Tag Archives: Family

Adventures Among the Relics of War

The Italian Dolomites are filled with both the most stunning mountain scenery in the world and the remnants of man’s unending willingness to struggle violently against other men.

The wheel of fate had brought us to Italy and we always intended to experience it in all of its full-throttled glory.  Roman ruins, Renaissance cities, fast cars, faster mopeds, and succulent pasta dishes washed down with endless bottles of red wine are the hallmark of this overwhelmingly immersive country. 

Of course, for those drawn to the vertical world of mountains, there are also other attractions.  The pink hued Dolomite mountains are some of the most stunning in the world.  This chain branches off from the greater Alps; but due to the mysteries of geology, it is only in eastern Italy that this mountain range becomes a series of iconic imposing colorful rock faces.  The French Climbing Guide Gaston Rebuffat said of the Dolomites, “one ray of sunshine is enough to give them life, the effect…make them shimmer, take on color and charm for all their verticality.” Their beauty defies description.

The Pink tinged rock faces of Tre Cime.

But man covets that which is beautiful and tribes fight other tribes for reasons of fear, greed, and honor, as Thucydides so memorably put it thousands of years ago.  The Dolomites has been an arena of violent competition as long as there have been humans.  The prehistoric mummy “Iceman Otzi” discovered in the glaciers of northern Italy bears wounds inflicted by other humans.  Scientists believe he died, not by wild animals or natural causes, but by an arrow shot at him.  Otzi was only the first recorded casualty of conflict. For millennia warriors and armies of increasing fame and infamy passed through these mountains.  It seems like every valley of this mountainous region is watched over by an imposing castle meant to block the advance of rival forces.

A representation of Otzi, the prehistoric Iceman, at the South Tyrol Museum of Archaeology.

More by happenstance  than by a plan, we have sought to experience the great mountains around us.  Although the Veneto region has been made immortal by the great trading city of Venice, it is also the gateway to the high country.  In a series of day trips, we have taken our small girls up to walk among this wonderland.  Sometimes, Lisa and I have escaped to try our hand at harder physical endeavors.  Time and again, in our travels, we have discovered the remnants of war.

Amidst the larger First World War, a hundred and five years ago, on 23 May 1915, Italy declared war on the Austro-Hungarian Empire.  The Italian or Alpine front was a series of battles between Italy and the Austro-Hungarian Empire, that quickly devolved into a struggle of attrition among the peaks of the region.  The tyranny of altitude, cold, and logistics imposed its own logic on the geopolitical desires of the Italian leadership who hoped to recover territory they believed rightfully theirs.  

Tre Cime

With another family, we hiked to the incredible Tre Cime or three Peaks.  British travelers in the nineteenth century described the peaks as “Egyptian Colossi.”  The otherworldly allure of these mountains has drawn Hollywood to use it as the location of an Ice planet in the Star Wars’ films.  After hustling small children into backpacks, we began following our friends’ fearless dog in the imposing shadows of the great peaks. 

Fearless scout.

We slipped and struggled through spring snow before coming to a pass that opened up to a panorama of rock and ice.  The children played in the snow, seemingly unaffected by the altitude or the climb that had brought us to that location.  Above us, incongruities in the rock on Mount Paterno attracted our eyes.  We climbed up to find hewn into the rock fighting positions where soldiers could observe the valley below us. 

Gingerly navigating the slippery snow.

Immediately after the declaration of war, Italian forces were meant to seize the high ground from their unprepared and surprised opponents.  However, the inevitable friction of war delayed the offensive giving the Austrians time to prepare their defenses.  Repeated assaults in the area and on the nearby Monte Piana led to an estimated 14,000 casualties.

An Austrian captain wrote at the time, “the Italians have justly baptised this mountain ‘Mount Pianto’ [Mountain of Tears].  It has already cost our side and the Italians so much blood and will cost even more, that I do not know if its possession can justify such a great sacrifice……In any case that’s not my concern; my task is to obey.”

