D
anke Schoen. I’ve only heard Wayne Newton sing those two words. The lyric echoes through my mother’s favorite song popular decades ago, but in a few short minutes, the woman sitting at the table next to me has said it twice. I was dining alone in Interlaken, Switzerland and suddenly felt my long departed parent’s presence. “Danke Schoen,” thank you, indeed. Earlier in the day, I’d arrived in the city by myself. It was snowing lightly as I made my way from the train station to the Hotel du Nord and warmed up before considering the evening ahead. This was one of my first stops on a solo Swiss train adventure. As the afternoon weather cleared to a soft glow, I elected to take a walk before dining in Interlaken. There was a path from my hotel that wound around the central square. From my room,
Table bottle of pear schnapps while dining in Interlaken.
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Alpen Hut style entree.
I glimpsed the edge of downtown on the other side of the large green park, so that’s where I headed. A few mothers with strollers walked briskly by, otherwise, traffic was light and I had the trail to myself. Pausing, I swiveled my gaze from the fairy book facade of the Victoria Jungfrau Hotel and up to the mountain peaks overhead. As clear as if she’d been standing next to me, I imagined my mother’s high-pitched voice exclaiming, “Oh my!” The view, full of park, hotel, and the giant mountains overhead was shockingly beautiful. I must have been close to the spot where my parents stood on their European vacation long ago. They’d called home to California from Interlaken and my dad explained patiently that the village was set between lakes at the base of the Alps. Suddenly, I no longer felt alone but on a mission to savor the city and toast to my parent’s vacation escape from suburbia many decades earlier.
WINTER 2016/17
The village main street was a hushed bustle as small shops completed their day’s business. For an hour, I wandered and then followed a young group of Japanese students into a bright Swatch store. The manager and I commiserated about the city and before we parted, she recommended a place for dinner. A few blocks away I stepped into the casual warmth of Café des Alpes. Shown to a discreet spot in the deep dining room, I slid into an upholstered booth and observed the room. The waiter smoothly lit a small candle alongside a pair of small pine cones on the table. A couple nearby chatted intimately in French. A business group commandeered a rear banquet table. There were no white linens; all was comfortably casual at Café des Alpes. I ordered White Beere, Muchner Weisse, from Hofbrau Muchen. Rosti, a traditional dish, was listed as a menu favorite, its pizzalike crust made from hash brown potatoes, but I opted for a heftier dinner.