Читать книгу The American College of Switzerland Zoo - James E. Henderson - Страница 3

How had I ended up in Switzerland in this school for the wealthy? Well, during the first term of my freshman year at Earlham College I had tried to do everything, except study, and I was still on academic probation by the end of the year. Then, as summer approached, my lieutenant colonel father received orders for Germany, and I decided to drop out of my college and take a year in school somewhere in Europe. So, at the beginning of that summer in 1966 I found myself on a ship with my parents, sister, and two miniature dachshunds crossing the Atlantic Ocean, learning survival German and international road signs. Our ship, the USNS General Patch, hit the tail of a hurricane; so I also learned how to slow dance on a heaving deck, walk stairs on the down side of the swells, and tie myself off when trying to feed and walk the dogs who were stuck together in a small kennel on the poop deck. I believe that I am using the correct term for that part of the ship, but for me and my sister, the term “poop” was quite literal.

We disembarked in Bremerhaven, and after a mad dash in a taxi from the ship to Customs, I jumped out of the cab and went searching for a bathroom. When I was directed to them, I stood staring at two bathroom signs marked “Herren” and “Damen.” With a “her” in one and “dame” in the other, I wondered which one was the men’s room. I thought that my survival German had saved me. I opened the door marked Herren, and I saw a cute girl, almost my age, standing at the sinks. Had I not noticed the urinals, I would have retreated immediately. Instead I stood there frozen until she turned, a cleaning cloth in hand, spotted my consternation, giggled, and politely walked out. It took a while to get used to the relative openness of Europeans about toilets, especially the coed toilets in southern Europe. If you men find it sometimes difficult using the urinal with an overly curious man beside you, try having an eighteen-year-old girl at the sink smiling and nodding.

I don’t remember much about the journey from Bremerhaven to Landstuhl, which was to be our home for the next three years. The autobahns were very similar to highway I-70, which had just been finished across the farmland of Ohio from my boarding school, through Columbus, where my favorite uncle and non-Quaker grandmother lived, and to my college in Indiana. I don’t remember the speed on the autobahns being excessive, but dad was doing all the driving because I had yet to get my international driver’s license.

Our home in Landstuhl was in a converted German military post on a hill across from a tumbled-down castle, but I didn’t have time to get settled in. A letter waiting for me when we arrived said that if I had not yet been accepted at a college I needed to report to the nearest draft board. Did I mention this was 1966, the middle of the Vietnam War? So my immediate mission was to find a college somewhere in Europe that taught in English and would accept me quickly and without question!

The Landstuhl newcomer’s center said there were three colleges that fit the bill: the American College of Paris, the University of Maryland extension in Munich, and the American College of Switzerland. I began my search using a Eurail pass that would allow me to transfer freely between trains all across Europe for a month. I hopped on my first train in Landstuhl and two transfers later I was at my first stop, the American College of Paris. It had interesting, old buildings in the middle of the left bank crush. I joined the summer students at a hootenanny and thought that I could learn to like the school. But it would be very different from the open, rolling hills of my boarding school or the heavy trees and greens of my college. The school’s admissions office cared little about my transcripts but let me know the costs and sent me on my way.

Next stop was the University of Maryland extension in Munich. This school was scary! Something out of a German prison camp story, complete with stone walls and tiny roads surrounding it like a moat. Admittedly, the fact that it was across the street from the world famous Hoffbrau Haus bar had some appeal, but I hadn’t learned to care much for beer. I don’t remember even going to the admissions office. I just wanted to get far away from there. My next destination was Switzerland.

Perhaps I was more relaxed by the time I began riding the trains from Bavaria toward Lake Geneva because I started to meet people. Before that ride, my only communication had been to ask “where is the train for *.*” in French or German and letting someone point me in the right direction. I wasn’t able to talk to anyone on the trains until I shared a cabin with a middle-aged German woman who taught Spanish. My school-learned Spanish flashed back to me, and we had a great time talking about Germany and my travels. She even gave me a short course in German by translating through Spanish. I thought it very odd that the Germans put their verbs at the end of their sentences, instead of after the subject, like in English and Spanish. I told her that I was - to Switzerland – going, – and she told me that I would – Switzerland – love!

