{"id":10083,"date":"2013-07-05T18:44:19","date_gmt":"2013-07-05T22:44:19","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/?p=10083"},"modified":"2013-07-17T18:25:20","modified_gmt":"2013-07-17T22:25:20","slug":"six-days-in-switzerland-the-longest-blog","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/?p=10083","title":{"rendered":"Six Days in Switzerland (The Longest Blog)"},"content":{"rendered":"

photo-2-small.JPG<\/a><\/p>\n

And suddenly it seemed to him that all of it was his, even
\nas his father\u2019s blood and earth was his, the lives and deaths
\nand destinies of all his people\u2026His savage hunger was a kind
\nof memory: he thought if he could speak, it would be fed\u2026<\/p>\n

—Thomas Wolfe
\n______________<\/p>\n

I don\u2019t claim to know a lot about what it is to travel to other countries. I\u2019ve never done it much. It\u2019s an aberration, for me to do something like that. But from here, looking back, I can say this. It really makes a difference what\u2019s going on inside you, how you feel, depending on how you approach and enter another country. It really does. And the reasons why you\u2019re even there, those are critical, too. <\/p>\n

When I arrived in Germany, I swooped in on a jet. Fresh from my world to a new one. A place to which I was invited, to be honored. A place where my friends were waiting for me, and looking to look after me. And it stirred inside me, excitement and a deep quiet anticipation for the wonders I knew would come. It was a settled feeling, too, the feeling of knowing that Germany, what happened there, would be pretty much scheduled by others. It would work out, it would be OK, I knew. All I had to do was walk where they told me to. <\/p>\n

Not so, Switzerland. No one had invited me there. There was no one waiting to greet me when I stepped onto Swiss soil for the first time. I was here because I chose to come, on my own. There were a few specific things I wanted to see. Whatever it took, I would go see them. And I felt it as we crossed over the border. Tension, mixed with a hungry eagerness. Deep anticipation. My path was pretty much unplanned, day to day. Whatever happened, it would happen on its own, at least when it came to my expectations. That\u2019s the best approach I\u2019ve found. You walk forward into life with few or no expectations, but you walk free. And it\u2019s just amazing what comes at you, sometimes. <\/p>\n

Way back, before I came over, I had figured to stay at least a night in Zurich. It\u2019s such a nice old city, people who had been there told me. And I figured, sure, I\u2019ll hang around for a night or two. Then I saw the prices they wanted for a room for one night. Three to five hundred francs for anything even half decent. Of course, I recoiled. No way was I gonna pay that. And I had told Mike and Janan that morning before we left their home. Find me a room outside the city. I can take the train out in a few minutes. It won\u2019t cost a dime more. I have a Swiss Railpass. And so they had found me a room at a brand-new 6-story hotel in Wetzikon, a little town twenty minutes or so out. For just a shade over a hundred francs. That\u2019ll work, I said. If I can make the connection. Zurich had this massive train station, I knew. And it was a long walk from where I got off to where I needed to board. That bugged me, some. <\/p>\n

I never got tired of looking out the windows of the trains. And that Sunday afternoon, I drank it in for the first time, the scenes of Switzerland flowing past. Hills, mountains, ancient little farms, herds of cows, and little towns and villages. And soon we approached the outskirts of Zurich. This old city, with so much history, I thought. The train swept in and stopped inside the station. I poured out with the crowds, lugging my bags. It was a huge multi-level place. The stories had been right. I looked for signs to my track. Number 43, to Wetzikon. Down, down, it was below. I rushed along. I had six minutes. Down the escalator, and down again. And there it sat, a local train. I glanced at the departure sign, as Maryann had told me to. Look at the sign. It\u2019ll tell you where the train\u2019s going. They switch tracks, sometimes, from what it says on the ticket. Check the sign. <\/p>\n

People were boarding. I walked up, almost sure but not positive. A young man loafed outside. Is this the train to Wetzikon? I asked in English. \u201cYes.\u201d He was polite enough. Couldn\u2019t I read the sign? Thanks, I said. I stepped up and parked my bags right there, inside the doors, on the platform. I\u2019d stay right here until we got there, I figured. A young woman with a baby in a carriage approached. She struggled and shifted the carriage, trying to get on. I stepped up with another guy, and we lifted her carriage onto the train. She smiled her thanks. <\/p>\n

A minute later, we slid out. I felt relieved and triumphant. I had done it. Switched trains, right here in the bowels of Zurich. Tomorrow I would return. People got off as we approached my destination. The stop before mine, the baby carriage lady needed help again. I lifted the carriage off. She smiled again and thanked me. And then we arrived in Wetzikon. The last stop on this run. Everyone off. Dragging my bags, I walked out to the front of the station. According to the info sheet I\u2019d printed, my hotel was a five-minute walk away. But which direction? I approached a bus driver, loafing outside his bus, smoking a cigarette, waiting for passengers. Excuse me. I showed him my hotel address. He pulled out his phone, punched in the address, and pointed off to my right. \u201cJust down the street, there,\u201d he said, dragging on his cigarette. I thanked him. It\u2019s refreshing, to see someone smoke so openly and unapologetically, I thought. I\u2019m not saying anyone should or shouldn\u2019t smoke, but it was very cool to see how much more relaxed they are about such things in Europe. At least the part of Europe I saw. <\/p>\n

The hotel was as advertised. Brand spanking new, clean and shining. After settling in, I took the elevator to the restaurant on the top floor. Some food and a glass of scotch, that\u2019s what I needed. And that\u2019s what I got. I sat back and relaxed with my drink. Looked into the distance, through the big plate glass windows. I felt pretty good. I had done it. Traveled all by myself, in Europe. And I\u2019d reached the place I was heading for. That\u2019s not bad, for a country hick like me. <\/p>\n

