by Ann Lombardi
After an exhausting tour through Europe, I couldn’t wait to reach Switzerland, the perfect refuge for my travel-weary bones. My return flight home from Zurich was two weeks away, and visions of tranquil pastures, alpine lakes, and creamy chocolates danced in my head.
How could I pass up the tempting "Ferien Auf Dem Bauernhof" (Farm Vacation) program advertised in the tourist office brochures? I was sure it would be a cross-cultural eye-opener for this city-slicker, housework-challenged American. So, I plopped down a finder’s fee and scooped up the address of my host farm family. With my Swiss Rail Pass in hand, I eagerly hopped a train to the country for my taste of authentic Swiss rural life. 
Rolf and Ruth Sprunger welcomed me into their 400-year-old farm house, nestled high in the hills of a tiny village. The old farm? It was the place of my dreams: contented dairy cows with huge hand-painted bells, and a menagerie of horses, pigs, hens, goats, and a half dozen dogs and cats. I loved the bountiful cherry and apple trees, organic veggie gardens, and the best homemade hazelnut carrot cake this side of the Atlantic.
The dark, worn wooden floors with secrets of centuries creaked musically throughout the house. A heavenly aroma of freshly baked wholegrain bread floated room-to-room from the wood-burning kitchen oven. I was in my element, and honestly didn’t miss any of my usual creature comforts, like central heating or upstairs toilets. For those brisk nights, I already had mastered the Swiss farmer art of starting the fire in my bedroom furnace and warming up the nifty mini-pillows filled with cherry pits, which kept my feet toasty under the fluffy goose down quilt. What an idyllic way of life, I thought, as I drifted off to sleep.
Well, idyllic, except for one thing. The meticulous Sprungers had the strange habit of ironing anything made of fabric, including every piece of clothing worn by their army of children…14 of the rascals, to be exact. Who ever heard of pressing denim work coveralls, or heaven help us, bed linens!? Naturally one of my daily chores was to tackle those dreadful piles of pressing. To my credit, I never once complained, reminding myself that hard work builds character. One afternoon on a particularly gorgeous day, I plotted to finish my ironing duties in record time. No numb hands and fingers for me today! Nor was I about to stay cooped up indoors with such beautiful weather beckoning me out to nature.
Half-way through my ironing, at the bottom of one pile, I spotted three pairs of the fanciest men’s underpants I had ever laid eyes on. They were those skimpy, low-cut Euro ones made of nylon net, the kind no red-blooded American male I know would ever be caught dead wearing. I immediately guessed the fancy briefs had been inside that festively wrapped birthday package a giggling Frau Sprunger had presented her hubby just a few days before. Of course I realized instinctively these underpants were not to be ironed. Carefully folding all three pairs in the precise Swiss manner I had been taught (in thirds, with the fronts facing up), I carefully laid them aside on the ironing board while I continued to plug away. Suddenly the family Saint Bernard bolted in out of nowhere. I was too stunned to react to what followed…I froze in horror as a dense mushroom cloud of stinky smoke grew bigger by the second. Mein Gott! I had knocked over the scalding iron!! It had hit the prized skivvies dead center. My first impulse was to run.
Regaining my composure, I managed to unplug the hissing iron, grab a kitchen spatula, and frantically scrape the iron’s underside. It was hopeless. A sticky glob of melted, charred nylon was plastered all over the bottom. And worse, the underpants were ruined, hopelessly welded together at what used to be the crotches. I decided then and there not to say a word to the Sprungers; that is, not until I had bought both a new iron and underwear. Miraculously, I did find the perfect replacements. Somehow I just never got around to fessing up to Herr and Frau Sprunger. Why spoil a relaxing vacation? The last day of my stay, I received a surprise farewell present from my hosts. It was a lovely Swiss travel scrapbook with a handwritten note inscribed "To our favorite American visitor." Touched by their generosity, I peeked inside the album. On the very first page were a sketched smiley-faced iron … and a neatly-glued chunk of Herr Sprunger’s fried underpants.
If You Go: www.myswitzerland.com (Switzerland Tourism);
www.bauernhof-ferien.ch/englisch/index.html (Farm Vacations);
www.swiss.com (Swiss Airlines);
www.raileurope.com/us/rail/passes/switzerland_index.htm (rail)
Rolf and Ruth Sprunger welcomed me into their 400-year-old farm house, nestled high in the hills of a tiny village. The old farm? It was the place of my dreams: contented dairy cows with huge hand-painted bells, and a menagerie of horses, pigs, hens, goats, and a half dozen dogs and cats. I loved the bountiful cherry and apple trees, organic veggie gardens, and the best homemade hazelnut carrot cake this side of the Atlantic. For those brisk nights, I already had mastered the Swiss farmer art of starting the fire in my bedroom furnace and warming up the nifty mini-pillows filled with cherry pits, which kept my feet toasty under the fluffy goose down quilt. What an idyllic way of life, I thought, as I drifted off to sleep.
