Time

Time is a unit of measurement used every day by humans. Our salaries are based upon the number of hours we work, the newest television episodes come out every Friday night, and it takes approximately ten minutes for a pot of water to boil while cooking dinner. When we do something we are not fond of, time seems to slow down, but when we are enjoying our lives, time seems to be lost. In The Magic Mountain, Thomas Mann flawlessly describes human's perception of time.

Mann starts the book by introducing a young man, Hans Castrop, traveling for three weeks to a sanitorium in the mountains of Switzerland to cure himself of disease. He is met by his cousin who tells him that his perception of time will changed while he lives in the mountains, and that "three weeks are just like a day to them". Weeks turn into months, and soon Castrop finds his stay at the sanitorium has lasted for almost two years. Still, he has yet to be cured.

Castrop finds the beauty of the landscape around him very appealing, and eventually decides he wants to climb the mountains. After several days of preparation, Castrop begins his journey. He soon finds himself in a storm, and escapes it unsuccessfully after discovering himself walking in circles. He checks his watch guessing the time to be around 6PM, but finds that it's only 4PM; his struggle with the storm has only lasted for approximately fifteen minutes. Though he attempts to keep himself awake, Castrop eventually falls into a deep slumber.

In Castrop's dream, he finds a beautiful city surrounding him. Trees and other plants are thriving in sunlight, children are playing with each other, and life seems to bustle around him. Two witchlike figures then appear in the sky, and destruction is cast upon the town. Castrop is jarred awake by the nightmare, and realizes he does not want to die. He checks his watch to find that the dream lasted but ten minutes. Forcing him limbs to move, Castrop eventually finds his way back to the sanitorium.

I found The Magic Mountain to be the most enjoyable story assigned for me to read. Sure, you could argue that it's one of the few stories Dr. Davies assigns where the main character isn't confronted by death at the end, but that's not the case here. Instead, I find Mann's view of time not only to be interesting, but very accurate.

When our plane from Newark to Geneva landed three weeks ago, I thought this study abroad program would never end. I now feel like everything I've done while in Switzerland could be accomplished in a period of 24 hours. When I read Mann's writing about how three weeks feels like a day in the mountains, I laughed out loud. It was as if Mann had written the story for me.

Luke

The Reminiscent Romantic

A stillness of the mountain air and the Dent Du Midi outside of Chalet Martin stand commanding against the veil. Our time in Switzerland draws to a close and though the wayfarers will see America in less than a week, their hearts transcend the Chamonix’s peaks, which they saw yesterday. As we sat beside the Arve, the words of Shelley and Coleridge came to life as they were read aloud by members of our group. The landscape was a perfect frame around unassailable Mont Blanc with the town’s buildings trying—to no avail—to cover the majesty. Into my mind whistles Coleridge’s words, “ ’God! God!’ the torrents, like a shout of nations/Utter. The ice-plain bursts, and answers ‘God!/ ‘God!’ sings the meadow-streams with gladsome voice/ And pine-grooves, with their soft and soul-like sound/ The silent snow-mass, loos’ing thunders ‘God!’ “ (56-60). It is hard to even fathom our own minute stature in the face of the greatness of the mountain.

As we journey ahead to our final weekend, many of my friends head to Veince, but I can’t bare to leave Switzerland. The open-air markets of Vevey, the smooth jazz of Montreax, and tracking Hemingway through the streets of Lausanne—those places will ease my soul surely!

As I end my journey and my blog before heading to Geneva, I can only think about Childe Harold and his pilgrimage. The weary Harold, a burdened traveler, enters Switzerland and finds hope in rejuvenation for the sublimity of everything that surrounds him. Things come full circle.

It seems so long ago that we landed in Geneva. Byron’s work personifies the refreshment and rejuvenation that the mountain air can offer, and have offered, to weary travelers; and my mind can only race ahead to the long train ride that will carry me back to America. I can already see myself sitting on the train getting my last look at Lac Leman, and Byron’s words haunt me again: “ Clear, placid Leman! Thy contrasted lake/ With the wild world I dwelt in is a thing/ which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake/ Earth’s troubled waters for a purer spring.” (CHP, III, LXXXV)

An Aesthetic Smorgasbord

My first two blog posts during this trip were written within the first few days of our stay. Needless to say, we have all encountered many places, people, and situations worthy of note since then. To avoid a mindless catalog of "things Jay has come across," I'll relate some of my findings as directly conflicting with T.S. Eliot's "The Waste Land."

