A Synthesis in the Alps   There is a point in the southwestern part of Switzerland just south of Zermatt where das Matterhorn, whose name is German, faces il Monte Rosa, whose name is Italian, not far from le Mont Blanc, whose name is French. These three mountains, and their names, tell it all about the three languages and cultures that converge, roughly, at this point.

Well, almost. German (and English) speakers use the three names as they are, but the Italians call Mont Blanc Monte Bianco and the Matterhorn il Cervino, as do the French, in the form of le Cervin, so my little metaphoric image can also be made to come out a bit battered and the worse for wear. But that just shows that the three languages of considerable influence that merge in this corner of the Alps can push the envelope a bit beyond their actual borders. In any case, the three extend some considerable distance in a 365° radius. Note that I’m speaking here of language borders and not political borders.

From das Matterhorn, beyond Zermatt and German-speaking Switzerland, German holds sway to the north until you encounter Danish and Swedish, to the northeast until you encounter Polish, Czech, and Slovak, and to the east, beyond Austria, until you encounter Hungarian.

From il Monte Rosa, Italian holds sway to the east, including Italian-speaking Switzerland, until you encounter Slovenian and Croatian, and to the south until you fall into the Mediterranean at the bottom of the boot, and of Sicily. Beyond that is Arabic.

From the region around le Mont Blanc, including French-speaking Switzerland, French holds sway to the southwest until you encounter Spanish and Catalán, to the northwest until you encounter English, and to the north until you encounter Dutch/Flemish.

Now consider the size of the circle these three languages describe in the center of Europe, and consider that all three languages are an integral part of the fabric of Switzerland, and you’ll understand the title of this piece. You will also understand why the Swiss national hero is known as Wilhelm Tell, or Guillaume Tell, or Guglielmo Tell.

THREE-CUM-FOUR I’ve come across several examples lately of things that you expect to come in threes, that actually come in fours, but, psst, don’t talk about it; sweep it under the rug, and maybe no one will notice.

Alexandre Dumas père wrote Les Trois Mousquetaires, and there they stand, all three of the musketeers brandishing their swords and shouting “All for one, and one for all”: Athos, Porthos, Aramis—and d’Artagnan. Some illustrations of the group show three, others show four, including the friend and hanger-on, d’Artagnan. So should it be Les Quatre Mousquetaires? No, let’s leave it at Trois and sweep the discrepancy under the rug. I’m sure d’Artagnan is a nice guy, so let him stay.

Going back to Switzerland, everyone knows that, aside from frequently-encountered English, Switzerland uses three languages, mentioned above. So why does the currency have inscriptions in German, French, Italian—and Romansh? How did this d’Artagnan sneak in here?

There’s more: Switzerland was founded in William Tell’s time when three cantons vowed to unite, Uri, Schwyz, and Underwalden. This historic event took place on the shores of the Vierwaldstättersee, the Lake of the Four Forest Cantons, named for these three cantons. Wait: Vier? Four? I thought it was only Drei, three. Shouldn’t it be called the Dreiwaldstättersee? You say Luzern is number Vier? How did Luzern squeeze in with the original Drei? We need to post a guard at the door.

Now I’m getting confused. Were there originally three Beatles or four?

DREI ODER VIER SPRACHEN? Three or four languages? Most people casually consider there are three, but there is a fourth, Romansh. As the name implies, it came when the Romans came, and is derived from Latin. It’s spoken in eastern Switzerland by a group of people who number only in the tens of thousands, but in 1938, they lobbied enough to get Romansh declared the fourth official language of Switzerland.

To me, Romansh looks very much like either French or Italian, or even a blend of the two. You greet someone by saying “Allegra”, which strikes me like the Italian word for “happy”, used in music.

Here are a few more expressions in Romansh. See if you can pick out the meanings.

I’m sure you see parallels in other Italic (Romance) languages for you to recognize that the four expressions mean “How are you?”, “Good day”, “Good evening”, “So long (see you again)”.

The name of the country is Schweiz (German), Suisse (French), Svizzera (Italian), Svizra (Romansh). Note how the Romansh name resembles the Italian, and note that the German name Schweiz is derived from one of the original cantons, Schwyz. In other words, to this day, your residence can simultaneously be the canton of Schwyz and Schweiz.