Well, idyllic, except for one thing. The meticulous Sprungers had the strange habit of ironing anything made of fabric, including every piece of clothing worn by their army of children…14 of the rascals, to be exact. Who ever heard of pressing denim work coveralls, or heaven help us, bed linens!? Naturally one of my daily chores was to tackle those dreadful piles of pressing. To my credit, I never once complained, reminding myself that hard work builds character. One afternoon on a particularly gorgeous day, I plotted to finish my ironing duties in record time. No numb hands and fingers for me today! Nor was I about to stay cooped up indoors with such beautiful weather beckoning me out to nature.
Half-way through my ironing, at the bottom of one pile, I spotted three pairs of the fanciest men’s underpants I had ever laid eyes on. They were those skimpy, low-cut Euro ones made of nylon net, the kind no red-blooded American male I know would ever be caught dead wearing. I immediately guessed the fancy briefs had been inside that festively wrapped birthday package a giggling Frau Sprunger had presented her hubby just a few days before. Of course I realized instinctively these underpants were not to be ironed. Carefully folding all three pairs in the precise Swiss manner I had been taught (in thirds, with the fronts facing up), I carefully laid them aside on the ironing board while I continued to plug away. Suddenly the family Saint Bernard bolted in out of nowhere. I was too stunned to react to what followed…I froze in horror as a dense mushroom cloud of stinky smoke grew bigger by the second. Mein Gott! I had knocked over the scalding iron!! It had hit the prized skivvies dead center. My first impulse was to run.
Regaining my composure, I managed to unplug the hissing iron, grab a kitchen spatula, and frantically scrape the iron’s underside. It was hopeless. A sticky glob of melted, charred nylon was plastered all over the bottom. And worse, the underpants were ruined, hopelessly welded together at what used to be the crotches. I decided then and there not to say a word to the Sprungers; that is, not until I had bought both a new iron and underwear. Miraculously, I did find the perfect replacements. Somehow I just never got around to fessing up to Herr and Frau Sprunger. Why spoil a relaxing vacation? The last day of my stay, I received a surprise farewell present from my hosts. It was a lovely Swiss travel scrapbook with a handwritten note inscribed "To our favorite American visitor." Touched by their generosity, I peeked inside the album. On the very first page were a sketched smiley-faced iron … and a neatly-glued chunk of Herr Sprunger’s fried underpants.
If You Go: www.myswitzerland.com (Switzerland Tourism);
www.bauernhof-ferien.ch/englisch/index.html (Farm Vacations);
www.swiss.com (Swiss Airlines);
www.raileurope.com/us/rail/passes/switzerland_index.htm (rail)
Carefully folding all three pairs in the precise Swiss manner I had been taught (in thirds, with the fronts facing up), I carefully laid them aside on the ironing board while I continued to plug away. Suddenly the family Saint Bernard bolted in out of nowhere. I was too stunned to react to what followed…I froze in horror as a dense mushroom cloud of stinky smoke grew bigger by the second. Mein Gott! I had knocked over the scalding iron!! It had hit the prized skivvies dead center. My first impulse was to run.
Regaining my composure, I managed to unplug the hissing iron, grab a kitchen spatula, and frantically scrape the iron’s underside. It was hopeless. A sticky glob of melted, charred nylon was plastered all over the bottom. And worse, the underpants were ruined, hopelessly welded together at what used to be the crotches. I decided then and there not to say a word to the Sprungers; that is, not until I had bought both a new iron and underwear. Miraculously, I did find the perfect replacements. Somehow I just never got around to fessing up to Herr and Frau Sprunger. Why spoil a relaxing vacation? The last day of my stay, I received a surprise farewell present from my hosts. It was a lovely Swiss travel scrapbook with a handwritten note inscribed "To our favorite American visitor." Touched by their generosity, I peeked inside the album. On the very first page were a sketched smiley-faced iron … and a neatly-glued chunk of Herr Sprunger’s fried underpants.
If You Go: www.myswitzerland.com (Switzerland Tourism);
www.bauernhof-ferien.ch/englisch/index.html (Farm Vacations);
www.swiss.com (Swiss Airlines);
www.raileurope.com/us/rail/passes/switzerland_index.htm (rail)
www.myswitzerland.com (Switzerland Tourism);
www.bauernhof-ferien.ch/englisch/index.html (Farm Vacations);
www.swiss.com (Swiss Airlines);
www.raileurope.com/us/rail/passes/switzerland_index.htm (rail)