The next morning, around nine, I trundled back to the train station, lugging my bags. Back to Zurich it was. There were two things I planned to see in Switzerland, whatever else I saw. And one of those sites was in Zurich. Right along the river, I was told. The spot is marked. The spot where Felix Manz was drowned, back in 1527. One of the original founders of Anabaptist theology, Felix Manz was a name I heard growing up. A martyr for his faith. The Anabaptist faith. And by extension, the Amish faith. The man was a hero, from my childhood up. A man who knew what he believed. And was willing to pay the ultimate price for those beliefs. The Zurich fathers never paid much attention to the incident, or the spot where it happened. Until recently. Descendents of the Wiedertaufer kept coming and asking. Where did this happen? We want to see the spot. And so the city fathers, sensing a profitable tourist attraction in the making, placed a plaque on the stone wall beside the river, marking the spot. That\u2019s what I was told, anyway. And that\u2019s where I was going this morning. To walk the river until I found that plaque. <\/p>\n

I could have looked it up, where it was. Should have, probably. But I didn\u2019t. I wanted to walk in free and blind, to find the spot on my own. And that morning, as the train bucketed along toward Zurich, I could feel the tension inside me. A host of small problems awaited me, I knew. Nothing to do but walk forward into them. The train hissed in and stopped. I walked off, and up the escalator to the next level. First, I\u2019d need to find the lockers, to store my bags for the day. I had no idea where to go. And I did something I can’t remember doing before. Two cops strolled by. I hailed them. Where\u2019s the information booth? They pointed. \u201cUp ahead, to the right.\u201d I thanked them and walked where they told me. And there it was. I approached the lady behind the booth. <\/p>\n

She smiled at me, but it was an arrogant, aloof smile. \u201cYes, the lockers are down below in the next level. They cost nine francs. One and two-franc coins is all they take.\u201d I thanked her and turned away. Where to get change in this vast place? The Western Union counter. I walked up. They were polite and friendly. And yes, they would make change. I need it for the lockers, I told the man. I changed a 20-franc bill for coins. I\u2019ve never liked the coins of any foreign country. Because you never know, quite, what you have and what it\u2019s worth. Throughout the trip, I often just held out a handful of change when buying a drink or sandwich. Is there enough here? I\u2019d ask the clerk. And either there was, and she picked it out, or she shook her head. No, not enough. And then I\u2019d switch to a bill, and get even more coins in change. A vicious little cycle, right there. <\/p>\n

I went downstairs with my bags. Approached the lockers, and poked around until I found an empty one. Nine francs for the day. Seemed excessive, but what are you going to do? I stuffed in both bags, shut the door and fed in the francs. And right there came my first inkling that this little city does not like me. Nine francs poured in. I tried to turn and extract the key. Nothing. I jiggled it. Nothing. So I poured in another franc. Again, nothing. After twelve, and I repeat, twelve francs, the key finally turned and I yanked it out. I was nervous and angry and excited. Right there, the system had stolen three francs from me. Oh, well. No one to go complain to, around here. They\u2019d just look at you like an idiot. Now, a quick trip to the restroom before heading out. I followed the signs. And stood outside and stared. A young gentleman in suit and tie brushed past me, clinked a few coins into the slot, and walked on in. You had to pay. $1.50 francs, just to use the restroom. I recoiled, outraged. No way was I going to pay. It\u2019s against my religion, to do something like that. Again, what are you going to do? My messenger bag strapped securely across my shoulder, I turned and walked up and out the main entrance. <\/p>\n

It was a clear, beautiful day. Perfect for walking. And there was the river, right outside. I should have asked someone, I thought. At least asked which side of the river the Felix Manz plaque is. My brother Steve had told me. He and his wife, Wilma, had stumbled across the plaque. But I never asked him where it was. I\u2019d find it when I got there, I figured. I set off to the left, crossed the river and began walking back toward the old town on the other side. Keep circling until you find it, I thought. I felt mildly exuberant. Here I was, finally. I strolled along, under a line of old trees by the river, keeping a sharp eye out. The plaque. Look for it. <\/p>\n

At a deserted spot under the trees, I stopped to adjust my messenger bag. I glanced back. A young man approached. He didn\u2019t look like a bum. But he came right up to me. \u201cCould you spare a little change?\u201d That was odd. It\u2019s rare, that someone hits you up like that in Switzerland. I smiled at the guy. Nope. No spare change here. He shrugged and moved along. But then, wait, I said. He stopped. If you can tell me where the plaque is for Felix Manz, I\u2019ll pay you well. He was a Wiedertaufer leader, and they drowned him along the river here, somewhere. I came to find the spot. He shrugged again. \u201cNever heard of it,\u201d he told me. And then he strolled off, to accost his next victim. Oh, well. Move right along, I thought. It has to be here somewhere. <\/p>\n

And I walked along. No plaque to be seen. Little slivers of uneasiness shivered inside me. I couldn\u2019t leave, not without seeing what I came to see. A mile or so up, I crossed the river. Began walking back toward the train station. It has to be in here somewhere, I thought. It has to be. But I wasn\u2019t finding it. I trudged on and on. The walkway led away from the river, into a section of old town shops. This wasn\u2019t doing me any good. I needed to walk the river. I circled back and connected again. Back there behind me was a stretch I\u2019d missed. I walked on. And on and on. No plaque. <\/p>\n

I crossed back to the other side of the river. It was past noon, now. I was tired and stressed and hungry. And I still hadn\u2019t found a restroom I could use for free. I\u2019ll look for a place to grab a bite, I thought. A little old bar would be nice. I walked along some back streets, away from the river. And there it was. A little hole in the wall. A pure dive. That\u2019s what I wanted. I walked in. The place was almost deserted. The bartender, a man in his fifties with a seamed face, greeted me. English? I asked. \u201cI speak a little,\u201d he said. Can I get food here? \u201cOf course,\u201d he smiled and handed me a little menu. \u201cWe have food.\u201d I took a seat at the ancient bar. Scanned the sorry little menu. Fish and Chips, for a mere 20 francs. That\u2019s what I want, I told him. And a beer, for 5 more francs. <\/p>\n