Switzerland is a small country in the first place of only 7.5 million people, and its 26 cantons are really quite small, some even tiny. However, there is still room for individualism here, since three of the 26 cantons are further subdivided into half-cantons. To illustrate, one of these is one of the original cantons, Unterwalden, which is subdivided into the half-cantons of Nidwalden and Obwalden. Never, never, never translate names, but to give you a flavor of the individualism involved in naming these places, Unterwalden COULD be translated as “Underwoods”, divided into “Lower Woods” and “Upper Woods”. You see, it’s harder to split hairs more finely than that.

Switzerland works very hard to show it’s a multilingual country, but to put one’s cards on the table, quite frankly in my opinion it’s a German-speaking country which bends over backwards to treat equally its two (or three) minority languages. (If I said this honest opinion to a Swiss, I’d probably get a tongue-lashing, especially if he were non-German-speaking.) German is spoken in all of central and eastern Switzerland, French along a western strip, and Italian in a southern region. Romansh is blended in the east with German, and it is particularly ironic to see that an Italic (Romance) language is not blended with the other two, but with a Germanic one. On the other hand, perhaps that’s how it survived, since if it were blended in with Italian, it might have more difficulty keeping its own identity.

I have some very interesting numbers, particularly interesting in the way that they seem to have changed over time. For years, I always taught my German classes that the ratios came down to this: of 100 Swiss picked at random, 75 would be German-speaking living in the German areas, 20 French, and 5 Italian (Romansh would be statistically negligible). Looking at these figures, it’s easier to talk about majority and minority.

But for years, I’ve been hearing about immigration to Switzerland, as is also the case to many other places, with many Swiss, particularly conservative ones, taking umbrage at so much immigration. In the freebie magazine provided on my incoming flight on Swiss International, a list of statistics presented was eye-opening. Here are the new numbers:

How could there be so much “other”? To some extent, especially on an upper-class level, English could be involved. Just think of private Swiss schools where English is used, and international corporate executives transferred to Switzerland with their families. But beyond that, it’s a lot of immigrant languages. I never before saw so many Asians and others in Switzerland. Some women wore sari-like dresses on the street, and once or twice I saw women in burkas, with only eyes showing through a slit in the veil. Most impressive to me is that this “other” now covers more people than speak Italian, either under the old or new statistics, plus Romansh combined. The whole concept of languages in Switzerland has to be regarded in this new light.

But in any case, what name do you use for the country on an international basis? Schweiz? Suisse? Svizzera? Svizra? None of the above. The letter-code for Switzerland, like GB for Great Britain, D for Deutschland, F for France, I for Italia, is CH. A Latin name was resorted to, Confoederatio Helvetica (Swiss Confederation, since Helvetia is the Latin name for the area that became Switzerland), and CH is used as ID’s on cars, as the end of a web address (.ch), and for the money: ten Swiss Francs is written CHF 10. (Of course, some French speakers may claim that CH stands for the French version, Confédération Hélvetique, but we won’t go there.)

Der Vierwaldstättersee   This lake will be a key point, but let’s first talk about the Urkantone that surround it. The prefix “ur-” in German brings you back in time, and corresponds to words like “original”, “primitive”, “ancient”. If a Wald is a forest, an Urwald is a primeval forest, an ancient forest (I think of Evangeline: “This is the forest primeval …”). Going back in family history on your mother’s side, you go from Mutter to Grossmutter to Urgrossmutter, to Ururgrossmutter, and so on. If “alt” is old, you don’t want to be called uralt. So how do you define an Urkanton in Switzerland, and how many Urkantone were there?

I’m going to be talking below about the layout of Switzerland, both its odd borders and its waterways. Let’s start right in the center of Switzerland with the Vierwaldstättersee, a longish name you will have to practice to get to say right, but it’s worth it, because it’s a beautiful lake with Alpine slopes descending into it, although not the biggest lake, and also because it essentially encompasses the elements of basic Swiss history.

It’s an irregularly shaped lake. I’ll describe it as an X with an extended, bent tail. The western end is shaped like a large X, with Luzern (lu.TSAIRN), known in English as Lucerne, at the end of the NW arm, Küssnacht ending the NE, and Mount Pilatus on the SW arm. The SE arm continues past Mount Rigi and squeezes between two peninsulas reaching out toward each other, which I call the wasp waist of the lake. It is reasonable to consider that these two peninsulas, Ober Nas and Unter Nas (Upper Nose and Lower Nose) at one point in time actually met and cut the lake in two. Coming off the SE corner of the X and beyond this wasp waist the lake continues due east as the X’s tail, then makes a sharp turn south at the Rütli, ending in the region of Flüelen and Altdorf. Most of the X at the western end falls in Kanton Luzern. In the central section, the north shore is roughly in Kanton Schwyz, and the south shore in Kanton Unterwalden. The dogleg section in the east running south beyond the Rütli is in Kanton Uri, and this branch of the lake can also be called the Urner See, named, slightly irregularly, after Uri.

