Rita Walch

Rita Walch (photo)
«I like it when imagination is on roller-skates!» Rita Walch, Schaan (writing)

From Schaan/Liechtenstein. Born 1952.

Mother of two daughters. On travels to foreign countries and excursions through her soulscape, she has experienced the wildest capers. She works in the Financial Intermediaries Services division at LLB.

The LLB Group relies on employees with personality. Character and mindset, rough edges, tastes and predilections enrich the dialogue with our clients. Mutual respect is at eye-level: personally, as your competent partners.

The meaning of life? This, that is a huge question. Where do we come from? Why are we here? Where are we going? For children, such questions are usually connected with the discovery of their immediate environment. When I was small, everything revolved around home and family.

I fell in love with my grandfather. He was the most beautiful man for me on earth. MarzellinMy grandfather Marzellin, with whom I often sat in his shed, where he patiently made toys for me on his workbench and told me exciting stories. I adored him and even wanted to marry him. He never made fun of me for that, but he always just said: you know, by the time you're old enough to marry me, I'll be much too old for you. Josef BalzersWhen he sometimes had to travel away from Balzers to help his son Josef in Broc (Canton Fribourg), I even wrote him love letters. Broc«Dear Gramps...» I wrote.

Very innocent and childish. But the world outside was waiting, tempting me and wanting to be discovered. As soon as I was old enough, I went on a world trip in 1975. Tehran was my last stop. I lived in a youth hostel in the middle of the city and was going to the airport from there to fly back to Zurich. But right on that day, there was a general strike. No taxis, no busses, no trains. I also didn't have any money left. I decided to try hitchhiking. Alone, as a young woman, in Tehran. SamirSamir, the head of the youth hostel, wrote something in Farsi (the Persian language) for me on a sign. Then I simply stood by the road, and a car actually stopped for me. The driver was an older Tehrani, with a wild beard and some sort of turban. We could only communicate with hands and feet. He spoke no English, I spoke no Farsi. The drive took forever, I thought. I was afraid. What if I landed somewhere in the middle of the desert? The thought made my heart pound. But then we were suddenly at the airport. The driver helped me with my bags and said goodbye with an elegant bow. Apparently, the writing on my sign was indeed very good. But to this day, I don't know exactly what Samir wrote.

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