As most will assume, "The Waste Land" doesn't capture the beauties and wonders people often associate with Switzerland. Instead, Eliot chooses to focus his thoughts on "Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit" (340) and "red sullen faces [that] sneer and snarl" (345). While traveling through such majestic scenes as Paris and Lausanne, Eliot still keeps his concerns base: "You cannot say, or guess, for you know only / A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, / And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, / And the dry stone no sound of water" (21-4). One should note, though, the reason for Eliot's trip to Lausanne. He travels from England to Paris, and ultimately to Lausanne in search of some cure for his psychological nervous breakdown. This ailment could help explain his somber perspective.

Still, while reading through the poem, I can't fathom Eliot's inability to appreciate the innate beauty of his surroundings. The past three weeks have presented the most picturesque images that will later become fond memories of my short experience with the sublime. A quick glance to the skies where the mountains pierce the clouds inherently takes away any problems you think you may have. A true appreciation of these mountains involves your own realization of your insignificance when compared to such majesty. Your individual, egotistical troubles become nothing when considering the immutability of the Alps.

Therefore, Eliot's failure to disregard himself in favor of his surroundings leads to the dystopic view in "The Waste Land." In my opinion (and I believe all of my fellow classmates' opinions), if nothing else, the views encapsulate the very cure Eliot was searching for. In all fairness, Eliot's "The Waste Land" is considered one of the finest poems ever written, and for good reason. It is just extremely difficult to understand Eliot's bleak outlook when considering the physical appearance of that which he describes.

Home Sweet Switzerland

Ah, home at last. After a 3 day weekend to travel we have all returned “home"--or at least that is what it feels like. Having been at the chalet for two weeks now it is definitely easy to say that this place has become our home away from home and all who stay here are family. With the breathtaking view and fresh mountain air it is not difficult to see why everyone who comes here is in a perpetual cheery state.

Last week, on a beautifully clear day, I went paragliding. It was sublime, pastoral, majestic, and just plain amazing. I was like a bird floating over the mountains and looking down on the villages. From this perspective, it is hard for me to see that anyone would have a negative view of the Alps. This is, until I watched the aptly named film The White Hell of Pitz Palu. If the title didn’t already give it away, this 1920’s black and white silent film showed two hours of worse case scenarios on a mountain--from falling off a glacier and getting frozen alive to climbing a mountain and being stranded on the edge of a cliff for days with concussions and broken limbs. One of our novels, When the Mountain Fell, also gives a good description of the powers of the mountain, retelling the story of a great rock avalanche destroying an entire village.

I suppose you must always take into account all perspectives of each situation. The mountains are certainly a force to be reckoned with and all respect is due to them, but from my experience here, I don’t believe these negative views will sway me any time soon.

The Simplon Pass

The Prelude is a fourteen part autobiographical poem about the life of William Wordsworth. In part six of the poem, Wordsworth describes his travels across the Alps, and more importantly, his encounter with the Simplon Pass. Last week, our group decided to visit this famous landmark.

As the bus came to a halt, Dr. Davies told our group we had arrived at our destination. I was surprised because the Simplon Pass didn’t look like anything out of the ordinary; it felt like we had just driven to the top of a hill. I then recalled how Wordsworth wrote about the same feeling. In fact, Wordsworth didn’t even know he’d reached the height of the Simplon Pass; he passed through it without a clue. If I had not known that was our destination, I too would’ve passed through it without a thought.

As I pondered the situation more, I realized Wordsworth wrote about his feelings over two hundred years, yet I wasn’t feeling different from him. Sure, there were signs, roads, buildings, and busses marking the Simplon Pass, but the site wasn’t significant to me. The look of the place may have changed, but the nature of the area stayed the same.

Locked in

Wednesday morning we took a class trip to the site of Byron's Prisioner of Chillon, where we learned the history behind the poem.

