Stanford 

September 8, 1962: Letter from Sam in Zermatt Switzerland to family

Dear Family, 

Things are running quite smoothly in Europe - I’m afraid this letter has nothing to grip the attention like an auto accident or a good con job. In fact, my delay in writing is intentional: knowing the pace I had set in my previous letters, I refrained from writing until something really disastrous happened. But, I am sorry to say, everything appears to be functioning well. It kind of makes me suspicious.

Jim and I spent about five days in Florence, Jim sick the entire time: even moved into a private room, visited a doctor, and bought pills. I was also sick, but stuck it out in the youth hostel, and forced myself to enjoy the place. I must admit, though, Florence didn’t need much forcing – even the toilet seats are lined with paintings. 

By the way, we hit some nice medieval towns on the way to Florence from Rome, including Assisi (where we got conned by a nun: three dollars each for one night!), but it’s all sort of a blur now, and I’m too lazy to check the daily diary. In any case, we left the City of Art as soon as Jim recovered, hit Pisa, where I stood reverently in front of Galileo Galilei's grave to keep the science sparkle, the Italian Riviera, and into France, to Marseille, Carcassonne, Toulouse, Nimes, Arles, Pont du Gard, La-dee-da, Tours, and Stanford in France.

Although we stayed at the youth hostel at Tours, we spent most of our time (including meal time) at Stanford in France, and we were literally charmed by the place. Compared to what we saw of Stanford in Italy, the place is heaven. I’d even go so far as to say it approaches Stanford in Germany in some ways. We were in the neighborhood for about five days, and managed that time to hit about seven château and as many museums, not counting a few caves. Golden-hearted Jim splurged a meal on me. (birthday present), and I bought a good one or two on my own, so we got a taste of Loire cooking also.

The last two days of Tours were wet, so we handled essentials (note: I sent home three more packages of books), and then Jim trained to Paris, where he presumably checked my big suitcase, and I began hitching to Zermatt with my small bag and raincoat. The car remained at the Tours campus, Marvel of the Mechanical Age. I chose hitching, and had tremendous luck my first day: one ride of about 30 km into the tulies. Five hours later and no ride in sight, I performed another first: I slept out under a haystack in the pouring rain. Ah, growing up is great. The next day I made it to the Lyon youth hostel, and the next day (my birthday) to Sion, not far from Visp. As a birthday present to myself, I bought a ticket from Sion to Zermatt – another first. By the way, the way to meet the locvals, as Len has probably already told you, is through hitching. My rides came from (among others) priests, businessmen, newspaper reporters, and students. You’ll be amazed at how much of the language I picked up those 2 1/2 days.

OK, something I left out, but which needs recording. While in Arles (I think) I set off on my own to find a cheaper restaurant than Jim had chosen, and managed to find a real hole in the wall. The owner and his family were eating, but, after they discovered I was American, asked me to join them at their table. Knowing the French, I was flabbergasted at the show of Gemülichkeit, but readily accepted their offer. They stuffed afer  plate of food down me, drowned me in wine, and seemed intensely interested in everything I said. When they found out I wanted to be an astronomer, every visitor to the restaurant was immediately informed, with a great show of dignity, that an “American astronomer“ was sitting at the owners' table. I hope everyone was duly impressed. But then the truth began to dawn: they brought out their 12 year-old daughter, and repeated to me how tres joli she was.  I of course, assented, as I did to everything at this stage. Then they asked me how long I was staying around the area, offered me a place to stay, and even asked me to take the daughter to the bullfight the next day. I thought they had me married to her when the old man popped the vital question: how about an exchange, I would spend next summer with them, and their daughter with my parents. The deal sounded up and up to me, so I of course, assented. After all, they did pay for my meal. Then, after a few more glasses of wine and a few technical details (I have to send the older brother some jeans), we separated, everyone in good spirits. I can’t wait to get home and discuss the exchange with you in person.

But I got off track. I made it to Zermatt, and climbed the Gornergrat and back the next day, and the weather was perfect, and here I am right now, happy as can be. Then I got all my mail which Jim forwarded to me from Paris, and it was just like old times: five notes of despair from mom, and chuckles from the Old Man, one from Len, one from my roommate at Stern, one from Len Evans in München, and even one from old Merryman - all demanding that I do things immediately. I feel like saying to hell with all of you, but, as John mentioned in his note, I am one of the family, and have a name to uphold. So here goes the business.

Mom’s letters were a scream. All about this $200 check sent to me in Athens. I was driving to Istanbul when it reached Athens, and it didn’t reach me until Istanbul. And any case, I cashed it with the manager of the Istanbul (he liked my face), and got American dollars – 200 of them – in return. Stop payment if you detest the Istanbul Hilton.  Otherwise, forget the matter. It seems the manager did too. Thank you, by the way, for the $100 you cabled Rome; it should reach me any day now (I had it forwarded yesterday).  I hope you put the $159.65 in my bank account to pay for my plane reservation from New York to San Francisco, which I made in Florence. For some reason, the travel office demanded immediate payment, so I couldn’t choose the more normal method of sending the bill home. By the way, I think $15 of that comes back to me: because of my charter flight to New York, I may not have to pay the $15 tax. We’ll see. Also by the way: I overdrew by accident because I was going on your estimate of my bank account – obviously some sort of service charge lowered the sum. Next time I will leave a little bigger margin of error. To make sure: I arrive in San Francisco 6:30 PM, September 23, on TWA flight 43.