Now let’s try to put together all this about William Tell (below), three or four Urkantone, and this beautiful lake, also this historical lake because of the events that took place around it.

Because of the geography of the area, with Switzerland to the SW and Austria to the SE of Germany, you may get the feeling that Switzerland had broken away from Germany or one of its predecessor states, but that’s not the case. The Swiss area had always been subject to the rule of the Hapsburgs in Austria, hard to the east.

In 1291, on August 1 to be exact, which makes that date the Swiss National Holiday, representatives of the Urkantone of Schwyz, Uri and Underwalden met on the high cliff meadow known as the Rütli, right at the bend of the lake, and swore an oath of unity and mutual assistance, to protect each other against the Austrians. This is referred to as the Rütlischwur, with Schwur meaning a swearing, or an oath.

Now the British revere Runnymede, where Magna Charta was signed, and Americans revere the former State House of Pennsylvania, now known as Independence Hall in Philadelphia, where the Declaration of Independence was signed, so you will appreciate what the Swiss think of the Rütli. This is the location for celebrations and speeches every August 1.

But we’re only up to drei Urkantone, covering the eastern 2/3 of the lake. Well, do realize that over the years, more and more areas joined this confederation, to eventually bring it up to the present 26 cantons. Most of these areas that wanted to join were German-speaking, which made particular sense, but over time, French-speaking areas to the west and the Italian south also joined the confederation for mutual defense, resulting in the present multilingual country. However, the very first one to join after 1291 did so only about four decades later, in 1332, and that was Luzern at the western end of the lake, so to this day, these four, not three, cantons are considered the Urkantone. Go figure, but it’s that same d’Artagnan mentality: let the late-arriving fourth guy into the club.

It is very interesting to analyze the language issue here in the naming of things. The official name of the country is the Swiss Confederation, and in French this is la Conféderation Suisse, and in Italian la Confederazione Svizzera. But the German name is very, very different, die Schweizerische Eidgenossenschaft. This deserves analysis to demonstrate the emotional issues involved.

Genossen are comrades. A Genossenschaft is a comradeship or a fellowship. Eid not only means “oath”, but is directly related to that English word. So an Eidgenossenschaft is an Oath-Fellowship, or a Sworn Fellowship. Just look at the emotionalism in naming your country die Schweizerische Eidgenossenschaft, or the Swiss Sworn Fellowship. It sure beats calling it a confederation, even though that’s essentially what it is.

Finally here, let’s get to the poetry of naming the lake. There is a tradition in Switzerland in naming lakes after the major city on them: Thun (TOON) is on the Thuner See, Brienz is on the Brienzer See, even Zürich—now drop that I—is on the Zürcher See. The Vierwaldstättersee is usually called in English the Lake of Lucerne, in French the Lac de Lucerne, in Italian the Lago di Lucerna. Compared to the meaning of the German name, those are totally emasculated references, of little emotional meaning. Now follow this.

The normal German word for canton is Kanton, and cantons are Kantone. In the case of this particular lake where so much Swiss history took place at the Rütli, a special, poetic word comes into play. A Stätte (SHTE.te) is a place; Stätten are places, in this case, more “settlements”. Waldstätten, literally “settlements in the forest”, is a highly poetic reference to the Urkantone. Change the N to an R for grammatical reasons, add a number up front and See at the end, and you have die Vierwaldstättersee (FEER.valt.shte.ter.zé), often translated as the “Lake of the Four Forest Cantons”. (I would argue that “forest” is redundant there, given this explanation, but it does sound nice.) Now, given the history involved here, isn’t that a more poetic, romantic, charming name than Lake of Lucerne? If you decided to call Philadelphia “Spirit of 1776 City”, in the same vein, you could call this lake in Switzerland “Heritage Lake”.

Rarely, in other languages, this heritage does come forth. In French you CAN call it Lac des Quatre Cantons, and in Italian, Lago dei Quattro Cantoni (“forest” doesn’t make it into these translations). In Dutch, it’s the Vierwoudstedenmeer, and even in Russian it’s Фирвальдштетское озеро (Firval’dshtetskoye ozero).

