Above it All:

Last week Amy and I spent time with the Luthis' in Switzerland (Geneva to be exact). We were warmly welcomed into a little American-Swiss enclave on our travel around the world. It was lovely to see Jen and the family and we already miss the constant onslaught of chocolate and cheese (good for the soul- if not for the gut). Here's a mini montage to our time in Switzerland:

The week was jam-packed with sightseeing and family bonding. We loved it. But, doubt you'll enjoy a play-by-play. Perhaps a day in the life...

On Monday Jen and Amy and I traveled via railway from Geneva to Lucerne (Luzen), Switzerland. From there, we took the train a touch farther to Brunen, Switzerland. Here we met up with three ruff-around-the-edges (as much a you can expect from Swiss-Germans) paragliders. We shook hands around and sized one another up. Breno, a short middle aged hobbit looking man conveyed that I would be flying with him.

The six of us made our way up in a tiny gondola, with the giant packs of parachutes attached to the outside of the containment vessel, into the mountains above Lake Lucerne. The world paned out before us: lush greens, deep blues, a splash of spring blossoms making their way up the mountainside.

The butterflies danced to an angry heavy metal tune as Breno buckled me into the thick black straps over my shoulders, across my hips, and around my thighs. He spent about ten minutes organizing what looked ot be the most delicate colored ropes- no thicker than twine. Laying the yellow material against the ground so the silver belly faced the sun, Breno worked his way around his delicate flying machine.

The hill where we stood was steep- with deep grass covered steps laid into the ground. The large pastel colored combat boots on my feet- two sizes too big- wiggled and clunked in a ridged robotic way was I scooted toward the place below me that Breno was pointed toward.

I glanced up to see Amy harnessed in black. Behind her, a lean Swiss-German. Behind him, a puffed up orange and white boomerang of material. I watched them move forward and then become airborne. A graceful step away from the Earth.

A breeze flitted across my face and Breno murmured an non-reassuring “uh-oh.” The material of our cleaning organized shoot rustled and turned on itself. Breno moved to readjust it.

Jennifer and a gangly redhead leapt into the air and stayed there in a beautiful act that seemed to defy gravity.

Breno fussed with our flying machine. I watched my friends swirl and float across the horizon; two orange paragliders flying above the lake.

With each moment I watched them overhead and listened to the tinkerings of Breno, the butterfliesin my belly became more and more like stones.

Breno eventually returned to connect me to the paragliding equipment with a renewed fervor. Once strapped in, he turned away from me without a word and stood perfectly still- looking contemplative. He smiled and said with a thick German accent, “we go!” He slipped into his place behind me and advised me to begin walking “when I count to three.”

On three, I walked. He then encouraged me to run. But, before I could increase me speed, the world below me was no longer in contact with the soles of my military issue shoe-wear.

We were flying.

It was like sailing, like soaring, like inhabiting the soul of a hawk. The geography below me a painters palate: a million different blues in the lake alone. Houses pebbled below in the valley, the peaked and triangular specks of white a smattering of sailboats. The green-brown mountains jagged and massive alongside us.

“We watch the birds. They are the professional They tell us where to the wind is good.” Breno says behind me.

It is beautiful. Breno offers the chance to touch the treetops. I am not sure this is such a brilliant plan, bu the euphoria of lying gives me a kind of drunk reasoning and I say, “sure.”

We dive down, a hawk seeking its prey. The trees come more into focus, the leaves just underfoot. And then, we are up again.

He take me through all sorts of delightfully stomach swaying maneuvers. He shows me how to “drive.” I let go of my hand holds forcibly, the rope leaves marks on the inside of my palms.

We twirl around and fly gracefully over the water. I tell him it feels like swinging. He says, “no, it is not a good day for a swim: too cold.” We have misunderstood one another.

The ground comes closer. I see my friends in a tall grassy field. I wave and know that the ride is coming to an end. We land with softly and I promptly fall to my knees, the yellow collapses behind us.

PS- sorry for typos- late night posting and feeling guilty for not getting anything up lately. Amy and I are now in Prague. We'll try to write about it (or more about Switzerland) soon!

xoxo,
Katie