The Oracle of Bern — rachel paris wimer

Last April, in the early days of COVID-19, I went looking for 20-year-old memory. It seems like another twenty years has passed since last April. The Oxford English Dictionary added ‘Blursday’ as a word for 2020. Every day now seems like Blursday.

I used to keep journals. I got my first diary when I was about seven years old. It was pink with hearts on it, and my first initial engraved on a gold heart on the front, and it had a lock. I started writing in little spiral notebooks when I was in 6th grade, then moved on to marble composition books. I kept a regular journal up until after I got married.

I still have all of my old journals in a pile under my nightstand, under newer journals that I haven’t filled. My mom gives me a new one just about every year, but I can’t seem to pick up the habit from my younger days. I thought that I had written this particular memory down somewhere, but I can’t find it, among all the pages I’ve written.

But I know this: sometime between Monday, April 1, 2001 and Thursday, April 5, 2001 at 8:30pm, I was in Bern, Switzerland.

According to my hand-written journal, on Monday I was in Vienna, Austria, and by Thursday night, I was sitting at the Metro Cafe in Paris. There’s a blank page in between those two entries.

It’s strange, because this story is one of the best stories I have.

My friend Lisa and I were traveling through Europe by train during our spring break from St. Andrews University in Scotland where we were spending our “JSA”, our Junior Semester Abroad. We’d already been to Paris, Nice, Cannes, Florence, Venice, and Vienna. We had one more stop before we returned to Paris and then flew back to Edinburgh and made our way to St. Andrews to finish out the semester.

This was before a lot of things. Namely, smart phones, GPS, Yelp, and the Euro. We had chosen our destinations and youth hostels based on things like Rick Steve’s Europe and other physical guidebooks. We spread out a giant paper map and plotted our route through Europe, somehow landing on Bern, Switzerland as one of our key stops. We could have gone to Geneva, Zurich, Lucerne, or Salzburg. But for some reason, we thought Bern would be the best place to go, as young college women.

Bern, as it turns out, is the financial center of the country, and also a major convention hub. We found this out the hard way. Our night train from Vienna arrived late into Bern. We trekked our way, carrying enormous army green backpacks, from the station to the youth hostel where we had made reservations. Upon arrival, the doors were locked. Apparently, the hostel closed at midnight, and it was 12:30am.

Back to the train station we went. Lisa and I contemplated spending the night in the train station, but we were shooed off by the police. They seemed to have our best interests in mind, seeing the junkies in the phone booths and the vagrants sleeping on the cold benches, trying to keep warm in the station.

We decided to go to a hotel for the night. I remember marching up to the front desk at the nearest hotel, VISA card in hand, and asking for a room. I also remember the snooty response from the tall blonde man at the desk. “I cannot help you.”

Undaunted, we made our way to another hotel. The Hotel Savoy. With a bit less confidence, I asked if they had any rooms available. The gray haired night manager looked at two exhausted American girls and shook his head, his brow lined with wrinkles. “No, we do not have anything available.”

He told us that he could call around to the other hotels in the area and see if anyone else had a room. He made some calls, and then told us that there were several large conventions happening and that everyone was booked full.

But, then he perked up. He said, “My name is Miro. I am here all night. I have some friends coming over and there are croissants and a cappuccino machine over there,” pointing to the small lobby area. “You are welcome to hang out with us.” Then he told us that there were showers and a place to do laundry in the maids’ quarters in the basement of the hotel.

I could have hugged him, I was so relieved. We got showers and washed our clothes. It was probably 2:00am. We went back upstairs and heard music. Miro had brought out a guitar and he and his friends were singing and playing other instruments. He told stories about his life and travels. There were croissants. There was cappuccino. And lots of laughter. Maybe even some delirious dancing.

Checking out the maids’ quarters at The Hotel Savoy

We passed those dark hours of light at The Hotel Savoy and when morning came, we said goodbye to our new friends. I remember hugs at dawn, and telling Miro that I would never forget him. We put on our green backpacks and walked back to the train station, headed for Paris.

I don’t know why, but I remember thinking that Miro was an oracle, sent to give me a message. “Miro” comes from the Slavic root word “mir” which means “peace, world.” At a time in my life that was fraught with emotional turmoil, Miro brought safety and care. He offered respite, food, and shelter. He shared his gifts of music and storytelling.

So, Miro, wherever you are out there, I hope you are telling your stories and singing and playing the guitar. Remembering you has brought me a measure of peace this past year. When I blew out the candles on my birthday cake last February, I wished for peace. Peace, world. World, peace.

I recently opened up a fortune cookie with the little slip of paper inside: You love peace.

Peace—may you all have it; may you all find it; may you all hold onto it.