating the same things that I thought I already knew. The instructor was beyond patient with me and slowly some of what he had to say sunk in.  Still, it took me months of processing to really integrate his lessons into my art. That is how it works when you are a thick-headed artist.

Next: Aftermath

Settling In

Excerpts from my travels in Europe 1998. After 9 or 10 days of wanderings, I finally arrived at a remote location in Provence for an art workshop.

We arrived at a retreat/compound in the country. The buildings seemed ancient, all made of stone, but nicely renovated. There was a residence for the owners, lodging areas for the students, a large studio area and possibly some other buildings that I have forgotten. We had a “meet and greet” with the hosts and workshop instructor. The place and the people were a delight, at least on the first day. Not that anyone or anything was bad, but as a loner, a week and a half with lots of people (and no car) would become a bit of a challenge for me.

We were on a rigorous schedule: breakfast at 7 AM, load up the vans (cringe) at 8, head out to paint. Return to the retreat for lunch and rest until 4 PM. Then back in the vans and off to paint until 8 PM. Finally, a late dinner, socializing (if there was enough energy) and bed.

With someone else doing all the cooking and driving and with all the wine we could drink, it was promising to be a stress-free painting experience.

Yeah, “stress-free” until my first attempt.

In the morning, we met in the studio for a slide show and lecture. Then (and this is a direct quote from my journal) (don’t laugh) … the instructor “took us outside to demonstrate some artist concept or other”. This is funny now, because it reminds me how arrogant and clueless I was back in those days. I really just wanted to paint, not to pay attention to boring demonstrations. (Or even interesting ones.) If ignorance is bliss, then I was delirious.

After lunch, we went out to apply the theories we had been shown in the morning. Basically — value studies and sketches using a grid. So, I spent a frustrating afternoon at the cemetery … because… I wasn’t paying attention to the instructor. (Why was I taking this class again?) Eventually, the instructor gave me a bit of wisdom that I didn’t incorporate for a long time to come….something along the lines of … you came here to learn from me, so listen to what I am telling you. Sure, he was much nicer in his wording, but that was the essence. On the plus side, I listened enough to give it a try and another try and another try.

Can’t recall if I ever was able to do it right, but actually … the fact that I listened to someone else was a new paradigm for me! Let’s just say that by the time I returned for dinner, I was thankful for unlimited whine… um, I mean wine.

Next: Lavender Fields

 

The Vans

Excerpts from my travels in Europe in 1998

After catching up to the art group at the Avignon train station, I got to experience the first of many journeys in (cue dramatic music) THE VANS! (OK, I admit it… I was calling them “The Vans From Hell”). We had two large vans for 16 artists and 2 drivers.

Prior to the trip, we were told to pack light because luggage space in the van was at a premium. It seemed that some of us missed THAT memo. Lucky for me, I was one of the last to arrive and was able to drop my backpack on top of the heap of painting boxes, oversized suitcases and what? Is that a kitchen sink I see?

Not so easy, getting the people into the vans. I jumped in first, ending up in the waaay back. I was fine with that, just wanting a nice undisturbed nap. But the van was NOT air-conditioned and the only windows that opened were in the front. It was really hot and humid! So, there I was, suffocating (SUFFOCATING! I tell you!) in the fetal position (possibly sucking my thumb) as I waited for the others to get on-board. Imagine the fun of watching seven artists piling into a van:

“You go first.”

“Oh no, my dear, you go first.”

“Are you comfortable there,dear?”

“Here, let me change seats with you, dear.”

” Oh, I get car sick, I can’t sit back here, every one will have to get out, so I can move to the front seat.”

And so on.

Finally, we got going. It was an hour and a half drive to our home base. But we had to stop at least once to see the lavender fields. Yes! they were gorgeous. We had hit the time of year just before the harvest. And yes! It was a nice respite, to get out of the stuffy back seat and stretch my legs a bit. And yes! The scenery was impressive.

But (and this is yer BIG but), at some point, we all had to get BACK INTO THE VAN!

“You go first.”

“Oh no, my dear, you go first.”

“Are you comfortable there, dear?”

“Here, let me change seats with you, dear.”

” Oh, I get car sick, I can’t sit back here, every one will have to get out, so I can move to the front seat.”

And me, all the way in the back, whimpering in fetal position, thinking “Are we there yet?”

(Oh snap out of it. This is your dream trip, remember?)

Next: Settling In

Restrooms, Train Stations and Meet-ups

Excerpts from my travels in Europe in 1998. Up to this point, I’d been poking around various countries for 9 days, riding trains and sightseeing. I finally arrived in Avignon, where I would hook up with artists for a workshop.