He took my order and brought my beer. Stood there, and we talked. How old is this place, this bar? I asked. He had no idea. A hundred years old, if not more, he thought. \u201cIt\u2019s still original, all of it.\u201d I told him where I came from and what I was looking for. He shrugged. He\u2019d never heard of Felix Manz, either. What is it, with this place? And he told me. He\u2019d been to America, way back. Went to New Orleans. That was a wild time. I asked about this bar, the history of it. A tiny door in the back wall led to the kitchen. They quit cooking food here, a few years back. He had taken my order next door, to a restaurant. He\u2019d bring the food from there. And he told me. \u201cWe\u2019re open, on weekends and holidays, twenty-three hours a day. We close from 4 to 5 AM, to clean the place. Then it\u2019s open again, for almost a full day. We have to kick out the people at four. They\u2019re here, drinking all night. They wait outside, until five, when we reopen. Then they come in and keep right on drinking into the dawn.\u201d That\u2019s crazy, I said. I never heard of such a thing. There must be a lot of people out there who can hold their alcohol a lot longer than I could. I can\u2019t even think of how that would be.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

He brought my food, then, and I sat there and munched it. Delicious enough. And he directed me to the restroom in the back, when I asked. No fee for that, other than the food. No way I\u2019m ever gonna pay good money to open a restroom door. I paid the man, then, and tipped him three or four francs. He seemed pleased (All the servers in Europe seemed very pleased when you tipped them). We chatted some more. He wished me well on my quest as I walked out. Thank you, I said. <\/p>\n

I walked along the brick streets, back toward the river. And I knew it was time to quit walking aimlessly, and strategize. Otherwise, I\u2019d never find the plaque. I stood on the sidewalks and looked around. Someone, somewhere could help me. But who? No one in the crowds. People in Zurich have never heard of Felix Manz. I don\u2019t blame them. Why should they have? But I needed someone, someone to tell me where to go. I kept walking along. And there it was, on my right. A small travel office. They should know. Gripping my messenger bag, I pushed open the door and walked in. A small room with two desks. A young woman sat at the right corner, an older guy at the desk on the left. The woman looked up as I entered. I smiled at her. And I spoke to her in English.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m looking for a plaque along the river, for Felix Manz. I\u2019m from the Wiedertaufer. He was a founder. I can\u2019t find it. Have you heard of it? She seemed intrigued. No, she hadn\u2019t heard of it. Can you google it for me? I asked. Felix Manz. Look on Wikepedia. She chattered to the older guy off to the left. In German, I think, but it was so fast I can\u2019t be sure. And she clicked around on her computer. \u201cYes, here it is, on Wikepedia,\u201d she said. Another burst of German back and forth between her and her coworker. \u201cYes, we have found it,\u201d she told me. \u201cHe will show you.\u201d And the guy got up, held open the door for me, and we walked out. \u201cOver there,\u201d he said in broken English, pointing. \u201cAcross the river, way down there, by that red house with the green cupola. It\u2019s somewhere close to that place.\u201d <\/p>\n

I thanked him profusely. And I walked. Down the street, across the bridge. The red house loomed. And there was a little wooden walkway, leading back. I\u2019d missed it. It was in that stretch I\u2019d bypassed, when the streets looped around to those old town shops. I crossed the walkway. And walked back into a little grove of trees, back to the river. And there it was. The plaque. This was the spot where Felix Manz was drowned for his faith. I stood there, almost in disbelief. I had found it. I was here. <\/p>\n

This was a story I\u2019d been told all my life. And it was so real, right there. This is where it happened, what they told me. Here is where they brought him, bound on a wagon. Here is where they tied him to a pole and took him out on the waters on a boat. For that dreaded \u201cthird baptism\u201d, drowning. And right out there is probably where they submerged him. There he spoke his last words, “Into thy hands, O God, I commend my spirit.” I looked around. Here is where the crowds edged in, watching. Somewhere here is where his mother stood, calling for him to stay steadfast. In death. She called that to him, even though it meant that she\u2019d watch her son drown before her eyes. This was the spot, where all that happened. <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

It was a powerful and moving moment. I stood there, and sat there on the wall, for more than half an hour. And then, at the end, I hailed an older guy, strolling by. Hey, can you speak English? He couldn\u2019t, so we talked in German. Well, somehow we communicated. I need someone to take a pic with my iPad, I told him in rough German, with lots of motions. You just touch this button, real light, right here. He seemed a little grumpy. Can\u2019t he take a quiet walk along the river without some tourist harassing him? But he obliged. I thanked him. <\/p>\n

And then it was time to head back to the train station. I strolled along, no longer tired, almost lighthearted. I had seen what I came to see, here in Zurich. I walked into the station and reclaimed my luggage from the evil locker. You ripped me off, I thought. Wicked town, this is. I\u2019m heading out. And I won\u2019t see you until next Saturday morning, when I leave. <\/p>\n

Fribourg. That\u2019s where I was heading. The night before, on my iPad, I had reserved a room in that city. The Hotel de Faucon. Real close to the train station, the website had claimed. So I booked a room, even though it all sounded real French to me. And I was going to Fribourg, why? Because it was the closest city to the only contacts I had in Switzerland. Well, the only contacts that knew I was coming and reached out to me. <\/p>\n

The Raboud family lives in a little village, just a short train ride from Fribourg. French speaking. On a farm that has been in the family for generations. I got to know a few members of that family, because they were friends with Anne Marie Zook<\/a>. And back when Anne Marie was trudging through her four-year battle with brain cancer, they sent over some help. Anne Marie was almost like a member of their family. She had stayed with them, years ago, for a year, working as an Au Pair. They never forgot each other, the Rabouds and Anne Marie. And they came to help, two of their girls. Severine and Carline. I got to know them both when they were here. And we all got along just fine. <\/p>\n