Wilhelm Tell   Wilhelm Tell dates to about 1400, which is Chaucer’s time in England. He is probably legendary. In Swiss conservative circles, he’s a national hero, but to Swiss liberals, he’s a fairy tale. Once again, go figure--that’s politics for you.

Shooting an apple off someone’s head is an ancient European myth also appearing in Scandinavia, and in Persia as well, so believing that Tell was the only one that did it becomes a more suspicious train of thought. In any case, Herman Gessler was the Austrian governor that Tell supposedly shot, so Tell’s story becomes involved with the Rütlischwur. I understand that in Altdorf, and the bottom end of the Urner See, is a famous 1895 statue of Tell and his son, often reproduced in pictures and on stamps. The Urner See, Tell’s location, is apparently particularly stormy, which makes the story more exciting, since Tell escaped the Austrians in a storm, and this becomes part of the exciting struggle of independence from Austrian rule.

Regarding the Tell story, let’s look at it from the point of view of our three languages. It’s a Swiss story, but German author Friedrich Schiller wrote his last, and possibly most famous play called Wilhelm Tell in 1804. For years, the so-called “Tellspiel” has been presented outdoors in Interlaken, Switzerland, all summer long, rain or shine. One of Schiller’s most memorable quotes from the play is:

Now we go south. Italian composer Gioacchino Rossini used the Tell story to write his last opera. Rossini wrote Guillaume Tell as his first grand opera that was, of all things--in FRENCH!. How’s that to illustrate the convergence of these three languages and cultures in and around Switzerland? An Italian composer took a German (Swiss) theme and wrote his opera in French, giving it its world premiere in Paris in French in 1829.

Over time, the Rossini opera itself has not fared well, and is not frequently presented, which is in stark contrast to the Schiller play. But, as we all know, one part of the Rossini opera has become arguably the most widely-known piece of classic music there is, and that’s the overture to the opera, and in particular, the fourth and final part to that overture, the finale. The Finale to the William Tell Overture I’m sure beats even On the Beautiful, Blue Danube (“The Blue Danube Waltz”) in recognizability in popular culture. For this circumstance we of course have the Lone Ranger to thank.

Let’s look at the four parts of the overture, which vary, in order, slow, fast, slow, fast.

The first part is the Prelude, also known as Dawn. I shall argue my personal point of view that this refers to the custom for centuries of people, including many famous ones, to go to the top of the Rigi near Luzern to watch the dawn come up over the Vierwaldstättersee (see below). Dawn is a slow passage which features five cellos.

The second part is Storm. It’s a dynamic section, fast and loud, using the facilities of the full orchestra. We have already referred to the tendency of the Urner See to storms, and how this is symbolic of the dynamic move to Swiss unity and freedom.

The third part is Calm, also known as the Ranz des vaches, the call to the dairy cows, and enduring Alpine theme. Calm features the English horn.

And then there’s the ultra-dynamic Finale. It’s presumably this ultra-dynamism that makes it so popular. It starts out heralded by a rather lengthy trumpet fanfare:

followed by the most familiar theme in popular culture that is based on a classical theme; it’s in the form of a cavalry charge gallop:

Presumably, Rossini likened this dynamic finale to the excitement of William Tell helping to gain Swiss independence, or some such noble theme. However, I recall someone once quipping that the definition of a true sophisticate is one who can listen to the Finale of the William Tell Overture and NOT think of the Lone Ranger. I suspect that, by this definition, there are absolutely no sophisticates in this world. Even the fact that the title includes the name of William Tell helps no one whatsoever to think of William Tell; instead, people picture a masked Texas Ranger riding a horse named Silver.

These theme is so deeply engrained on the popular psyche that, to illustrate that point, I’m going to repeat a “joke” that someone used online in this regard. This is hardly a joke for adults, but one of the type that would be told among seventh-graders in the schoolyard:

The purpose of repeating this “joke” is to illustrate (1) how very ingrained that melody is, and (2) the extent that it’s associated with the Lone Ranger, and most definitely NOT with William Tell, poor Rossini notwithstanding. And, aside from “Danube”, you cannot find many other musical themes in this situation. For instance, you will hardly find children in schoolyards (or adults, for that matter) greeting each other with the theme from Eine kleine Nachtmusik (forgive me, Mozart):

I will admit that it was this Finale that first got me interested in classical music in the sixth grade, and, yes, it was a carry-over from the Lone Ranger. But I’m not the only one.