At least the Avignon train station was open for the night. I’d just settled down on the floor when a janitor decided to sweep where I was sitting. Ok. I can take a hint! I have to pee, anyway.

But NOOOO! The restrooms were closed until 5 or 6 AM. Someone directed me to a point-and-shoot (that’s my terminology): basically an outdoor hole in the ground with a place to put your feet. Not even a door. (And not as nice as the one in the photo). Um… I can wait.

Turning my attention to the activity around the station, I noticed two women with a LOT of luggage. As they got their last bag loaded, the train pulled away, leaving them at the station (one more reason to travel light). I hope they eventually caught up with their stuff.

After a long and refreshing stretched-across-two-chairs nap, the “real” restroom opened. Unfortunately, the attendee could not change a 50F bill. “Desolee,” she said (which is French for, “Sorry“).  “You ain’t the only one!” Did I really say that or just think it? Don’t know. Then I remembered the French coins I’d put aside for souvenirs to take home. Priorities, baby!  I could get souvenirs anywhere.

The train station was getting hot and miserably crowded. (In case you missed my last post, there was an Art Festival in Avignon; people were everywhere.) I couldn’t take it! Outside I found a vacant spot in the grass. A young couple next to me were stranded — as were many others. The first available seat for their destination (Spain) was not until 2 AM (and it was barely noon). They had been wandering Europe for 2 months and this was the first time they had any problems getting around. I was so relieved I would not need a train for the next couple of weeks.

Eventually, I excused myself to go find my ride.  I was supposed to meet up with other artists and an instructor — none of whom I’d ever met. I wasn’t sure how to find them. After 45 minutes of looking around, I was getting just a bit uneasy that I prepaid for room, board and classes and what if there is no class? (aw geez… the monkey mind is on the loose again!)

Considering how crowded Avignon was, I decided it was too soon to panic and continued wandering until I noticed a man with a van in the parking lot and a group of people with easels. (clue!)

 “Please, tell me that this is the art workshop.”  It was. Whew!

Some observations about train stations:
Train stations have a wonderful rhythm. When a train arrives, clanking, hissing and squealing, people pour out the doors dragging luggage, kids, chattering and rushing about. Other people pile in and the train chuffs off to it’s next destination. The sounds calm down to the occasional conversation and rustle of clothing. Repeat, when the next train arrives.

Traveler conveniences at most stations: a place to change money or an automatic teller;  a tourist office; food vendors; luggage lockers and, of course, toilets. Some are pay toilets;  some are free. (I want to say, “It’s a crap shoot“, but I won’t).

Train stations are generally not air conditioned.

There is less body odor among people in train stations than I had been led to expect. I was the exception after spending a night there.

It seems that everyone in the station smokes, except me.

There is always an old woman asleep on the floor of a train station late at night and she isn’t always me.

Train stations are a great place to meet and visit with people you would probably never meet anywhere else. Even if your language skills are weak, you’d be amazed at how much you can figure out by listening and observing.

Next: The Vans!

A Long Night

Excerpt from my travels in Europe in 1998.

When I arrived in Avignon it was already dark, the tourist office was closed and, for the first time, I started to get a little nervous. But, hey, there’s a hotel right over there! I’ll just go get a room. Surely, if they were booked up, they would have a vacancy sign out. Surely. HA!  I forgot that there was a very popular Art Festival happening in Avignon that week. Without reservations, chances for a room in any direction were zero. The hotel clerk told me my best bet was to go to Marseilles.

Marseilles, by the way, has the highest crime rate in all of France (or so I heard). Somehow, my desire to go there — a lone female with no arrangements at 10 PM — well, it just did NOT resonate. I could spend the night in the train station or, with my rail pass, ride for at least 2 more hours without using an extra day. Hmmm. I could go to Valence, about an hour north.  As the train left the station I realized that to get to Valence and back would use up another day of my rail pass. Suck it up! Too late now. C’est la vie, as they say.

At Valence I considered looking for a hotel but I didn’t have the energy and chances seemed slim. I sat down to plot my next move — no clue, really.

A man with a dog and 4 black teeth (in his mouth, not in his hand) sat down and started chatting. In French. I tried to tell him my French was weak. Not really sure I made my point because he had already told me quite a bit of his life story, including showing me a picture of his wife and making a big show of kissing her picture. With the use of a map, my sketchbook and many gestures, I “explained” my journey so far.

As we gesture-chatted, he put his hands up by his head (to look like ears) and starts to hop and say “meow. Something about a “rabbit-cat-thing gone wrong” maybe? When he asked for my address (so he could visit me in America), I admit it; I pretended not to understand. Not very friendly of me, but I am leery of strangers with Dr. Moreau-style pets.