Just that close, I didn\u2019t even bother to contact them. Who wants to be pestered by a guy traveling through? I thought. It puts people on the spot, makes them feel obligated. I knew Severine had just gotten married a few months ago. And Carline was in nursing school, full time. That\u2019s busy, right there. But still, I decided to send them both a message. So I did. Hey, I\u2019m traveling through Switzerland for a week. Any chance we could meet for a meal, or even just coffee? They both responded. Sure. Plan on stopping by. <\/p>\n

And then, about a week before I left, a message arrived from Carline. She had adjusted her work schedule as a nurse intern, and she would be free to show me around for a day or two, if I wanted. Of course, yes, I wrote back. And thanks so much. That\u2019s way more than I expected. I appreciate it. <\/p>\n

I boarded a train for Fribourg late that afternoon, and soon the evil little city of Zurich receded behind me. A two hour ride later, I got off. Walked out the front entrance. People swarmed about. Now where was that hotel? The Hotel de Faucon? I had no clue, only an address. And the only people loafing about were a couple of taxi drivers lounging by their cabs. Probably not a good idea, to ask them. Where\u2019s a bus driver, when you need him? I had no choice, I figured. So I approached. Showed them my paper with the address. Can you tell me how to get to this hotel? The website said it\u2019s only four or five blocks. <\/p>\n

They were tough old Frenchmen, both of them. Well, at least they claimed to speak only French. They looked at my paper and chattered between themselves. Then the older guy pointed, away. \u201cThat store, way over there, you walk there, then turn right. And then you go right again, then left. It\u2019s a few blocks down from there,\u201d he claimed in very broken English. The other guy pointed and chattered in French. This is all getting way too complicated, I thought. I looked at my bags. I sure didn\u2019t want to drag them around on some fruitless chase. All right, I said. Take me. The older guy, the one who could speak a little English, jumped to oblige. Loaded my stuff in the back. And off we went, around the block and around again. It didn\u2019t take long to get there. He pulled up in front of the old hotel and unloaded my bags. \u201cTen francs,\u201d he said. I paid him and thanked him. <\/p>\n

On then, into the hotel. A narrow little sliver of a place, five stories high. My room was on the third floor. The clerk couldn\u2019t speak a word of English, either, or pretended she couldn\u2019t. Somehow we communicated with hand signals. After settling in my room, I decided to go for a walk, back toward the train station. And sure enough, right at four blocks away, around a little curve, there it was. Pretty much a straight shot. The taxi guys knew that. They just wouldn\u2019t tell me. I couldn\u2019t get that irritated at them, though. That\u2019s what taxi guys do. Scare up fares when there are none. On the way back to the hotel, I stopped at a nice little pub. All French. That\u2019s what they spoke, which was gibberish to me. I finally showed the nice barmaid what I wanted by pointing to a sandwich and a beer on the menu. She smiled and gave me great service and delicious food.<\/p>\n

Back at the hotel, I messaged Carline. Hey, I\u2019m here in Fribourg, at the Hotel de Faucon. I\u2019ll meet you at your station in your village tomorrow around nine. She messaged back, to my huge relief. Don\u2019t move. I\u2019ll stop by the hotel tomorrow morning, and we can travel to Bern from there on the train. Great. This was working out.<\/p>\n

At nine the next morning, I waited in the small lobby. And in she walked. I would have recognized her, I think. Hadn\u2019t seen her in probably two years, during that awful stretch when Anne Marie was sinking in her final valiant fight. Carline smiled at me in welcome. I got up and greeted her. Thanks so much for taking the time, I said. I can\u2019t tell you how much I appreciate it. \u201cOh, I wanted to, it\u2019s no problem,\u201d she said. \u201cLet me talk to the clerk. We can leave your bags here, and pick them up when we get back. You\u2019re staying out with us on the farm tonight, and tomorrow night, too, if you want.\u201d She turned to the clerk and the two of them chattered in French. The clerk smiled. \u201cOf course.\u201d She opened the door to the back, and I wheeled in my luggage. Cool, how things work out if you can actually communicate, I thought. We walked out onto the street and I walked into two of the most amazing days on the whole trip. <\/p>\n

After showing me parts of old town Fribourg from high on a hill, Carline was ready to take me to Bern. The Capital of Switzerland. We walked back to the train station, and I just relaxed. I had a native born guide. No worries. After the short ride over to Bern, we walked the streets of the old town. Carline showed me the state buildings, where the legislature worked. She told me stories of Swiss history. And on and on we walked, past hundreds of old shops. Down to the river, where the famous Bern bears are kept in a natural preserve. We dropped by the big old pub nearby for a beer, sat there and looked out, watching the bears. Carline told me stories of what it\u2019s like, to live in Switzerland. About the nursing program she was enrolled in. I was pretty impressed. She is twenty years old, and fluent in three languages. French, German and English. And she\u2019s working her way through a tough nursing program. European education, I got to thinking, is the real stuff. A lot harder than back home, from what I was hearing. Soon we headed back uptown. Stopped to eat at a nice outdoor caf\u00e9. Europe has a lot of those. Outdoor cafes, neat little places right out on the sidewalks. And then we walked some more, browsed through an outdoor market, and then back to the train station. We stopped at Fribourg to pick up my bags, then headed on out to the village where Carline had parked her little car. And off we zoomed. We had one more stop, yet, before heading out to the farm.<\/p>\n

Carline said her pastor and his wife wanted to meet me. They lived in a nearby village. I\u2019d be honored, I said. And we pulled up to a very nice house in a development. Swiss houses are built to last hundreds of years, same as German houses. We walked up to the front door. A kindly-looking elderly man answered. He greeted Carline and shook my hand and welcomed me. \u201cCome in, come in, and sit a while,\u201d he said. We walked to the back patio and sat there to visit. The pastor\u2019s name was Jean-Pierre Trachsel, and he smiled at me with a crinkled face and twinkling eyes. \u201cSeverine gave me her copy of your book,\u201d he told me. \u201cAnd I just finished reading it. I couldn\u2019t put it down. It reminded me of some of the things I faced back in my youth.\u201d I thanked him. That was cool, indeed. He knew where I was coming from before I even got here. Then he continued. \u201cI\u2019ve checked out your blog, too. Interesting. I see you\u2019re a post- millenialist?\u201d Oh, boy, I thought. Now we\u2019re going to get into some trouble, here. I\u2019m sure he doesn\u2019t agree with my eschatology. But the man smiled his crinkled smile. His eyes still twinkled. And we just sat there and talked about a lot of things. I felt completely welcome and at home. <\/p>\n