Peering through the Italian machine gun firing positions, which they had seized on Mount Paterno, we could see an uninterrupted view on the low ground below.  It was their forward most outpost and from it they made it a killing field for the Austrians. 

The view from the Italian Positions.

We hiked back down from the high ground.  While our children played; the adults shared a celebratory bottle of prosecco.  We felt like the encircling rock cathedrals were for us alone.

A well deserved glass of Prosecco

Amidst our adventures, it slowly dawned on us that ironically, war had created architectural wonders which allowed adventurers, many years later, to reach deep into the wild and appreciate nature’s greatness.

The route of 52 tunnels.

Lisa and I had procured a babysitter, and early one morning we drove out to hike one such man made wonder in the wilderness; the 52 tunnels of Mount Pasubio.  On a clear day, Pasubio’s limestone ridge line dominates the lowlands around Vicenza, where we live.  It’s high ground used to mark the border between Austria Hungary and Italy; thus its strategic importance in the First World War.

The view of the Veneto plains from the side of Mount Pasubio.

All through 1915, the Italians slowly and painfully occupied the mountain range.  However, on 15 May 1916 a surprise Austrian offensive almost swept the Italians completely off Pasubio; the last defensible terrain before the Veneto plains.  Almost.  The Italians remained on the rocky summit and the ensuing battle became what one Austrian veteran described as the “witches’ cauldron.”

Lisa studies the military engineering.

In order to sustain their forward positions, the Italians built a series of tunnels through the mountain which allowed them to travel unmolested by Austrian Artillery.  The resulting incredible 52 tunnels cut through rock can still be explored today.

The tunnels open up to incredible vistas.

Lisa and I brought our headlamps and hiked 9 miles along the path so laboriously built over a hundred years before.  Sometimes we would scramble through wet tunnels with no natural light that cork screwed in the heart of the mountain only to pop out into the gorgeous sunny day with endless views of the terrain below us.  The path was littered with the mementos that soldiers always place to mark an achievement and ensure their sacrifices are not forgotten.

A unit carved its insignia into the rock, not to be forgotten.

In a similar but more manageable walk with our children, we hiked Mount Cegnio on Father’s Day.  It was here that the Sardinia Grenadier Brigade entered history with their heroic defense of the Asiago plateau. Our eldest daughter Marie found a rusty piece of metal in one of the tunnels, which she was convinced came from the era of those battles. 

Marie inspects her historical artifact.

Throughout the Dolomites, both sides had to wrestle with how to maneuver through the imposing mountains.  In order to aid the movement of troops amidst the vertical rock faces, a series of ladders, bridges, and cables were installed and are known as Via Ferrata or the “Iron Road.”  Their existence from World War One, has created an entire sub genre in climbing.  Naturally, Lisa and I had to try our hands at the sport.

Lisa analyzes the route up.

Via Ferrata is addictive.  Hanging off cables hundreds, if not thousands, of feet above the ground below, one feels a tremendous thrill.  It was taxing enough for us in our ultralight clothing and modern climbing equipment. It was hard to imagine soldiers trudging up the same impossibly steep terrain with hobnailed boots, wearing woolen uniforms, and carrying their weapons, ammunition, and food.  They must have always been fearful of being observed by their enemies in the exposed terrain.

With a group of friends, we tried our hands at what is considered one of the finest Via Ferrata routes in the Dolomites.  This route, known as the Bolver Luigi, rises straight up the iconic Pale Dolomite Rock around the old world mountain town of San Martino di Castrozza.

Navigating the Via Ferrata route above San Martino.

We would catch glimpses of the beauty amidst the swirling clouds before being swallowed by them.  The day became an epic with pounding hailstones, a thrilling glissade down the snowy backside, and a lightning storm.  10 miles and 7 hours later, after reaching an altitude of 10,000 feet, we hobbled back into town with a greater appreciation of those who had built the route in the first place, long before.