We parted ways when the train station closed. What? Wait.. I need to catch a train at 2 AM to get back to Avignon. Looks like I will be sitting outside on the platform. A (kind of creepy) midnight walk through a (well-lit) underground tunnel led to the platform. First, I looked for other options, but there were none. A suspicious-looking man was pan-handling (I think) in the tunnel. My brain was sooo tired, I didn’t even try to understand – instead walking by and saying “No merci,”  (which I think is like saying “no thank you”) (but I could be wrong, because) he responded, “Koont.” All righty then. Insults will get you … nothing. Some words ARE universal!

I really wanted to sleep, but there’s a very vulnerable feeling to being outside at night, in a strange country, language-impaired and among strangers. I pulled out my sketch book which attracted several observers. More opportunities to attempt conversations about … well, who knows, really? I was pretty good at “I’d like some cheese“, “hello, good-bye” and “where is the toilet“, but for every day conversation I was a Neanderthal trying to talk to a quantum physicist. OOO-GAH!  On the bright side, nobody beat me up!

Finally the train, hopefully the last for awhile, arrived and I was on my way back to Avignon.

Next: Restrooms, Train Stations and Meet Ups

 

 

Tales of an Itinerant Artist: On the Way to Avignon

Excerpt from my travels in Europe in 1998

Thursday: Switzerland.
From Interlocken I headed in the general direction of Geneva. My favorite thing about the Europass was that I could be spontaneous about my destination as long as I stuck to my selected countries and still had days left on the pass.

I didn’t know my next stop until the train passed through Lausanne. It was enticing with vineyards and stone walls on one side of the tracks and Lake Geneva and a beautiful city on the other. Why not check it out? The tourist information office helped me find a hotel near the train station (less than a mile but uphill all the way). (Which ain’t so bad unless you are carrying 28 pounds of crap on your shoulders and it is 95 degrees with 100% humidity). Not sure it was REALLY that bad, but I was well-drenched by the time I got to the hotel.

After a refreshing shower,  I got dressed (for which all of Lausanne is thankful to this day) and went out to enjoy the sights. I headed to the cathedral (Notre Dame).  There were many old stone buildings in the area, dating back to the Middle Ages. At an observation point, I could see most of the city and Lake Geneva. The breeze was cool and refreshing. After the cathedral, I wandered for awhile, enjoying the freedom to go where I wanted, do what I wanted and not have to ask anyone, “What do YOU want to do?”

Finally, I picked up some pastries and went back to my room for coffee (LOTS of coffee) and pastries for dinner. Not exactly fine dining but easy to prepare.

My room looked over a courtyard. I didn’t realize how remarkable that was, until I woke in the morning to the sounds of piano music, echoing off the stone walls. A delightful alarm clock.

Friday morning I plotted my course to Avignon via Chamonix. That would involve a bit of back-tracking; treating me to the Alps again. A nice ride until Martigny. Then– dramatic — all the way to Chamonix. It was very steep and beautiful. If I’d had one more day, this is where I would have stopped. But, no time to do more than look around, snap some photos and continue.

At Lyon, I could not find a tourist information bureau in the train station. OK. Fine. I will just continue to Avignon. hmmm… I couldn’t find train schedules either. Oh dang it. Now I would have to interact with a human being!

At the ticket office, communicating with the cranky ticket seller was challenging.  I just needed info, not a ticket. He seemed put out about that and I was a little too tired to give a shit.  I had to pull the “girl-card” — working up a few tears and a lip quiver. Not that difficult after 9 days of navigating foreign languages, toting a heavy pack and not eating or sleeping nearly enough. And it worked! He told me where to go (in a good way). So, off to the correct platform and on to the train to Avignon.

The traumatic part about riding trains in Europe is that they don’t always announce the name of the current stop. Yes, there are signs at every station, but you can’t always see the sign from your seat. So, when the train stops, I start to wonder, “Is this where I am supposed to get off? Do I change trains here? Did I miss my connection, etc?”

I don’t know which is worse: a very short stop and the train is on the way again before you are sure that was not your stop; or the train stays in the same place for 20 minutes, while you are thinking, “Is this the end of the line?” “Am I supposed to be on another train?” “Are we waiting for something?” Or worst of all, the train pulls into the station, stops for 20 minutes, and then pulls out going the same way it came. It’s not until the train leaves that you start to think, “Oh damn! I WAS supposed to change trains back there.”   At times like that, it’s good to have a compass. After an hour or so, you can at least tell if you are going in the right direction

Other interesting rail tidbits:

Every train car has a smoking section and a non-smoking section which are separated by a door. When people pass through the doors, the smoke pours in and as a former smoker, I thought it was kind of revolting and kind of enticing at the same time.