And he told me. He was a retired businessman and the pastor of a small, independent church, Alliance Pierres Vivantes (APV, translated Alliance Living Stones). That\u2019s a fairly rare thing in Switzerland, an independent church. The state churches claim everyone at birth. And if you branch off on your own, into your own little group, they call that group a sect. It\u2019s a negative connotation, I took it. People who belong to sects are all pretty much lumped together, in the public\u2019s mind. Doesn\u2019t matter what you claim to believe. You\u2019ll be classed with the looniest of elements out there. And your children, too, they make fun of them in public schools. The teachers do that, make fun of little children whose parents belong to a sect. I grappled with that. Back home, there is no state sponsored religion that taxes you. Back home, it\u2019s pretty much a smorgasboard of choices. Any little group is free to pop up and start a church, and nobody even blinks twice. Not so, here, apparently. <\/p>\n

And as we talked, I told Jean-Pierre. I came to Switzerland to see two things. Places that mean a lot to my people, the Anabaptists. One of those was in Zurich, by the river, where they drowned Felix Manz. The other place is not far from here. Trachselwald Castle, in the Emmental area. It\u2019s a place where they imprisoned and killed Anabaptists, a long time ago. And it\u2019s important for me to get there. He smiled, intrigued. \u201cAnd how are you getting there?\u201d he asked. I grinned at him. Don\u2019t know, I said. I just figured the Lord would bring someone along to guide me. Can you take me? <\/p>\n

And he smiled some more, at my little trap. His eyes kept twinkling. \u201cYes, I will take you,\u201d he said. \u201cWe\u2019ll go tomorrow. I\u2019m retired. I have the time. Plus, I\u2019m very interested in your story, and the things you came to see.\u201d Thank you, I said gratefully. Thank you. And there it was. My ride to Trachselwald Castle. They had told me back home. The train wouldn\u2019t get me there. It\u2019s too remote. You\u2019ll have to rent a car, or something. And I had really said what I\u2019d claimed to Jean-Pierre. Guess I\u2019m just going to have to figure that God will bring someone along to show me. I had no idea of the little church Carline and her family attended. Had no concept of what a \u201csect\u201d was in Switzerland. <\/p>\n

We chatted right along for a while. Carline and Jean-Pierre\u2019s wife Yvonne sat off to one side, visiting. And Jean-Pierre told me. \u201cWe have church service every Tuesday evening. That\u2019s tonight.\u201d Carline had told me before, and I figured I\u2019d go, even though they\u2019d sing and speak in French. Jean-Pierre, though, had a further request. \u201cWould you say a few words tonight? Speak a bit, about where you come from, and maybe a few words to our youth, too? They have a tough road sometimes, being so different from outside society. It would be good if you spoke a bit about your journey and where you are now.\u201d Ah, man, I thought. Bless his heart. He really wants me to speak. I don\u2019t speak much in front of church groups, I said. Never have. I don\u2019t know how comfortable I\u2019d be. Or if I even knew what to say. \u201cWell, consider it,\u201d he responded. \u201cGive us ten or fifteen minutes. Carline can translate for you.\u201d <\/p>\n

All right, I will, I said. Consider it, I mean. I\u2019ll probably do it. I don\u2019t know how long I\u2019ll last up there, though. What could I say? The man was taking me to Trachselwald Castle tomorrow, and all he wanted was for me to speak a few words to his congregation. I don\u2019t think I told him, because I didn\u2019t know him well enough. But I thought it. I\u2019ve always shied away from giving my official \u201ctestimony\u201d to any captive church audience. In that setting, they expect you to be over the top cheerful and upbeat. Say what you\u2019re expected to say, about all your victories. Which is fine. But anyone can claim anything. And often, “testimonies” are just not realistic. Life is life, and we live it flawed. It\u2019s foolish, to pretend we don\u2019t. It\u2019s probably that quiet reserved Amish blood in me, but I think the most powerful testimonies out there are lived and seen, not spoken and heard. <\/p>\n

Carline and I left soon, then, and headed on over to her home farm in a nearby village. A real, honest-to-goodness working Swiss farm. A generation or so ago, the family lived in the house that was attached to the barn, the old way, she told me. Her parents had built a free standing home decades ago. The men were out in the fields, frantically baling hay. It had been wet for a long time, and more showers were coming tonight. They had to get the hay in. A quick tour of the place. They raise beef cattle. We walked through the barn which housed the cattle. Various sizes, in different groups. We walked into the house and met her mother, a very kind lady who welcomed me. She spoke only French, though, so Carline had to translate. Then it was off to unpack at her brother-in-law and sister\u2019s home a quarter mile down the road. They had an empty room upstairs with a mattress on the floor. That\u2019s where I\u2019d sleep. I dragged up my bags and freshened up a bit. Then walked back down to the farm. There, I met Severine, the other sister I knew, and her husband Daniel. Severine smiled and greeted me. The last time we saw each other was at my friend Paul Zook\u2019s home, a couple of years back. <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>
\nFrom left, Carline, me, and Severine, just before heading to church.<\/p>\n

And then it was time to head to church. Carline told me she sometimes sings with the band, but not tonight, probably. She was a little nervous about translating for me. She\u2019d not done that before, in front of her church group. Others in the group were more talented than she was, she thought. Don\u2019t worry, you\u2019ll be fine, I said. I\u2019m the one who\u2019s nervous, here. After a fifteen minute ride or so, we approached the church building in a little village. Nice, clean building. \u201cIt was a restaurant, once,\u201d Carline said. \u201cWhen that closed down a few years ago, our church group bought it.\u201d We walked in and sat up front, on the first bench. The band was strumming up. Jean-Pierre had told me they were considered charismatic, the people in his group, and they probably are, in ways I did not see that night. But the music I heard was pretty much mainstream evangelical. <\/p>\n