The clouds close in the sheer rock face.

The mountains are neutral and impassive to human ambitions; whether they be the objectives of climbers or states.  Time has washed away the reasons of fear, greed, and honor which had led men to fight among the beautiful Dolomite mountains.  Only the relics of war remained. 

A memorial to the Fallen in Asiago.

COVID-Isolated Moments

“Explosions, floods and ice ages, you might say, are the only true dates in history and the improvisations of human societies between these events – art, civilisation, love, wars, literature, the development and the melting of one religion into another, the movement of ideas, the migrations of power from continent to continent – have as little bearing on the basic claendar of red letters days as a page ouf of Fabre’s Book of Insects. – Patrick Leigh Fermor, The Violins of Saint-Jacques

Only history will determine if COVID-19 becomes an era defining pandemic. It may topple governments, cull the population of cities, and usher in a whole host of practices that will be as foreign to our descendents as “ring around the rosie” is to us. During the current tempest, the safest raft is self-isolation in our homes – where we wait for the coming dawn. Self-isolating and limiting activities once taken for granted can be emotionally draining. A loss of the comfort of simple movement disturbs our sense of safety and can dull ambition. That doesn’t have to be the truth of these days.

Ryan Holiday, author of The Daily Stoic, often mentions on his podcast a conversation he had with another author, Robert Greene. The central idea is that there is a difference between “Killing Time” – i.e. activities that just spend our precious minutes and hours – and “Alive Time” – which is time actively spent toward achieving our life goals and improving ourselves. While I still have to stay engaged with my job I have never tried to define myself by my career. With an increased amount of unstructured time I have been forunate in being able to focus my attentions on the relationships within the walls of my house. 

During this extended time at home we’ve renewed our appreciation for time together as a family. Granted, the first few days derailed our exercise routines, we overindulged in evening Netflix watching, and we exhibited vacation-levels of self discipline in our sleep and diets, the overall experience has been positive. While it can still be hectic to live with a toddler, these days we’ve spent on music, reading, playing, and bonding. We still dream about the outside world, but for the time being we are nourishing ourselves with the joy of being with each other – it’s “Alive Time.”

By day, the office is a place for morning coffee, reading and teaching. Photo by Andrew Zapf
We fit in a little exercise every day. Even Cosmic Kids yoga provides a needed outlet for pent-up toddler energies.
All the games that can be played. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Physical distancing during the time of COVID has forced us to reevaluate priorities, the attention we have and have failed to give each other, and to start from a clean slate. Photo by Andrew Zapf
The intermixing of toys leads to some interesting play scenarios. Photo by Andrew Zapf
We've traveled to outer space, transformed into dinosaurs, and built skyscrapers together indoors. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Pre-COVID isolation. Photo by Andrew Zapf
COVID isolation Day 7. Photo by Andrew Zapf
COVID isolation Day 187. Photo by Andrew Zapf
A little help in the kitchen. We've turned the kitchen into a classroom and experiment with textures, chemistry, temperatures, and flavors. No one is excluded and everyone gets a role to fulfill. Photo by Rose Zapf
Roasted potatoes. Photo by Rose Zapf
Goose-fat slathered lemon roasted chicken. Recipe and photo by Rose Zapf
American meatloaf with Turkish influence = Amazing! Photo by Rose Zapf
Banana bread. Recipe and photo by Rose Zapf
Pear cake. Recipe and photo by Rose Zapf
Rocket salad with home-made lemon vinagrette. Recipe and photo by Rose Zapf
Bulgur wheat, kale, orzo, and shredded chicken. Recipe and photo by Rose Zapf
Sun tea. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Waste not. Stale bread transformed into panzanella alla toscana. Receipe from the Italian Country Cooking by Loukie Werle. Photo by Andrew Zapf
By night, after the house is asleep, is when I get to use the office to write. Photo by Andrew Zapf

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author. As an REI Associate, Pushing Horizons earns from qualifying purchases.