Travel light and keep your luggage with you. Toss it onto the rack above your seat or on the seat next to you. You may not have much time between trains and don’t want to waste it trying to track down your bags. I did 24 days in Europe, with a single backpack, which included quick dry, lightweight clothes, toiletries, a camera and oil painting paraphernalia.

If you use the toilet on the train don’t flush the toilet paper, put it in the waste basket. Do not use the toilet while the train is in a town (unless you did not like that town) because every flush drops the waste on the ground under the train.

Those little oddities aside, riding the rails in Europe was an absolute delight!

Next: Avignon, not quite what I expected!

 

 

Tales of an Itinerant Artist: Cable Cars and Mountain Tops

The continuing saga of my wanderings in Europe in 1998…..

Switzerland: Wednesday morning arrived in a downpour. Oh NO! I was planning to go into the mountains today. Do I have a plan B?  Yeah, go back to sleep.

Breakfast at the hotel was substantial. Two cups of coffee (count them! TWO!), a choice of fresh-baked bread, cheeses, baloney, and cereal. Baloney and cheese for breakfast? Can do.

I was out the door and into the rain. Why did I NOT bring any mountain wear? Did I think the Swiss mountains would be tropical? (Did I think at all?) Luckily, I found a rain coat at a gift shop. No shortage of gift shops in Interlaken.

Next destination — the summit of the Schilthorn where I hoped for views of Eiger, Monch and Jungfrau. I had to catch the train to Lauterbrunnen, the first of many stops on the way to the summit.

Lauterbrunnen rests in a high valley surrounded by steep mountain cliffs. Water seems to pour out of every crevice, creating huge, vigorous waterfalls. I can imagine spending the night in this town someday, falling asleep to the roar of water.

It is very impressive!

Just a short walk through town to the next ride. The exciting cabletrain to Murren gains 2,264 feet of elevation in less than a mile. I recall thinking, “If the mechanism pulling us up this mountain breaks, there is no choice but to die. But, at least it will be quick, once we hit the bottom!” Then a woman sitting behind me said, “If this lets go, I am jumping out. At least then I might have a chance to survive.” I looked out the window and thought, “Not so much!” Let’s just say it was steep!

A narrow gauge railroad completes the last 2.6 miles of the trip to Murren.  Now it gets interesting. The cable car ride to Birg is breath-taking. Or maybe it is hair-raising. We gained some serious altitude. And enjoyed a white-knuckle ride! Woo!

At Birg, one final cable car goes to the top of the Schilthorn. Here an observation deck provides a walk around the entire summit. A revolving restaurant offers some great vistas, too — or so I heard. Thanks to incessant clouds and light rain, the views were not much to write home about.

For the athletically inclined there are hiking trails from the Schilthorn to the villages below (and elsewhere, for all I know). I would have hiked down,  but wasn’t dressed for the cool weather.  And you know how much I HATE being cold!

This sign at the trail head left me amused and puzzled. Who would dream of hiking a snowy, high mountain trail, wearing high heels? In answer to my question, a group of tourists came up the trail and every single woman in the group was wearing — you guessed it — high heels. “Oh, that’s who…”

At last, I gave up on my “clear-sky-mountain-view” fantasy and headed back to lower altitudes.  Still too early to go home, I walked some of the paths to little nearby alpine villages. Back in Murren my appetite started to build. How about the Eiger Hotel for lunch? Sounds interesting. The waitress spoke German (me? Not so much) but I managed to point and grunt and ended up with a yummy vegetable lasagna (gemuselasagne — a lucky guess).

With still more daylight remaining, I rode trains up the Jungfrau side of the valley and wandered through other alpine villages.

Can’t say that I was tired of alpine villages, but it was getting late and I needed to get ready for the next leg of my journey. I was slightly disappointed that I didn’t get to see the high Alpen peaks, beyond the one I stood on, but -hey- it’s a good excuse to return to Switzerland some day.

As I got off the train in Interlaken, the sun finally broke through and gave a brief view of Jungfrau (at least, I think it was Jungfrau) before the clouds closed in once more.

I was chilled by the time I got to the hotel and asked the clerk if they even had hot water. She told me to let the water run until it got hot. Coming from Colorado, it didn’t feel right, letting the water run for the 25 minutes it took to get hot. But I really needed to get warm and clean. With a huge lake on either side of the town, water shortage is not likely to be a problem.

And so ends my barely successful quest to see the Swiss Alps.  With two days to get to Avignon for the art workshop meet-up and three days left on my rail pass, it was time to plot my journey back to France.

Next: Switzerland to Avignon