Streets. There was something about those Parisian sidewalks that I miss so much. It took me a movie to remember them – “Before Sunset”. What was it about those streets?
Was it those poles lining the streets? Or those unblinking eyes that walked those streets? Maybe the cigarette butts lining them. Or that entire anticipation of finding what comes at the end of this street? And that one. And the one after that. Paris is one city where I have walked alone more than anywhere else, where I have picked up a golden brown maple leaf from the streets and crunched it in my hand, smelling it. It was never the wide boulevards and avenues that interested me. No, it was the little streets where the treasures of Paris were to be found. It might have been stumbling across monolith Obelisks never to see them again, or getting lost and yet continuing on, knowing well that I might be late to reach home. It was sometimes just a friendly smile from a wrinkled old monk outside a long forgotten church. I remember it now. It was so easily forgotten then.
It was those cafes we never had enough money to enter. And those windows above. Who was staring at me? There must be many. People. With not much to do. Looking for something interesting in the next random stranger walking the road. Their road.
I am sure I did not excite too many people. Nor did I bother to look up too often. I should have, in retrospect.
Sometimes, what I enjoyed most was just the fact that I was the only person walking that road. That sense of achievement. It’s hard to describe, really. Those streets gave me time to think. To discover those people I have loved, those I have wronged. There was this pervading charm about the city. It was just there. You might have stayed in Paris all your life and not felt it. May be. But I did.
It was those afternoon streets. Looking up at those Blue and Green boards. You can’t help but wonder – who Turgot was? Or whether Rue Royale ever had any loyalty living by it? Of whether Rue Papillon was named after a horse that drew King Louis XIV. Maybe it was his Admiral. Even a mathematician. At that point, it really didn’t matter. I could make Papillon whoever I wanted him to be. It was sometimes nothing but the pleasure of having discover a street names after someone you know. Or had at least heard about.
I miss those streets now. I miss the pleasure of walking them, and doing nothing really. But think.
I know I should be studying. And not colouring up my presentation slides.
There was a strange music to this day. To the sound of snow crunching underneath my feet. The sound of the dog growling at the sight of an outsider trespassing its farm. The sound of turquoise-blue water lapping the shore. Of ducks paddling. Of a strange man whistling. Of the occasional camera clicking timed self-portraits. Of the swish of a para-glider landing. And the chirp of a lone bird looking at the onset of winter. The vibration of an unanswered phone call. To even hear the wisp of a cloud passing over my head. And the music of silence itself.
Today was a day I felt perfect staying in silence. A repelling thought to most people i know ("itna chup rahungi toh peth dukhega"), today, silence seemed more beautiful than anything else. I was in love. More with myself than anything else.
It was just one of those days.
Interlaken had left me speechless. For no reason in particular, really. It was a feeling of being at home, amongst the water, the mountains, the cold and the snow.
I cannot think of a more perfect way to end my Eurotrip. Interlaken was dressed, and dressed well in everything that was Christmas. Santa's peeked out from the rooftops. MLTR and George Michael's music filled the streets. There was snow. And Christmas trees. Stockings and bells, glittering balls and stars. Streets were lined with makeshift stalls, selling traditional Swiss handcrafted trinkets (and vegetable samosas) and Swiss hot beer. There was a certain joy in the faces of the people here, one that said Christmas is here. I couldn't have chosen a better time for this little visit.
We stopped over on our way back at the little village of Breinz. Completely nestled in a small valley, it had the lake flanking it on one side. The sun shone through the mountain peaks on the lake, and it glimmered, like a spotless blue mirror. Eyes that never tired gazing at the turquoise colour of the water. This was as little a Swiss village as there could possibly be. Tiny, one storeyed wooden houses, cow bells hanging on the window sills. Roofs completely covered in last night's snow. And even a black steed galloping across on the snow. The roads narrowed as I moved inwards from the station, with almost no person visible for stretches, only the occasional car drifting by breaking the silence of the day. The jagged peaks rising above far above the valley, with the sun shining down on the village only for a couple of hours around noon. Winter had blanketed this place in snow. All the way downhill to Luzern, I gaped in awe at feet of snow lying in the very same field that was a vivid green the last time I did this journey. The Golden Panorama. There was a time when I did not know what NOT to photograph. And that's when I stopped. And let my eyes capture what was to come. It was enchanting. In every sense of the word.