Chamonix: Mountain Temple

A small town in the French Alps on the border with Italy and Switzerland is a living shrine to all things Mountain.

“Crested Butte is for spectators; Chamonix is for participants” 

Marc Twight.

A climber scrambles up the sheer face of Le Brevent.

The Mont Blanc Massif, or mountain range, towers over the town of Chamonix in France.  Unlike other supposed mountain towns, one has only to crane one’s neck to see the perpetual white snow of the high mountains above them, gigantic blocks of ice jumbled on the glacier flowing down towards the town.  

Chamonix

However close to the mountains one is in Chamonix, this is no wild country.  Unlike climbing trips I have taken in the United States or the Himalaya you do not need to carry your food and water, or camp, on a long approach before seeing any mountains at all.  Here, cable cars reach out in all directions in what appears to be impossible engineering feats to spirit adventurers into the high country.

In fact, despite- or perhaps because- of its proximity to the highest peak in Western Europe, Mont Blanc, the town has all the comforts of French culture and civilization.  One can walk its cobblestone streets past well stocked wine bars, patisseries full of warm croissants, and grocery stores selling runny cheese. Tourists from all around the world jostle each other to capture the ambiance of the Alps.

The mountains have made Chamonix.  As a small poor village of alpine herders and hunters, it was discovered by early wealthy English adventurers who were interested in exploring Mont Blanc.  A Swiss naturalist Horace Bénédict de Saussure began visiting Chamonix in 1760 to observe the great mountain.  He offered a reward to the first who could reach its summit. Twenty years later in August of 1786, a local guide-Jacques Balmat and doctor Michel-Gabriel Paccard completed the first ascent of Mont Blanc.  The great British mountaineer Eric Shipton wrote many years later that it was “an astounding achievement of courage and determination, one of the greatest in the annals of mountaineering.”  It is considered the start of Mountaineering as we know it.

Statues of Jacques Balmat and  Michel-Gabriel Paccard stand eternal vigil towards the summit of Mont Blanc.

From that point, Chamonix’s destiny as the starting point for mountain adventures was made.  Although the summit of the great mountain is shared by France and Italy, it is known the world over by its French name, Mont Blanc (the White Mountain.)  In 1916, the town even lobbied to successfully change its official name to Chamonix-Mont Blanc to solidify the connection. In 1924, the very first winter Olympic games were held in Chamonix,

It is that storied history which imbues the town with its ethos.  Make no mistake, although tourists throng the streets of Chamonix, they are not its reason for existence.  Chamonix is “for participants” according to the punk climber and American iconoclast Marc Twight. Like no other place on earth, climbers, alpinists, trail runners, and skiers are the heroes.  Murals dot the walls of the town with images of great climbers from the past who dared all. Streets and schools are named after great climbing exploits, especially the first ascent of Annapurna.

“Always look for difficulty, not danger. Go forward, try, dare. In audacity there is enchantment” proclaims a mural celebrating famed mountain guide Gaston Rebuffat.

Annapurna, in the Himalayas, was the first 8000 meter peak to be successfully summited.  The pioneering French team was led by the now controversial Maurice Herzog and made up of Chamonix mountain guides.  Their feat did not come without a cost. Herzog lost all of his fingers and most of his toes to frostbite. He later became the mayor of Chamonix.

We arrived in Chamonix after driving through the epic tunnel that bores through Mont Blanc and connects Italy to France. We stood in awe of the mountains above from the balcony of our small apartment near the center of the town.  This was not the first time I had visited Chamonix. While a high school student in Paris, I had visited the town with my family in both winter and summer and those visits, as much as anything else, solidified my life long love affair with the mountains.

The sun begins to set on the Mont Blanc Massif above Chamonix.