As many times as I’d heard recordings of the four parts of the Overture, I had never actually heard it in concert until last year. In the summer, the New York Philharmonic does a series of concerts of lighter fare under the direction of the British conductor Bramwell Tovey. I couldn’t attend this year because at the end of June I was in South Africa, but on 30 June 2007 I did attend. The Philharmonic did Elgar’s Pomp and Circumstance, Grieg’s Piano Concerto, Smetena’s Moldau---and finally, Rossini’s William Tell Overture.

Tovey has a very unique style, almost approaching stand-up comedy. Usually conductors never speak a word, they just walk out and conduct, but Tovey had something to say, usually humorous, before each selection. For instance, he pointed out that, while Pomp and Circumstance is usually only heard at graduations in the US, in Britain it has much more patriotic underpinnings, and, if it hadn’t been for that unpleasantness in 1776, it could have been ours as well! Anyway, he did go on quite humorously about the Lone Ranger versus William Tell, and the Lone ranger winning. And then they performed it. Carter Brey was, as ever, Principal Cello (2008/5).

All four sections were thrilling, but you just had to smile at the finale. As I looked down the aisle where I was sitting, those who weren’t secretly conducting in their laps with their index finger, were toe-tapping it out instead. You could see how everyone was enjoying it.

Encores have become misnomers. They almost never appear as intended. “Encore” in French (“Ancora” in Italian) means “again”. The original intention of an encore was to stop an opera after an aria that was highly enjoyable and have the singer do it a second time, on the spot. That could also be extended to a shorter concert piece, but this now never happens. What’s falsely presented as an encore after a concert is actually a carefully rehearsed DIFFERENT selection, which in reality was the actual last selection of the evening.

But Tovey did things differently. After the applause, he came out again on stage at the so-called “encore” time, but this time, just the very time when another conductor would actually have announced what “encore” had been selected, Tovey, contrarily, didn’t say a word. Instead he twirled around, pointed to the brass section and again we heard:

In other words, he really did an encore, a real-life actual encore of the previous selection, which, as he well knew, was just what everybody wanted to hear. And once again, off went the index fingers on their merry way in the laps, as well as the tapping toes.

We cannot continue discussing this without hearing it. First listen to and watch, the intro of the 1950's TV Series: The Lone Ranger You will not only notice how tinny it sounds, but how butchered up it is, with pieces omitted and the rest patched together so it fits its time slot. Yet it’s the source most of us learned from.

Much more fulfilling is this complete version of the Overture to William Tell, all four parts, with Claudio Abbado conducting the Berliner Philharmoniker. I do hope you’ll take the time to listen to the whole thing, if for no other reason then to show your sophistication at eradicating the image of the Lone Ranger from your mind, and envisioning all these events actually taking place on the Vierwaldstättersee (HA!).

Note that, in this outdoor concert, the umbrellas are particularly appropriate for Storm, but are also put to good use to “conduct” the Finale! Also be aware of how very long the trumpet fanfare is that introduces the Finale, before the actual theme starts. And try to visualize William Tell! I also bet you won’t be able to resist playing at least the Finale a second time.

Mapping Switzerland   As a follow-up to the extensive discussion of the Vierwaldstättersee in the historic and geographic heart of Switzerland I want to talk a little about other waterways, and especially how they relate to the extremely odd political borders that Switzerland has.

Take a look at a map of Switzerland. It’s a highly unusual shape, with four bulges along the bottom. To me it looks like a frog. The snout is in the 7 o’clock position at the second bulge on the lower left, where Zermatt is; in the bulges to each side, its right leg reaches to Geneva and left leg to Lugano, and its left rear leg is visible on the right, reaching to Sankt Moritz. Its rear reaches up to Zürich and the Bodensee in the 1 o’clock position. This may be fanciful, but it’s an easy reference to locations.

Examining the borders, it seems as though lines were drawn at the last minute, without sufficient planning. In some cases, a major mountain or a mountain pass may form a natural border, such as Monte Rosa forming the border with Italy, which it does do, but in more cases than not, the Swiss side spills over mountain passes and includes significant areas on what could have been the opposite side. It’s as close to a patchwork quilt as any country’s borders can be.

THE EAST It’s most sensible in the east, so let’s start there. Here, as Switzerland continues to the north of Italy, it also reaches south of Austria. This is roughly the area of Switzerland where several small rivers, including the Vorderrhein (Anterior Rhine) and the Hinterrhein (Posterior Rhine) form to initiate the actual Rhine River. As it flows north to where Austria protrudes, instead one comes first to something else in the way: Liechtenstein, and here in Eastern Switzerland, whether you realized it or not, the Rhine forms the international border, first between Switzerland and Liechtenstein, and then between Switzerland and Austria. The point here is that, even if you thought the Rhine as being only in Germany further along, in actuality it touches all the German-speaking countries.