Switzerland.
Changed plans no longer surprise me that much. Not after 3 month of travelling. Bern became Zurich in seconds, and I was glad. Playing train-train no longer excited me that much.
And therefore Zurich.
It is still a surprise, the way people work here. The Sabbath is taken really seriously here, the sunset too. Everything, absolutely everything remains closed on Sunday, even the best of the Supermarkets and convenience stores. A weekday is no better, shutters start closing just a few minutes after dusk. The lights remain on though. All of them. All night. This is really sharply in contrast to India. People seem to work harder back home. Maybe I'm wrong. But three months of Europe has left that impression. Do they work smarter? That's probably unanswered.
The lake. The towering church spires. Bells going agong in harmonious cacophony, apparently trying to outdo each other. And after 3 months of nearly every European city, I knew I had had enough. Finally. For this trip. A flower clock. Cobbled streets. Lanes narrow enough for no more than two people walking hand in hand. Beautiful benches, seagulls and swans. The Alps hanging far in the horizon. It's snow glistering in the morning sun. The weather was amazing. To just pull your cap down on your face. And sleep by the lake, the sound of paddling water your lullaby. Christmas trees. In all its finery. McDonald's that served vegetarian burgers. And a shopping mall that masqueraded as the Central Station.
I liked Zurich.
Now if only I could have found that cheese fondue and Rosti i was looking for...
Playing train-train to reach home. Just 4 switches.
PS. I noticed how huge the train windows here are. You save on precious metal. And us travellers have a sprawling view of the countryside.
It is the period just before dawn that is perhaps the most spectacular part of the day. With the earth bathed in pale blue light, snow capped mountains stretching all the way to a horizon, and little towns, with little huts, their chimneys whispering wisps of steam, shining bright against the lights reflected by hundreds of little christmas trees. This was my first impression of Switzerland. It was beautiful. And virgin perfect.
As the train winded down the beautiful Interlaken valley, i struck up conversation again. This time with a lady from Atlanta, USA. It's delightful, when you can talk to people without inhibitions, when you know that your friend later will not be taunting you about an otherwise stupid remark made, when you just find company in strangers. And we spoke and spoke and spoke. The journey down was absolutely surreal, and both of us let out involuntary "wow's" several times enroute. A village in the valley completely shrouded by a cloud several feet high, like a blanket shielding a child from the cold. A solitary church spire the only thing visible from between the clouds- the child peering from the blanket out of curiosity. The village dead still as our train travelled down to the valley- the child merrily asleep.
This analogy was not drawn by him, it was my fellow stranger who did so. Her imagination ran vivid, and she identified faces in the mountains, colours in the lake (I quote "Even Crayola does not make a blue that vivid"). The water indeed was almost turquoise, and my 35+ stranger friend almost had a child in her while she spoke. Eager to travel home for Christmas, uncommonly curious about my education, fascinated by Diwali and Holi, describing herself to be a bad photographer, she was fascinating. And we hit it off well.
Bidding goodbyes, I took off for my next leg of the journey, Mt. Titlus, and spent half an hour in this beautiful little village called Stanz (recommended by the ticket checker), as i waited to join my friends. Stanz was beautiful, made even more beautiful by the call of one lady, I thank her now. Sprawling meadows with steep snow clad mountains serving as the backdrop, dew covering everything, from windshields to barbed wire, bells hanging from christmas trees to the coffee vending machine outside the station. I was loving Switzerland. Every bit of it so far.