It had taken twenty years to return, but I was back with a family of my own and we were determined to be “participants” in the great mountain arena.  We took our young girls on repeated hikes in the mountains that invariably ended with them being carried by us in backpacks and eating delicious crepes at secluded mountain lodges.

The descent to the Mer de Glace glacier.

Sometimes we would be passed by noted trail runners, like Timothy Olson, preparing for the Ultra Trail du Mont Blanc (UTMB).  We yelled our encouragement and patted him on the back as he ran by. The 106 mile UTMB race gains over 32 thousand feet in elevation and crosses the borders of France, Switzerland, and Italy before ending in Chamonix.  The winner will take approximately twenty hours to finish it. In preparation for a much more modest upcoming triathlon, I would go for long bike rides and runs in the shadow of the peaks around us.

Not one of those peaks were without their own epics of triumph and tragedy.  While riding my bike just outside of the town, I looked up at the towering Aiguille du Dru above the “mer de glace” glacier.  Aiguille means needle in French, and it accurately captures the sharp jagged profile of the mountain. In 1962 two Americans, Royal Robbins and Gary Hemmings, pioneered the “American Direct” route straight up the pinnacle of the Dru.

The Aiguille du Dru

Gary Hemings had been kicked out of the Air Force Academy and ended up in Europe climbing mountains and sometimes living under bridges in Paris.  In 1966, two German climbers were stuck on a ledge on the mountain. French military rescue teams were unable to reach them and one French soldier died in the attempt.  Hemings had offered his service and been refused, but he returned with a team and rescued the Germans. The French press crowned him a hero and dubbed him “Le Beatnik.” Tragically, before the end of the decade he would die of a self-inflicted gunshot among the Teton mountains in Wyoming.  The author James Salter tried to capture his haunted free spirit in the novel, Solo Faces.

The Aiguille du Dru from the Mer de Glace glacier.

No institution better represents Chamonix than the Compagnie des Guides.  Founded in 1821, it is the world’s oldest mountain guiding association. The poor herders and hunters who lived in Chamonix came together to lead those who wanted to go into the high country.  The cemetery and memorial in town are filled with members of the Compagnie des Guides who hold the same family names, like Simond and Charlet, and who had perished as guides in the mountains over multiple generations.

Noteworthy guides from years past.

The Compagnie des Guides was truly a family affair and for many years limited to those born in Chamonix.  Then in 1930 an extraordinary man named Roger Frisson-Roche,who had been born in Paris, passed the grueling selection process to become the first “foreigner” accepted into its select company.  His was a storybook life; climber, entrepreneur, explorer, journalist, and writer. His novel Premier de cordee (First on the Rope) would define climbing in France for at least a generation.  During World War Two while a journalist with American Forces in North Africa he was captured by the Germans and later fought with the French resistance as a Mountain soldier.

We so happened to be visiting Chamonix during their annual Festival des Guides.  This tradition, first started by Frisson-Roche, was a time for the Guides to celebrate the camaraderie of their profession.  We joined them in a small village outside Chamonix called Argentieres, where we were treated to a helicopter demonstration by the elite Gendarmerie Mountain Rescue unit, as well as live music and prodigious amounts of melted cheese and red wine.

The guides assemble for their annual ritual.

Early the next morning the guides assembled in the uniform of their fore-bearers, woolen jackets, knicker-bocker pants, long socks with ropes and ice axes slung across their backs.  They gathered at the cemetery in town to pay homage to their dead. Then both old and young guides marched together from the cemetery to the chapel. In a semicircle around the chapel, they remembered those guides who had died in the preceding year and welcomed the few who had made it through the selection process to become guides themselves.  A young woman poignantly told the crowd how proud she was to join this esteemed association and believed her father, who had perished in an avalanche years before, was looking down at her.

Young and old guides alike share in the camaraderie of the moment.