When I got on the next train in Basel, Switzerland, every cabin on every car seemed full. I was afraid that I would have to stand until I heard what I thought was Spanish coming from a lively group in one car. I looked in the door, smiled tentatively, and said, “Hola!” The cabin was full with what appeared to be one large family: grandmother, two men and two women in their thirties, a teenage girl with long dark hair and a shy smile, and a couple of rowdy dark-haired young boys. They motioned me inside and wedged me in between the two boys. No sooner had I sat down than I was overcome with the smell of unwashed bodies, garlic, and sausage! My eyes watered; I couldn’t get my breath, but I couldn’t leave. I was afraid of hurting their feelings – so I stayed. The young boy on the side toward the window took a bite of a long dark sausage and passed it to me. I stared at it for a second. The car grew quiet, and I noticed everyone staring at me. The sausage smelled spicy, like a pepperoni pizza. My hunger took over, and before I knew it I was taking a large bite and passing it on. Everyone laughed, smiled, and went back to talking. A man across from me leaned forward with a bottle of wine. Along with him came the intense odor of sweat and garlic that almost knocked me down. However, several swigs later with more sausage, bread, cheese, and who knows what else, I joined the party! The air was still thick, but it no longer mattered. My end of the conversation was limited; my questions were met with polite nods. Their accent was so thick and they talked so rapidly that I could make out only a couple of words here and there.

As I got up to leave, I was hugged and kissed and sent away like a son going on vacation. As I stood outside the train I shouted “adios” back through the window as the train pulled out of the station. This was met with a chorus of “ciao” and “arrivederche.” Only then did I realize that the swirl of language around me had been Italian. The words were similar, and the wine had become a universal translator. I was in Lausanne, Switzerland, and my next train would take me to Aigle. Aigle would be my last transfer station where I would catch the train to Leysin and the American College of Switzerland.

I sat quietly on the next train, drained from the party and the wine. I listened to the people speaking around me. I heard French and German with the soft Swiss accent I would later come to like. It was not that I understood a word they were saying, but by watching the people’s expressions and body language, I could imagine that I knew what they were talking about. I was so fascinated by my fellow travelers that I sat quietly as I missed the Aigle station. Shortly after I must also have fallen asleep because the conductor rudely awakened me when he checked my ticket, started shouting in German, and pointing back the other way. He put me off in the dark at San Moritz. I knew San Moritz from my James Bond novellas. I had read them all and seen each movie several times. I bought a T-shirt from a local stand to prove that I had been there and sat in the dark waiting for the train back.

I discovered why I hadn’t recognized Aigle as my transfer point when the train stopped in a small station that didn’t have connections to other trains. When I tried to ask about the train to Leysin, the conductor just pushed me off his train and pointed down a dark street into the town where most of my fellow travelers seemed to be walking. I followed them for several blocks because they seemed to know where they were going and watched them get into a trolley with three or four cars.

Approaching an older man as he started to get into one car, I asked in German, “Wo ist der Zug für Leysin?” He looked at me confused so I tried French, “Ah… le train pour Leysin?” This time I pointed to a small card where I had written the city name since I wasn’t sure how it was pronounced.

“Oui,” he said. Actually it sounded more like ‘Wa.’ Then he let me get in the car ahead of him, but he didn’t follow me in. Instead he turned and walked forward to another car.

The interior of my car was dimly lit. My fellow passengers included a group of older teens who may have been my age, but they were engaged in a private conversation. I sat in quiet desperation. I was so tired that I couldn’t keep my eyes open, yet I would soon be arriving in a town that I didn’t know, and I had no plans for finding a place to stay. I had an early meeting the next morning at the American College of Switzerland. Fatigue and worry seemed to overwhelm me. I briefly nodded off; and when I woke, I felt worse. It felt like my body was being pressed back into the wooden bench; my head kept bumping against the hard wooden surface. It was almost like my seat had reclined and I was lying on my back. In desperation, I began listening closely to the conversation of the group of teens. From my distorted perspective, they seemed to be perched high over me on their seats. Between the heads of two boys with their backs to me sat an attractive blonde girl, eighteen or nineteen years old, who was talking nonstop. Her three companions could only grunt and nod politely in response. She spoke so quickly that I couldn’t make out separations between her words. Her language was nasal and melodic but unlike anything I had heard in the past couple of days. I was certain that it wasn’t Spanish, German, French, or even Italian. Desperate for help, I forced myself up toward the group. My head seemed to weigh a ton.