After a few songs, Jean-Pierre got up front and greeted his flock and opened with a prayer. And then he began his introduction. It lasted a good five minutes or more. Carline translated quietly to me as the man spoke. \u201cIn our history, we have a dark blot many don\u2019t know of,\u201d he said. \u201cThere was a group of people among us who were persecuted and killed by both Catholics and Protestants alike. The Wiedertaufer. These people were hunted relentlessly, and in time they fled, mostly to America. Tonight we have one of their descendants with us. Ira Wagler, who came from the Amish. And he will speak a few words to us.\u201d He motioned cheerfully at me. And I got up and walked to the podium, Carline close behind me. We both had hand-held mics. And I lifted mine to speak. <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>
\nMe and my interpreter. <\/p>\n

It was the first time in my life that I spoke to any group through an interpreter. And it actually was pretty cool. I said a few sentences, then stopped. Carline translated. While she spoke, I had a few seconds to think of what I wanted to say next. It all worked out, I gotta say. I told them a bit of where I came from. And how I wrote my story. I held up a copy of Growing Up Amish<\/em>. This book brought me to Germany, to speak at two universities. And now I\u2019m here, in Switzerland. I came to see where the Wiedertaufer came from. I told them of my struggles, how hard it was to break away from the Amish. How I’d left and returned and left and returned, again and again. How I\u2019d finally found peace through faith in Christ. To these people, that wasn\u2019t gibberish. They understood. And I told the youth. You are free. Free to walk in love, free to move forward in the world around you. I can\u2019t imagine how hard it is for you, sometimes, because your world is strange to me. As are the pressures you face. But you are free. Walk free. <\/p>\n

I actually lasted fifteen minutes, I think. Or close to it. Maybe twelve. Then I thanked them, and we returned to our seats. After the service, many people walked up and welcomed me. Many could speak only French, but they welcomed me in their language. Afterward, Carline and another nice lady took me downstairs for a tour of their private school. These people have their own school, which is almost an impossibility in Switzerland. Somehow, they had obtained permission. And they paid whatever costs associated with running it, too. Cheerfully. I was very impressed. If these people were a sect, they were a sect I could identify with. They really were. I signed my copy of Growing Up Amish<\/em> and donated it to the school library. <\/p>\n

The next morning, after a few cups of coffee in the kitchen with Carline and her Mom, I was ready when Jean-Pierre pulled in with his SUV. Ready and excited. He seemed excited, too. He had mapped out our route to the castle. And, he said, he\u2019d done a little research, too. \u201cYour Mom is a Yoder,\u201d he said. \u201cI can take you through the area today, where the Yoders come from.\u201d I\u2019d like that a lot, I said. And then we took off. We picked up right where we\u2019d left off the day before, talking. We agreed on a lot of things, except for end-times stuff. He lost me, there, with his beliefs. And I lost him, with mine, I\u2019m sure. But it was OK. I am free, I told him. I just live. Because I am free to live. He told me of how it was, to be a preacher for a \u201csect\u201d group. It\u2019s inconceivable, what you\u2019re telling me, I said. Back home, you wouldn\u2019t even get a second glance. There are thousands and thousands of churches very similar to yours. And we can have our own schools, too, and do. I marvel that your group has its own. From what you’re telling me, it really is a miracle. <\/p>\n

After more than an hour, we approached the Emmental area. Where the Castle was. Historically, it was a poor area, Jean-Pierre told me. Which is probably why some people there were attracted to the Anabaptist faith, way back. It\u2019s a faith for poor people. And I felt the excitement stirring inside me. Not the nervous excitement of Muenster. But a more settled, almost peaceful feeling. I was approaching a place that reflected the stories I\u2019d always heard. Stories of persecution, blood and death. They did this to my people. The \u201creal\u201d Anabaptists, as my father would say. And we drove around, through a town, then a back road out. And there it stood, on a hill, right where it has stood for hundreds of years. I pointed. There. That has to be it. Trachselwald Castle. Off to a side road then, and then the winding entrance. Up and up we drove. And then we pulled in and parked. <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>
\nApproaching the castle tower.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s a small castle, as castles go. Remote. And it would be pretty much completely unknown to the world, except for one thing. The descendents of the Wiedertaufer flock here in droves. One by one, as I was coming, and in large and small groups. This place has huge historical significance to them, to me. Here, in this tower, here is where it happened. Where the authorities rounded up and imprisoned innocent Anabaptist farmers from the surrounding area. And tortured and killed them. All because of their faith. A faith they refused to recant. Who can even imagine what kind of strength and courage that took? To stand up to power and refuse to yield, even when it costs you everything? We like to think we could imagine that. But it\u2019s impossible, if you haven\u2019t actually seen and felt that kind of persecution. And they come here by the hundreds, those descendents, on a pilgrimage of sorts. And they enter the tower. Walk up to the floors where the cells are. And they write their names there, on the fronts of the old wooden cells. Their names and the date. Hundreds and hundreds of names are written there. I figured to add my own. We walked up the hill into the courtyard. <\/p>\n

\"Entering<\/a>
\nThe tower entrance.<\/p>\n

We approached the tower and entered. And up the steep old rickety stairs to the second floor. Then the third. Jean-Pierre recognized what this moment meant to me, and he respected it. We talked in hushed tones. Here are shackles, on the wall. And up here, on this floor, are cells. And up on the next floor, too. He took my iPad and quietly snapped pictures of those moments. And I took a black marker from my messenger bag and wrote my name on the wooden cell wall. I was here. Along with hundreds and hundreds of others who had been. I would tell of it, I said to Jean-Pierre. This place is almost a holy place, because it harbors so much of the story of who they were, those poor Anabaptist farmers. And who we are, their descendents. They were tortured here. They died here. <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>
\nShackles.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>
\nA cell on the fourth and final floor of the tower.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Jean-Pierre quietly absorbed the place, right along with me. He really did. He sensed the deep ancestral call inside me, and honored it. I could not have asked for a better guide or companion. <\/p>\n