A word here about Liechtenstein. As Switzerland broke away from Austria centuries ago, Liechtenstein remained independent. Furthermore, up until the end of World War One, Liechtenstein “faced east” and based its currency on the Austrian Schilling. It was at that point that Liechtenstein did an “about face to the west” and changed its currency to be based on the Swiss Franc instead. It also works closely politically with Switzerland, which oversees Liechtenstein’s foreign policy. Liechtenstein today thrives as a tax haven, and on income from its printing of postage stamps, as is the case with many small entities. The Travel Cynic speaketh: it’ll never happen, but I’d like to see Liechtenstein finalize its turn to the west and apply to become the 27th Swiss canton. It’s long since been time to get rid of these fly specks on the map.

THE NORTH We now come to the zigzag northern border of Switzerland, the one with Germany. This is the border that could have been one of the simplest ones, yet it fights with the southern border as being one of the weirdest.

So many Swiss lakes are just bulges in rivers, and as the Rhine turns due west here, it flows into the Bodensee (Lake Constance), then flows out the far (western) end, and COULD have continued to be a natural border between Switzerland and Germany, before turning north at Basel to become the border between Germany and France, which it actually is. But no, that would have been too simple.

The Bodensee has two arms at its western end, each referred to as though they were lakes of their own (similar to how the Urner See is just an arm of the Vierwaldstättersee). The northern arm, with Überlingen on its shore, is the Überlinger See, and the southern arm, through which the Rhine leaves westward, is the Untersee. The narrow point where water flows from the main part of the lake into the Untersee is where the historic city of Konstanz (KON.shtants) is located, on the south, or otherwise “Swiss” side of the water. However, Konstanz (Constance) is a German city. The borders run strangely here.

[Before continuing with the quirks of the northern border, I want to discuss something I just learned about after doing some research, that I’d been curious about for years. Although several languages name this large lake after the German city, as is often the custom with lakes in this region (Eng: Lake of Constance, Fr: Lac de Constance, It: Lago di Constanza, Sp: Lago de Constanza, Port: Lago de Constança), it is in German-speaking territory (and, like the Rhine, also borders on all three German-speaking countries) and I’ll continue calling it by its German name, the Bodensee. This is what Dutch does (Bodenmeer), and even Russian (Боденское озеро / Bodenskoye ozero). But over the years, the name has made absolutely no sense to me, as I’m sure is the case with most German speakers.

“Boden” always refers to something on the bottom. In a house, you stand on the Boden, so it can translate as “floor”. In the yard, you also stand on the Boden, so it can translate as “ground”. If you’re making a pie or torte, you first prepare your Boden (or buy a pre-made Tortenboden at the store) and then add your filling, so it even translates as “pie-crust”. But out of that, how do you explain the name Bodensee? I always stretched reality, thinking that maybe it’s at the “foot” of the Alps, but that’s nonsense. But now I have the answer. It’s all because of folk etymology.

On that northern branch of the Bodensee, referred to as the Überlinger See, there lies, on the opposite shore from Überlingen, the little village of Bodman. It’s of no particular importance today, but in the Middle Ages, it was a more important business center, and the lake ended up being named after it, the Bodman See. But in time, Bodman lost importance, and the name no longer seemed to have any reasonable reference, so that saying “Bodman See” seemed nonsensical. People in situations like this feel like they must have been hearing it wrong all along, and they tend to clutch onto anything that’s more familiar. That’s how so-called “folk etymology” works. “Boden” was a similar word that WAS familiar, so, even though it made as little, if not less, sense than “Bodman”, people started using it, and it stuck. Thus goeth the course of language change sometimes.]

So, back to border-hopping, where parts of Germany appear on what would have been the Swiss side of the Bodensee or the Rhine, and parts of Switzerland appear on what would otherwise have been the German side. German Konstanz appearing on the south shore is a mild problem after you go further downriver (west) and come to the Schaffhausen area, where all hell breaks loose.

Schaffhausen is a major Swiss city larger than Luzern. It is also an entire Swiss canton. And all of it is on the north side of the Rhine, on the otherwise German side. I’ve taken a boat cruise down this part of the Rhine, so let me tell you how it goes.