Chillon Castle is located just a short boat ride away from the city of Vevey. When we arrived, we immediately went down to the dungeon where the prisoner, Bolivard, was kept. In the poem Bolivard was chained with his two brothers down in a dark cell, where he was forced to hear them slowly die. At the sound of his secound brother`s death, Bolivard broke free from his chains.  He asked the gaurds to bury his brothers outside but, his request was refused.  However, the guards allowed him to remain unchained, which allowed him to constantly pace his cell.  Although Bolivard faced horros in his prision, by the time he was rescued he longed to stay.  Rumor has it he paced his cell so frequently that the shoe prints remained etched in the stone.

We unfortunately did not see the remainder of Bolivard`s footprints, however in reading the poem together on location, we had the unique experience of witnessing the truth in Byron`s description of Chillon`s dank prision. I personally enjoyed this opportunity because it allowed me to better connnect with Byron`s words, especially in how he related to Bolivard.

Yesterday Becky, Ally and I made our first independent journey to Interlaken, Switzerland. Today, we took the train to the Jungfrou, which is the Top of Europe. It was beautiful, and brought to mind two of the novels we read in preparation for this summer class, Frankenstien and Heidi. Both of these novels describe the Swiss lanscape in wonderfully acurate detail, which can only be expierenced in person.  Pictures and words don`t give the beauty of the mountains the full justice they deserve. Sublime is the only word to define what we were fortunate enough to witness today.  It was as beautiful as described in Heidi with a touch of terror that can be felt in Frankenstien.

We Went to the Top of the World Today and Still Haven't Come Back Down

So today Allison, Mary and I braved "The Top of Europe" aka the Jungfrau. It was actually an accident. We were aiming for the Eiger but through a mix up that I blame on Mary we ended up on a train toward the mountain known as "The Top of Europe". We had to pay 24 francs for a one way ticket to the top. Not wanting to pay our way back we decided, "Hey, let's climb the Jugfrau." And thus our adventure ensued.


First thing to know: we were severely under dressed. Because we weren't planning on hiking on a snowy mountain our attire was less than adeqaute. Allison and I were in shorts and none of us had hats. So after climbing up and rolling in the meadows of flowers and hiking up some hills in victory we skiddaddled over to the souvenir shop for hats. I purchased a miracle scarf, and let me tell you, it's pretty miraculous. We then grabbed something to eat (bratwurst and fries for Allison and Mary, peanut butter crackers for me) and began our descent.


The entire four and a half hour journey was worth every franc. The mountains, meadows, clouds, sky...everything was perfection. We were alone and basking in the Swiss sunlight. I took over 500 photos of the most beautiful sights. I'll never witness something like that again.


We stopped at almost every meadow to frolic in fields of wildflowers and roll down hills. We screamed like crazy people as we ran around the Alps completely off the trail. We were charting our own path, leaving traces of ourselves behind us. Our laughter would echo and our silence would as well. We could go an hour without saying a word because what we were experiencing couldn't be described. There are some things that cannot be put into words, cannot be explained with any adjective in the English language; we said nothing.


We drank from the streams again and it was sublime. The water is so pure because it comes from the snow on top of the mountain. It trickles down and forms waterfalls, I think we probably took a picture of every single one. We ran into cows and goats and horses and random people who all spoke a different language. It was beautiful to behold.


At some point we began to cut corners and go off book. Into the wild we ran; screaming and laughing and soaking it all up. Trying to hold on to the moment, because the sun and the air, the very atmosphere, would never be the same again. We tried to hold on until we had to let go and move away, back into the wild.


At some point, probably around the third or fourth hour, we came upon a cabin. Secluded and hidden among the pine trees, the cabin reminded me of the Alm Uncle in Heidi. Not because it had some goats around it or because it was on top of the Alps, though those are all honest comparisons, but because it was so close to the way I had envisioned it in my head. I loved reading Heidi because it was a novel with no hidden agendas or messages. It was a book of pure storytelling. A book about how one person can make a ripple in an ocean of so many. A book about how a place can save a person. The Alm Uncle's cabin represents all of this. So, when we saw the isolated cabin, saw the wind caress the grass and the Jungfrau's reflection in the windows, I thought of all the Alm Uncle's cabin stood for and I smiled. I was standing in a place of magic and healing. I was watching the sun set behind the Swiss Alps. I was organic. I was alive. I was happy.


We did make it back to civilization. Our bodies hurt, but our minds were rejuvenated and numb with awe. And so they remain. We made it to the top of world today and I hope we never come back down.