On the margins of the events, other guides helped children practice on a climbing wall and, this being a French event, served wine and beer to the audience.  In the brilliant sunshine, guides and guests alike slapped each other’s backs and told stories of climbs past and future sharing the aura of those who have witnessed that which is majestic.

Lisa ascends a rock face in the Aiguille Rouges.

We too felt the pull to test ourselves on the great faces that surrounded us.  After finding a babysitter, Lisa and I early one morning took a cable car up into the high country to climb among the rock faces of the Aiguille Rouges.  Belaying each other up the multi-pitch routes, feeling the rock in our hands, we looked across the valley to the stunning views of the Mont Blanc. At some other time, should fate allow it, we would return to climb the storied peak.  But right then, we were happy to be participants in this living shrine to man’s connection to mountains.

Belaying surrounded by beauty.

Roland Minez is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author. As an REI Associate, Pushing Horizons earns from qualifying purchases.

A Toddler in Vienna

“I never knew the old Vienna before the war with its Strauss music, its glamour and easy charm. Constantinople suited me better. I really got to know it in the classic period of the black market. We’d run anything if people wanted it enough and had the money to pay. Of course a situation like that does tempt amateurs, but, well, you know, they can’t stay the course like a professional.” ― Graham Greene, The Third Man

Vienna has loomed large in my life since I was a child. I had always known the city as a place of music and empire. My father had studied at the University of Vienna for a year and whenever he referred to it I could sense his love and admiration. Orson Welles’ The Third Man, based on the Graham Greene novel, was a favorite in my parents’ household. I became aware of the complexity of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and Yugoslav nationalism before I knew the rules of basketball.

As a young college student I had the pleasure of visiting Vienna for a few days. My father had arranged for me to board with his former landlady on the outskirts of the city. For five days I woke early, rode the train into the city center, and explored. I wandered each day with a twenty year-olds lanky body, early-2000s fashion, and rudimentary knowledge of the German language. I visited palaces and museums, listened to the music of Mozart and Strauss, and utterly failed at flirting with a few women in Vienna.  In the evenings I would return to their house, share my experiences over cheese, salami, and giant bottles of beer. Each night I would retire slightly drunk and tired from a long day on my feet. A classic college-age experience.

One of the many small splendors of the Austro-Hungarian Empire: a Golden Rose glows in the Imperial Treasury of Vienna. Photo by Andrew Zapf.

Fast forward 18 years, Vienna has never lost its allure. The Viennese coffee houses, delicate desserts, classic architecture, and ever-present music still enchant me. All these years later I wanted my wife and son to experience Vienna. For them to be transfixed in the same way that I had. I had schemed unsuccessfully for years to get us to Vienna, but the demands of career and parenthood derailed all of them. However, this past Christmas the good fortune and opportunity finally put us on the path to Vienna.

Nothing in life is ever free, though. Traveling with a toddler is never easy. Even nights out with him require a substantial variety of distractions to last through dessert. My wife and I learned early on that the minutes between seating, service, and the arrival of food with an under-engaged child are fraught with danger. The only thing louder than a toddler-thrown fork on a restaurant floor is the follow-up butter knife clanging around the table legs. But, after four years, my wife and I are veteran parents. Unflinching soldiers as tantrums explode around us like mortar shells. Flying with a toddler involves risks, but the potential pay-off could be even greater. 

For a three hour flight we packed coloring books, sticker books, and window gels that could be rearranged according to his imagination. Toy cars were tucked into multiple pockets, at the ready like first aid kits for tantrums. Our son even had his own headphones for the last resort bit of screen time. We had extra pants, extra socks, back-up boots, and two coats for him. The weather might be cold or rain  . . . or cold and rainy. We wanted to be prepared for anything. With so much of our luggage space devoted to our son, my wife and I could barely fit enough clothes to rotate outfits for a week. (Thank goodness not washing jeans is considered fashionable!)