We left then, and headed out into the hills on two-lane highways. \u201cThis is where the Yoders come from,\u201d Jean-Pierre told me. And we just chatted right along. It was past noon, and he kept looking out for a caf\u00e9. We passed a few in little villages, but strangely, they were closed. Jean-Pierre mumbled. We backtracked, then, and came up on a caf\u00e9 that was open. We sat outside and checked out the menu. The waitress approached. Jean-Pierre looked at me inquisitively. \u201cWill you have a beer with your meal?\u201d he asked. Of course, I said. He smiled and ordered one for himself. \u201cThe Americans seem so hung up on alcohol,\u201d he said. \u201cIt\u2019s OK to be divorced four times, but you better not have a drink.\u201d I laughed. And before I could say it, he said it for me, his eyes twinkling. \u201cYou just live, right?\u201d Yep, I said. I just live. My heart is free. I just live. <\/p>\n

We headed back to the farm, then, and Jean-Pierre told me a lot of stories of the places we passed. Old stories, history, that the Swiss know about their land. I thanked him over and over for taking me. For spending a good part of his day and time, just showing me a place I wanted to see so badly. He smiled his crinkled smile. \u201cIt was my pleasure,\u201d he assured me. \u201cI send my greetings to your people.\u201d <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>
\nJean-Pierre, my friend.<\/p>\n

At the farm, my day was far from over. Severine, Carline\u2019s sister, and her husband Daniel were waiting for me. They wanted to take me to a few places. And in the next three hours, we toured a cheese-making plant and a chocolate factory. It was all so much, coming at me so fast. And then we returned to the farm, where supper was waiting. Afterward, I sat there and visited with Carline\u2019s parents, Jacques and Marie-Anne. Carline translated, and back and forth we talked. I signed a copy of my book to the family and gave it to them. Thank you, I said. Thank you so much for your hospitality. They smiled and invited me to stop by anytime I returned to Switzerland. They meant it, too. <\/p>\n

We sat around the table then, and Carline helped me map out my trip for the next day. I had decided to head to Geneva, then up a ways close to the pass through the Alps. I\u2019d stay tomorrow night in Brig, a little town in the foothills. We checked out a few hotels and I booked a room for the next night. And Carline asked me. \u201cDo you want me to check your flight details for Saturday morning?\u201d Nope, I\u2019m good, I said. I have the itinerary right here. It\u2019s all scheduled. I\u2019m leaving Zurich at 1:30 PM. And right there, at the table at that moment, I made my biggest mistake on the whole trip. Right there. The door was open. All I had to do was walk through it. But there\u2019s no way I could have known that, because you don\u2019t know what you don\u2019t know, until you do. And looking back, you can always pinpoint the instant it could have gone either way, right when it happened. <\/p>\n

The next morning around 9:30, Carline dropped me off at the train station in a nearby village. She walked me to my train, told me to stay on it, all the way to Geneva. Straight run, no layovers. We hugged good-bye, and I thanked her again. And she boarded her own train back to Fribourg, and her nursing studies. A minute later, my train slid out. To Geneva, then, and the Reformation Museum. The Rabouds had told me of it. It\u2019s worth seeing. A steady drizzle was coming down as I stored my bags in a very reasonably priced locker at the Geneva station, and took off to find the Museum. <\/p>\n

After a few misguided directions from strangers, one of them actually knew what he was talking about. \u201cThe old town,\u201d he said, and pointed. \u201cIt\u2019s over there in the old town, beside the old cathedral.” And I tramped off in the rain. Seems like about all I did in Switzerland was walk. And walk and walk. <\/p>\n

I found the Museum, and walked through it. Gaped at the displays. Actual letters written and signed by Calvin and Luther. Those two giants in history and theology. I stood there, in the presence of what they had actually touched and produced, and marveled. I could have spent a lot of time there. But I had to keep moving. <\/p>\n

I stayed that night in Brig. Most of the week, the weather was cloudy. And on the ride that day, I never got to see the peaks of the Alps. Or on the next day\u2019s ride through Interlaken. Unbelievably beautiful scenery. The peaks were always obscured by clouds and rain. But the land is beautiful in Switzerland, no matter what the weather. <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>
\nA beer on the ride through Interlaken.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>
\nSwiss countryside from the train.<\/p>\n

I was getting pretty comfortable, just hopping around on the train on my own, by myself. Figures, I thought. Now I\u2019m at least a novice at this. And tomorrow I have to leave. I stayed that last night in a hotel in a village outside Zurich, the other direction from last time. I enjoyed a leisurely evening. Slept pretty solidly through the night. And boarded the train the next morning, for Zurich and the airport. All in good time. I was getting there way early. Who knows how long it would take, to work your way through that maze?<\/p>\n

It was a pretty sizable airport. I was surprised at how big it was. It took me a while to locate the British Air counter. There were no crowds. Good. I was early. I walked up to one of the two perfectly coifed ladies sitting there and showed her my eTicket. And she asked for my passport. She took it from my hand and scanned it. \u201cI\u2019m not finding you,\u201d she said. No alarm bells went off, not right that instant. She\u2019d find me. I was in there. <\/p>\n

The alarm bells clattered a few seconds later, though, in my head. She looked perturbed, all of a sudden. \u201cThis is not good,\u201d she muttered. And she turned to me. \u201cThat flight has already boarded. And left the gate. Let me just check on that.\u201d She dialed a number, and there was a staccato conversation. \u201cThe plane has left, or is just leaving,\u201d she said. <\/p>\n