You’re sailing west down the Rhine here, so Germany’s on your right and Switzerland on your left. Sort of. But you leave from German Konstanz, and it’s on the (Swiss) left, so you’re off to a confusing start, but then after that, the river banks are as they should be. After a while, you come to the absolutely charming village of Stein am Rhein on the right (German) side. But Stein am Rhein is Swiss. It’s in an enclave of Switzerland in Germany that belongs to the canton of Schaffhausen, still coming up downriver. Of course, since Stein is separated from the rest of the canton, it’s an EXclave of Canton Schaffhausen located within an ENclave of Switzerland within Germany. Got that?

After Stein, the river banks are again as they should be. Up to Büsingen. Büsingen is German, and it’s on the right (German) side of the river, with Switzerland on the left. This sounds OK, right? Wrong. We are just approaching the large mass of Schaffhausen (of which Stein had been an early part), and Schaffhausen just happens to wrap itself around the German enclave of Büsingen. Schaffhausen is on the west, north, and east of German Büsingen, and of course, more of Switzerland is on the south side of the Rhine, so Büsingen is cut off from the rest of Germany. (Stein had had a bridge across the river to connect it to the rest of Switzerland.)

This is the information I’ve been able to collect about life in Büsingen. The town and its surrounding area cover 7.62 k² / 2.9 mi². The population is 1450. Büsingen is de jure part of Germany, but its economy is de facto Swiss. The Euro is official, but the Swiss Franc is far more common, since the best shopping is next door in Schaffhausen, which, again, surrounds Büsingen. Salaries are usually in Swiss Francs. You may use either Swiss or German postal codes, depending on where you’re sending your letter. You can use either the Swiss or German area code when phoning. You can call either the Swiss or German police, but the Swiss are closer. If a search warrant is issued, both Swiss and German police have to be present. For secondary schools students can go to Switzerland or Germany, but 70% choose Switzerland (my guess—because Schaffhausen is closer). Do you now see the affect of this zigzag border on daily life?

After German Büsingen going downriver comes the bulk of Swiss Schaffhausen on the right bank, then another bit of Germany on the right, then another, final enclave of Schaffhausen on the right. After this, the river banks are “normal” for quite a distance. Until Basel.

Basel (I don’t care for the English spelling Basle; French is Bâle; Italian is Basilea) is where the Rhine, which has been flowing faithfully westwards up until now, suddenly turns north to form the border between France and Germany. Basel is German-speaking, but it’s located right where France joins Germany and Switzerland facing each other across the Rhine, and for this reason, Basel is called the Dreiländerstadt (Three-Country City). But we’re not yet done with the zigzag border.

As the Rhine turns north, the center of Basel is at that elbow, on the southwest bank, the “Swiss” side. But, as it turns out, a large piece of suburban Basel is on the northeast “German” side of that elbow, and so now we come to the Badischer Bahnhof, something else I’d always wondered about, and have now researched.

Basel has two railway stations, one on each bank of the Rhine, which is quite unusual for Central Europe. I now find that the reason for this is because of Basel’s location, and the zigzag nature of the border that we’ve been discussing. The main Swiss station is downtown, as you’d expect, on the southwest bank. But over on the northeast bank is the Badischer Bahnhof. Not only is it unusual to have a second station, but this station isn’t even a Swiss station, even though it’s on Swiss territory (on the “German” side of the Rhine). The Badischer Bahnhof is the only German railroad station not actually located in Germany. There HAS to be a story here, right?

In the mid-1800’s, individuals in the German province of Baden (now part of the German “Land” of Baden-Württemberg) were building a railroad, the Badische Bahn (“Baden Railroad”). Their intentions were to lay track south along the Rhine to the Basel area, then turn east along the Rhine, somehow attempting to solve the problem of the zigzagging border as they served local Baden traffic. (I believe in practice they ended up serving both Swiss Schaffhausen and German Konstanz.)

Basel was eager to have this new railroad serve downtown Basel across the river, but officials dithered and delayed. In frustration the Badische Bahn built a “temporary” station on the north side of the river (in Swiss territory), and then went about their business laying track to the east. By the time the Basel authorities got their act together, the Badische Bahn was quite comfortable just staying where it was on its side of the river. Accords were signed, and people changing trains from one point in Baden to another at this Badischer Bahnhof on Swiss territory didn’t have to go through customs, since they were only in transit on Swiss territory and it remained a German station. This situation is directly based on the zigzagging nature of the borders in this area. Nowadays, all international trains stop first at the main station in Basel, and then shortly afterwards, after crossing the Rhine, also at the Badischer Bahnhof. For the first time, I did so on this trip, and will have several comments later about it.