The trip could have gone three ways. A toddler can reject all entertainment offerings, preferring wiggling, loudly talking, and/or climbing (or crawling) to undesirable locations – a difficult and exhausting scenario I will dub “mutton busting” for the physical demands placed on parents. Scenario two a.k.a. “the desert,” occurs when said an energetic toddler remarkably loses all finger dexterity and all his inflight entertainment ends up on the floor covered in airport grime and airplane floor-glitter. A toddler knows what he wants, even believes it is within his grasp, but the parents are unable to let them touch these soiled items – creating a desire for the unattainable, much like a thirsty man in a desert. For a parent, it creates a situation akin to a machine gunner that has run out of ammunition – desperate for replenishment, uncertain if more will come.

A toddler in flight is a ticking time bomb. Photo by Andrew Zapf

The final scenario is every parent’s holy grail, a child finds an activity and loses themselves in it for hours – “the dream”. In the five hours of travel – adding up an hour in the car, two hours at the airport, a two and a half hour flight, and a 30 minutes to taxi to our rented apartment – our little guy zoned in on sticker and coloring books – giving us “the dream” start to our vacation.

Vienna was it’s charming self. Our rented apartment near the Naschmarkt allowed us to walk into the city center each day along wide avenues and elegant buildings. Within the old city’s ring road, the Graben, the glory of the long-dead Habsburg Empire still impresses. Vienna always had two identities to me. In the open was the majestic capital of an expansive Empire and beloved Kaiser, and in the corners was the city of a seedy anti-hero Harry Lime. In The Third Man, Harry Lime lives in a bomb-damaged, post-World War II Vienna. It’s a world of shadows and deceit, and Lime thrives in the black market which contorts the relationships of his friends, lovers, and enemies with deadly implications. My internal soundtrack during my visit alternated between the melodies of the chamber orchestra with the zither of Anton Karas.

The Christmas season is magical there. Gigantic decorated trees fill innumerable plazas and twinkling colored lights hang across, over, and throughout the city. Christmas markets of all sizes were never far from our path as we explored the palaces, museums, and attractions. In the cold air mulled wine & hot chocolate, bowls of goulash soup, roasted chestnuts were readily at hand. Vienna is a feast for all five senses.

The Ottoman army laid siege to Vienna in 1683. While they failed to capture the city, they did leave behind a lasting influence and Turkish coffee. The caffeinated city would develop a sophisticated cafe culture where news, politics, and ideas were discussed. It was one of our greatest pleasures to sit peacefully in a cafe, engaging in high-minded discussion, and nibbling on an inexhaustible parade of Austro-Hungarian and Ottoman-influenced pastries. Rose and I would order the classic Viennese coffee, kaffee mit schlag, at baroque-styled cafes and hotels across the city, while a 500-sticker sticker book provided a quiet activity for our son.

Viennas cafe and coffee culture rivals that of any place in the world. The Cafe Savoy is a perfect place to spend a leisurely morning. Photo by Andrew Zapf

Fortunately, in addition to the sophisticated pleasures of Vienna we found it to be a city for all ages and there was plenty to engage a toddler. For every artifact of Franz Josef and Maria Theresa I saw my son was able to solve a puzzle or interact with an age-appropriate exhibit. In the Naschmarkt, Turkish shop clerks would hand olive and cheese samples, giving him a mosaic of tastes and smells to implant in his memory, At a touristy concert, the lead violinist sent winks and smiles at our son and the opera singer tossed his hair – keeping him engaged in the music. During the day I would concoct stories of princes and giants to accompany our walk through the sprawling gardens and numerous rooms of Schönbrunn Palace. Narrow allies and back streets became secret passages to explore. In the evenings, the view from our rented apartment allowed us to watch the city pass by, we waved at busses and counted cars. The grandeur of the city lent itself to elaborate plots in the bedtime stories I’d tell him each night.