My car: it is sitting at the Tours campus, and I have the keys and all papers. The "buyer" I had has reconsidered and should pay about $200 for it – but at least it is definitely sold. The weight on the shoulders is lightening. I had a little scare about the charter flight to New York. It was almost called off, to the point where the student organizer had to phone the Federal Aeronautics Commission long distance. He assures me that the possibilities are “very good“ that it will leave. It arrives in New York the morning of September 17, and costs $95, which I have paid long ago. I will spend the 17th with the Rosses, the 18th and 19th with Big Len, the 20th and 21st with Big Bruce, and the 22nd and 23rd with Mary Benfield. I’m sorry I can’t fit in any of the old school buddies, but, from the looks of things, I should see plenty of them next summer if I just stay at home. anyway, I’m pooped, so I’m taking it easy on the East Coast.

This house jazz sounds wild. I’m so excited. I even bought a picture in Turkey to hang on the fireplace – you’ll just love it. Incidentally, four Turkish plates were sent to 835 Pine Hill by me, and should arrive soon. Take the best two, and give the other two to Jim Haas, But don’t take two of the same pattern. They are my serious gift to the redecoration, so easy with them. I’m glad Jeep is in good spirits, and I’m looking forward to seeing Bert and Bob and everybody else real soon. Good going on. I think our worries would be over if John took the Bing Crosby.  Thanks ever so much for including me in on next summer’s plans, but I guess we can settle matters at home when I return.

My fingers are tiring, but I will continue with all these matters of protocol. I seem to remember asking you to forward me money for my plane to San Francisco. Obviously this (if it exists) is obsolete – forget it. I will rip up any check which arrives for that purpose, as my part of the bargain. Finally, the matter of money in general. The fact that I don’t feel guilty of over spending is enough, I think, to show that I haven’t: I am after all notoriously sticky-fingered. The fact, however, that expenses have been above my estimates is explained, on the one hand, by the extra traveling we did en route (we drove over 12,000 km in the car, took boats, planes, buses, and trains all over the place,), and the extra prices we paid for hotels and good meals instead of youth hostels and cooking out.  We spent a lot, but we saw a lot, and have very few regrets – and the loan will be fully repaid. Trust big Sam.

Well, I’m in Zermatt again – the best place in Europe – happy as can be. After 3 1/2 months of driving, writing letters, having accidents, and worrying constantly about the near and distant future, it’s a pleasure to be in a place where nobody has to think. Zermatt is running smoothly as a Swiss clock - which means nothing can go wrong here, no matter how hard I try, but which also means nothing exciting can take place. It’s just what I need. Yesterday, as I mentioned earlier, I climbed to the Gornergrat (four hours) and back. At the beginning, I was accompanied by a nice Dutch kid, but, having never been higher than the top of a dike before, and not knowing I was in a hurry, he pooped out with mountain sickness at Riffelalp. He still hasn’t completely recovered, poor kid. at Gornergrat I struck up small talk with a man from Zürich, who insisted he share his lunch with me. I parried with a beer for him, which obviously threw him off his guard: he invited me to dinner this coming Wednesday. I can smell that tournedos already.

Today was perfect. I headed out alone along the north side of the Tindeln glacier (the Gornergrat train ridge separates it from the Gornergrat glacier), and, after three hours of clambering over boulders and piles of snow, found myself alone at 11,000 feet, the Matterhorn on my right, the glacier at my feet, Stockholm mountain on my left, my milk, bread, and chocolate in my right hand, and my Newsweek in my left. I didn’t see a soul all day. Wow. I don’t know which season I like best in Zermatt (and I have just about seen them), but September is grand. The summer crowd has thinned, and so has the foliage, so the mountains look dark green, being only partially covered with grass. At mornings and late afternoons it’s tough to tell just where the long shadows leave off, and the sunlit ground begins. The sun is not as intense and burning as spring, when the reflection is almost too much, and the air is much cooler (we get -10° in the nights), but the old ultraviolet still manages to brown the old bod. Everything isn’t as Christmassy and white as in winter, nor as green and flowery as in spring, but much darker, starker, and un-Tyrolean. This is the first time I think I have taken the Swiss Alps seriously, if you understand me. Wild place. Tomorrow I hike up the west wall of the valley with my flute and lunch, hoping there to become the highest flute in the world for that Monday, and, by the end of the week, should have covered about 100 miles in my rented climbing boots. It’s the Sam Edwards Method of Relaxing after a hectic nine months in Europe. But, believe it or not, I won’t try the Matterhorn. I know I sound like an alcoholic who remains in a bar all week without buying a drink, but, after hearing 180 climbed it in one day in August, including several ancient ladies, my lust for adventure has dimmed considerably.  Being a confirmed expert on Zermatt anyway, I know a lot more interesting hikes.

My flute playing has been constant as usual, although the emphasis has switched from tone to fingering. The switch is because my badly repaired tooth changed my tone considerably, and the tone will change back when the tooth is repaired, so no sense in developing a transitory tone. Incidentally, insurance does not cover orthodontic work, so the $.75, it cost me to repair must come from my pocket.

My intellectual life is also being sustained through books (as the packages you received may have hinted).  I just finished Camus' The Stranger in between volumes of Fraser's The Golden Bow (fascinating), and I’m reading Ovid’s Metamorphosis concurrently with the latter (I couldn’t resist after hearing it was banned in 8 AD).  The books I list from time to time may seem unrelated, but, I assure you, all relate directly to my senior thesis I have to write for Honors Humanities. And the books are fun, anyway. Incidentally, my schedule this Fall is is wild: five courses from five departments: five units on the history of painting, Four on Great Men (or some such barf for humanities), three differential equations, three on probability, and one on individual reading in German (under the guidance of my former German teacher at Andover, Mr Lohnes). 

But the hand tires. Thank you for all the letters, and especially the birthday remembrances, and I’m sorry I didn’t get off a letter in return for such a long while. Keep the house, new cars, tiger, and relatives in good working order, and see you soon.

Big Sam

I’m not a teenager anymore.  Aaaaarrgghh!