“Do any of you speak English?” I asked.

“Wha’the’elldoya’thinkah’mspeakin’?” came the reply in a deep southern drawl.

That was my introduction to Nonni, a wealthy southern princess who was a sophomore at the Swiss college. I later discovered that she could fluently butcher French, as well as English, “Co-mo-sa-va, y’all?”

A few minutes of talking with the other students and I had a guide to and a recommendation for a local hotel that was just across the street from the college. When we came to the station, the guy who was to take me to the hotel had to help me out of my seat. It was only then that I realized that the trolley was sitting at the station at almost a forty-five-degree angle. Sometime during my trip, the trolley had changed into some kind of cog train on the side of the hill. Realizing that and standing fully upright, I felt reinvigorated as I was escorted toward the hotel. We walked down from the station along a dark street to a stairway that led down to the front of a dark building. He pointed toward the door and told me to knock, then turned and pointed to the front of a building with the sign “The American College of Switzerland,” and I could just barely make out the word “ZOO” scratched in the paint on the bottom of the sign. I wasn’t to understand the truth of that graffiti until much later. As my escort walked swiftly into the darkness to rejoin his friends, I went down the stairs.

The small light by the front door illuminated the sign “Hotel Primevère.” That and a few lights visible on the upper levels were the only signs of life. I pushed a doorbell and quickly roused the owner. She didn’t speak any English but let me know that she had a room for me and that the petit déjeuner (breakfast) was included. I suddenly realized that I was hungry. I hadn’t eaten since leaving the party with my Italian family. I asked about food. Actually, I pointed with the cupped fingers of one hand toward my mouth and patted the other hand on my stomach. She shook her head and pointed to a sign on the wall that showed the hours of the various meals. The free petit déjeuner was next from 7:30 to 9:30 the following morning. She led me up a flight of stairs inside the building and showed me my room. There was a little sink in the room, but the toilet and baths were down the hall. There was no TV, not even a clock radio. The bed was too soft, the sheets too rough and stiff, and the blanket was a huge, heavy feather pillow. I wondered momentarily about my allergy to chicken feathers and fell asleep as if drugged.

I awoke to a bright light streaming through my curtains; I stared blearily at my watch resting on the side table. Both of the watch hands were together and straight up: twelve noon! My appointment was at 9 a.m., and, worse, I had missed the free breakfast!! I jumped into my clothes and stormed down the stairs. The owner was cleaning the floor in the lobby. I tried desperately to find out if I could still get breakfast, a roll or anything. She kept pointing to the sign that had the hours of the meals and to her wrist. I knew that I was late, but I pleaded! She finally pointed to my watch. I looked down and saw it read 6:40 a.m.

In a daze, I walked back to my room and sat on a stiff wooden chair by the bed for a few minutes collecting my thoughts, only then realizing that earlier, when my watch said 6:30, I had read it upside down. Having some time to wait and thinking it awfully bright for that early in the morning, I walked over to look through the wall of curtains that covered one side of my room. They hid a set of glass doors that led to a balcony.

The edges of my balcony were framed with gingerbread and flowers, but what they framed was what I was focused on. Hanging like a portrait inside the frame were the Swiss Alps! Shear, jagged peaks, some capped with white snow, some blackened as the sun rose behind them. Once I tore my eyes from the mountains, I walked onto the balcony and looked down on a small gingerbread village perched on the side of this mountain. Yes, I said “this mountain.” During that trolley ride last night, I may have been tired, but the force pressing me into my seat was not so much fatigue as it was the effect of gravity as the cog train climbed the steep slopes from the valley below. The slopes were so steep that I could not see more than a glint of light, perhaps reflected off a river in the valley. The train had carried me to this beautiful little village of gingerbread houses and flowers perched on the side of a mountain. Nothing else mattered at this point but the thought that I had to go to college here!