They had changed the departure time, from my original itinerary. I\u2019ll just say that it was all one big shock. I\u2019d been walking along pretty much unscathed, for the whole trip. To the point where I expected nothing else. And now, this. Getting a grip on reality in an instant like that is a little tough to do. Instinctively, I grasped the first straw. Can\u2019t you get me on another flight? I do have a ticket, here. A negative shake of her head, instantly. \u201cIt\u2019s a holiday weekend,\u201d she said. \u201cThe flights are all filled. Air France can take you, but they\u2019re so expensive.\u201d I just stood there and gaped. And she continued. \u201cUp there around that aisle, over there. There\u2019s a discount ticket seller. They broker. Check with them. It\u2019ll be cheaper than Air France.\u201d <\/p>\n

I don\u2019t know why I didn\u2019t just step back and think a bit. Look it over, the situation. I should have. I knew enough to. But I didn\u2019t. All I wanted was to get out of there, out of that evil city and that evil airport. To them, those two perfectly coiffed ladies, I was just a hapless traveler. A guy who had missed his plane. They owed me nothing. And they conveyed that quite convincingly. The one thing they didn\u2019t think of, this guy has a voice to the world. A small voice, sure. But a voice nonetheless. And I will never fly British Air again, unless there is no better option. They really don\u2019t care a whit about you. They\u2019ll leave you stranded, as they left me. The cost to the customer means nothing to them. They\u2019ll leave you stranded and alone in strange and evil cities. They will. It means nothing to them, to accommodate a traveler who missed his flight. Nothing. And British Air means nothing to me. I don\u2019t know how they even survive, with customer service like that. In a truly free market, they never would. <\/p>\n

I walked up to the discount counter. The elderly, heavy-set lady with glasses was amazingly cheerful and polite. I told her what had happened. Can you get me on a flight, any flight, to Philadelphia? She jabbed at her keyboard. \u201cThe computer\u2019s slow today, very slow,\u201d she said apologetically. And then she pulled up a few flights. And she frowned. \u201cThey\u2019re so expensive, those one-way tickets,\u201d she said. Don\u2019t worry about one-way, I told her. Just find the cheapest price. Go roundtrip, if that\u2019s less. And she punched around some more, then smiled. \u201cYes, I have one seat on a Swiss Air flight to JFK in New York,\u201d she said. And she told me the price. I\u2019ll take it, I said. The miracle was that there was even one seat available, looking back. And the price could have been way worse. Let\u2019s just say all those Euros I got from Sabrina went out the window, whoosh, just like that. <\/p>\n

And I\u2019ve thought about it all a lot since that moment. It was just a little sliver of the story of the trip. One of those incidents that pops up, now and then, to balance things out a bit. But the lesson was not karma. Not things evening out, word for word and bad for good. This bump barely registered as a tiny blip, when you really weigh it out against all the blessings that had rained down on me, and I\u2019d come to expect. Nah. It\u2019s not karma. The lesson was respect. The laborer is worthy of his hire. Respect what you earn. And when someone like Dr. Sabrina Voeltz pays you to speak at her University, you don\u2019t speak lightly of that. You respect it. You accept it gratefully as a gift. But you respect it. Because if you don\u2019t, it will be taken from you in the end, right when you least expect it. That\u2019s not the only way of looking at it all, I know. But it sure is one way. <\/p>\n

The Swiss flight was good, except I was just so tense, all through those eight hours. The flight orator showed up, one row forward, one seat left. She howled intermittently, but persistently, all the way over. An infant, maybe a year old. I felt sorry for the little girl and her mother, who got up and paced the aisles again and again, trying to comfort her terrified child. I thought I had stress. It was nothing, compared to that mother\u2019s. <\/p>\n

And late that night, after a good bit of drama trying to contact my friend who was planning to pick me up in Philly, but instead was diverted to JFK, after a lot of drama involving all that, I got home. Very late. And very grateful to be there. But so tense that I sat at my computer until I drifted off way after midnight. It was good to be back, back in my familiar old surroundings. It really was. It was a great feeling, to have traveled safely far away and back to where I\u2019d started from. Home. <\/p>\n

And I\u2019m thinking I\u2019d really like to travel back to all those places again one day. <\/p>\n

**********************************************************
\nI\u2019ve mentioned it before, I think. I never bother my contacts in the publishing world much. Once in awhile, maybe, but it’s pretty rare. And it\u2019s always a little startling when an email pops in from anyone in that world. (I\u2019m like, gah, what\u2019d I do now, go off on too much of a rant somewhere?) And I was startled last week to see an email from Carol Traver of Tyndale, who I\u2019ve quietly worshiped from afar these past few years. Because she\u2019s the only person who stepped out from that vast and desolate wilderness any writer must slog through to be found. She’s the only one who saw a glimpse of what I had to say and stepped out and took a chance and offered me a real shot at my dream. And a few days before the second anniversary of my book\u2019s release, she was just checking in, she said. And, oh yeah, she wanted to tell me. Growing Up Amish<\/em> had just crossed over into a new place. Print units have now reached 70,000 in sales. <\/p>\n

I wrote back and thanked her. And we just chatted back and forth a bit. And I asked her. What\u2019s the total number of combined sales, from eBook and print units? I told Dad it was right at 140,000. I didn’t know if it was that high or not. I haven’t heard anything lately. And she shot me back the numbers. 70,000 print units. And 90,000 eBook units. A total of 160,000. And they\u2019re still selling, still moving right along, she told me. Wow, I thought. And I wrote back. 160K rocks. Thanks for your time and thanks for checking in. <\/p>\n

And thanks to all of you, my readers, for your time, too. And thanks for checking in again. 160K really does rock. Thanks for reading my stuff. I am grateful. I don\u2019t know what else to say. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

And suddenly it seemed to him that all of it was his, even as his father\u2019s blood and earth was his, the lives and deaths and destinies of all his people\u2026His savage hunger was a kind of memory: he thought if he could speak, it would be fed\u2026 —Thomas Wolfe ______________ I don\u2019t claim to […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-10083","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-news"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10083","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=10083"}],"version-history":[{"count":104,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10083\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":10314,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10083\/revisions\/10314"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=10083"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=10083"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=10083"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}