Occasionally, I interspersed the royal Habsurg atmosphere with references to The Third Man.  There is still niche tourism based around the film. Harry Lime’s apartment, the entrance to the city sewers, and the famous Riesenrad are all visitable by those who seek them. I forced Rose to watch the film before our trip. Throughout our visit I would weave Third Man movie quotes into our conversations, to a few chuckles and many eye rolls. However, our watching of The Third Man was a bell that could not be unrung, and Rose’s appreciation for the characters and storytelling of the great Orson Welles film grew as the Viennese streets, Austrian pronunciations, and long shadows merged with her memories of the film.

We left Austria with souvenirs, gifts, and plenty of great memories. After another three and half hour toddler-entertaining flight we found English rain, our car’s brakes rusted to the wheel rotors, unable to leave the parking lot. (That’s a story for another time.) However, the magic of Vienna has not dissipated. My son still asks to listen to the “Vienna music” and we still tell bedtime stories of princes and giants – inspired by this visit many months ago. And my wife still laughs at some of my Third Man jokes, even if her eyes continue to roll. I returned to Vienna and found it a welcoming and entertaining place for a family with diverse interests and varying attention spans. The magic of Vienna is still strong and I’m sure we’ll go back again to experience more.

A Toddler in Vienna loving the experience. Photo by Andrew Zapf

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.


Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author. As an REI Associate, Pushing Horizons earns from qualifying purchases.

Cooking in the Time of COVID.

“Life is weather. Life is meals”

James Salter

One of the many steps in preparing Julia Child’s classic Boeuf Bourguinon. It is according to Julia, “certainly one of the most delicious beef dishes concocted by man.” We agree. Remember to serve it with a “fairly full-bodied young red wine.”

Our life, and the premise of pushinghorizons.com, has been a relentless pursuit to experience that which makes life rich. We seek out the history that shapes our destinies, the sports that inspire, and the adventures that challenge us. Such a life, though it is one of our choosing, can be frenetic.

Then forces beyond our control, in the form of a novel and deadly virus-COVID-19, has upended the world. We are in the midst of the storm and its full damage in lives lost and economies wrecked is not yet known.

For those in Italy, the impact has been especially dreadful. Gracefully, we have avoided the worst. We are now largely restricted to the confines of our house. It has reminded us that some of life’s greatest experiences are its simplest. We have spent time as a family and sought to challenge ourselves by learning new skills.

The novelist James Salter once said that “Life is weather, Life is meals.” In that vein, we opened up old cook books and researched recipes to cook and share memorable meals. The dishes themselves, no matter delicious, were not nearly as important as the experience of making and eating them together.

The below photo essay captures some of the results. If any of the dishes inspire you, feel free to contact us and we would be happy to share the recipes. Be forewarned, some of these older classic dishes are incredibly time intensive and complex. One more reminder that simple pleasures are earned through hard work.

Roland, learning that cooking is hard work.
Hard work deserves libations. Paloma, a cocktail of tequila, fresh grapefruit, lime, jalapeno, and club soda.
A Berry Tart inspired by Sweden, but made our own Chez the Minezes with whatever was in the freezer in a time of scarcity.
The Venetian cookbook Polpo‘s ricotta fennel salad and black cabbage gnocchi
Jamie Oliver’s “Best Chorizo and Tomato Salad in the World.” It was good.
Julia Child’s delectable French Omelette.
A “Venetian Style” beefsteak with salsa, and a bottle of Val Policella, of course.
Salad Nicoise a la Lisa.
A “Pytt i Panna”, the Swedish method of clearing out all your leftovers. Don’t forget the raw egg on top.
Leek Tart Tatin
Lisa puts the finishing touches on a birthday Lemon Meringue tart.
The head chef observes the kitchen to ensure standards are being enforced.
The lemon meringue tart, from the Slanted Door Cookbook, in the midst of being enjoyed.
Lisa’s piece de la resistance, Beef Wellington.
A cheese platter outside.