HIGHER GROUND
by Nina Ondine
 Distances change with time. As time passes, we grow older and conquer larger portions of the world; expanses that once appeared insurmountable become familiar territory. For me, leading a life split between Europe and Australia has taught me the relativity of distance in Australia it takes me the same amount of time to travel from Victoria to Queensland by coach, than it takes to fly from Melbourne to Zurich.
The elders say that distances have shrunk. Surely we travel faster, but maybe, the real reason is that once upon a time we honored the journey. A journey was a transition, a change and an adventure, which meant that you had to allow for the unexpected. Today, if we seek this kind of experience we go to a road movie. In our own lives, the unexpected is excluded. We have technology and we have schedules.
The art of travel has changed. No more talking to strangers or glaring out the window. Nowadays, we are so anxious about productivity that we take our work with us on trains and planes thanks to portable office equipment. No longer the main attraction, the landscape has become a mere a byproduct of travel. We are in motion because we must get someplace, thus we forget to savor the journey and the surprises it may bring.
When I was a child, every summer I traveled across the Alps with my grandparents. Back then, it was customary to stop at the summit of a mountain pass and take in the view. Wed get out of the car, stretch out and inhale the crisp air, which brought with it the scent of meadows and wild flowers. My grandparents always allowed for this break, which included lunch at the summit restaurant. It was a tradition, a way of honoring the fact that wed made it to the top and had reached the highest point of our journey. Now we were half way and paused to savor the experience before commencing the descent. In the days when people traveled by horse-drawn carriage, such a ritual was imposed by the need to change horses, so it became habitual to stop for a hot meal at the guesthouse.
Not long ago someone told me a story about his grandfather, which took place about seventy years ago. One morning he set out to drive over the Gotthard pass. As he negotiated his Morris through the hairpin bends, he became aware of being the only driver on the road. Hed encountered no one since leaving his home that morning. The solitary driver made his way up the mountain until he reached the summit. Still the road was deserted. But at the top of the colossal mountain, in the distance, he saw another motorist approaching, traveling in the opposite direction. The other driver also had encountered do one along the way. The motorists were surprised and relieved to finally meet someone else on the road. They both stopped their cars and immediately jumped out and shook hands.
They were overjoyed. One spoke Italian, the other Schwitzerdüdsch. They felt like pioneers standing at the top of the world. The mountain air reddened their cheeks and put a spark in their eyes. Their teeth flashed, white as snow, as they exchanged knowing glances and tightened their grip.
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