THE WEST Switzerland’s western border, with France, does not have the quirks of the odd northern border, yet it does look quite out of the ordinary. I refer here to the long arm of Switzerland that reaches into France in order to encompass the city of Geneva. Geneva is then totally surrounded by France except for the tongue of Swiss territory to the northeast along the lake that connects it to the rest of Switzerland. But then this lake, too, can use some discussion. It’s long, and banana-shaped. Lausanne is on its north shore, and for a while, in the Middle Ages, it was called the Lac de Lausanne. But its name in French today is Lac Léman.

We are used to hearing of Roman occupations of territories, and names thereby coming from Latin. But it is highly unusual to hear of Greek names. The Greeks did settle in some places some distance from Greece, and I seem to remember some settlements along the French coast not far from Geneva. However, the Greeks were the ones who named this lake. It was lemanè limnè, which, as I understand, essentially means “lake lake”. Then, when the Romans arrived, they did modify it to Lacus Lemannus, coming down to the French name today, Lac Léman. Still, most languages name it after Geneva (Eng: Lake of Geneva; Ger: Genfer See; It: Lago di Ginevra; Ru: Женевское озеро / Zhenevskoye ozero). In addition, even though the official French name is Lac Léman, people at the Geneva end of the lake still call it Lac de Genève, which is not surprising.

Talking about the ends of the lake, it should be pointed out that the lake is not all Swiss. The north shore, including Lausanne, is all Swiss. The entire western end, including a piece of the south shore, is all Geneva. Montreux is at the eastern end, where Swiss territory also runs a bit around the south shore. Yet the entire central ¾ of the southern shore is in France, including, right in the middle, Évian-les-Bains, from where many people enjoy consuming bottled Évian water.

THE SOUTH The south of Switzerland competes with the north for zigzag borders. If Geneva in the west is that frog’s right leg, the next bulge, with Zermatt, is its mouth, and there are no major oddities here.

Way over to the east, in the frog’s left rear leg, over the Bernina Pass, Switzerland does spill into Italian-speaking territory, but that’s not a problem. The problem is in that left front leg, Ticino, the heart of Italian-speaking Switzerland, where border confusion reigns to compete with the north.

This is the area of Switzerland just north of the major Italian metropolitan center of Milano / Milan, and is usually referred to as the Italian Lake District. However, Switzerland’s Italian-speaking canton of Ticino, including the Swiss city of Lugano, spills down into the “Italian Lakes” in a large V-shape. There are three major lakes in question.

To the west is the long, vertical line of Lago Maggiore. It is primarily in Italy, although it sticks its northern head into Switzerland, where the Swiss city of Locarno is located on the lake. I would say less than 20% of the lake protrudes into Switzerland, with no apparent confusion.

To the east, the upside-down Y of Lago di Como is entirely in Italy. It also looks like an armless man running. No border problems here, either.

But in the center is the smallest lake of the three, the one Lugano itself is on. This lake goes in and out of both Switzerland and Italy. It’s called Lago di Lugano in Switzerland, but il Ceresio in Italy, and a town on the southwestern (Italian) shore is called Porto Ceresio, so already there’s a conflict in naming.

The lake is shaped like a small pipe, with the stem pointing to the right. Both shores on the right end of the stem are in Italy, then comes the border, and then both shores are in Switzerland. Lugano, on the northwest shore, is where the “pipe” bends and turns south, and the entire northern shore continues in Switzerland to the end of the lake.

On the south shore, though, after the shore had been Swiss for a little while, comes the Italian enclave of Campione d’Italia, which Beverly and I drove into a few years ago (2002/3 “Maggiore”). Then the southeastern shore is Swiss again, and after Porto Ceresio, the southwestern shore is Italian.

Campione d’Italia (“Champion of Italy” [!!]) and Büsingen are the two enclaves of other countries in Switzerland. Campione is the smaller of the two, 1.6 k² / 1 mi², but its population is larger, 2300. Swiss license plates are used in Campione, and phones are operated by Swisscom, so to call Italy, even though you’re technically already in Italy, you need the international dialing code. Similarly to Büsingen, you use a Swiss postal code if you’re writing to Switzerland, but an Italian postal code if you’re writing to Italy. Thus we see the practical quirks involved with Switzerland’s borders.