Boarding the train again, this time to Engelberg, i realized I was sitting in a coach that would be delinked with the rest of the train soon. The train manager smiled at me, saying, "no stress, you get off at the next station. No stress at all. This is Swiss land". Ha ha. You cannot help but smile then.
Joining PritS and Patwa soon, who treated me to sakkath khakra, I was rather surprised to see the coach full of Indians. I later, in the evening, cracked a rather sad joke to PritS- "Simran must be the most famous Swiss girl". It's funny now, isn't it? Sad, but funny?
I think I was in one of those quirky moods of mine where I was cracking sad jokes throughout the day- judging by the number of indians of board, it seemed the train was going to Lokhandwala. Ha ha. I am funny. I know. PritS and Patwa are probably the only known exceptions who believe otherwise. I know, i know.
So, the train pulled into Engelberg after a surprisingly steep side, and there we were, blue icy mountains everywhere. I don't know how to describe Titlus. I've seen snow before, yes. I'm seen fresh snow. But this was different. To see scores and scores of skiers(?) fly down the steep mountain peak, that was amazing. To have an almost 60 minute cable car ride up, with three different legs, with drastically changing landscapes, that was amazing. From bright green meadows, onto dead grass, frost covered ground, dead blight afflicted ground, and finally, miles and miles of soft snow all around. Titlus. 3000 metres above sea level. 2000 ascended in an hour. And -9 degrees to the thermometer. Wow. Our hands numb as soon as we were out in the open, the icy cold wind blasting loose snow across our uncovered faces, a snowball flying here, another there, this was ruddy brilliant! Freezing, trudging along, skidding, watching the reason skiers(?) in awe, and worrying about "chillblitz(!)" this was amazing. Totally. Completely. I don't remember how many hours we spent at the top, on the glacier, on the peak, basking in the bright sunlight, icy blasts of wind blowing across our faces, writing names on the snow, or clicking photographs, but after a trip down and up again, I suddenly was so thoroughly exhausted even as I climbed an ascent less than 200metres high. My cough did me no good either, and i was continuing with my paste of honey and turmeric solely for the taste.
It was only when we were back down did I realize that it was almost 4. A futile hunt for food later, we were off to Luzern. The train, well, apologies, but might as well have been called the Gujarat Mail. So full was it of us. It's a nice feeling, in a way, to have so many of my fellow nationals in my midst. Also surprising, in a way. Of how one family of directors could sell an entire country to a billion people. The messages in Hindi everywhere were testimony to the fact. Indians love Switzerland, and rightly so. It's every bit as beautiful, as amazing, as good.
The next 5 hours now seem hazy, Pizzas, a supermarket whose name i forget, Zurich, a brilliantly lighted street, and St. Gallens. It didn't matter. I had enough memories already for the day today.
Travelling alone gives you that one pleasure you never get to have when you're travelling with company, to interact with the world.
To skip Geneva this morning with a terrible cough, I was truly disappointed. As in almost shattered. I could not leave Europe without visiting Switzerland, sans all the Bollywood cliches about the place. It still was Switzerland. The snow. The mountains. And my cold. They just wouldn't go along.
The disappointed was hard to shoo away, and having failed to figure out the rather decrepit French Medical system, I knew it was time for some action. The earliest appointment i could get for my common cold and cough was almost a week later! Honey, a little of crushed onion juice (errr.grated, crushed, chopped) and a little too much of turmeric, whipped into a paste, and I had a tasty placebo ready. Some expensive Strepsils too, a ticket bought, assignment slides mailed, vacation mail reminders put in for a selected target, and there, I was off. Running. Backpack in tow. To Interlaken. Taking a circumvent route all across Europe. I had to see Switzerland.
Alone, this time I chatted up with totally unknown people. And it's weird how you establish connections with the strangest of people. An Indian couple kept me company for most of my first leg of the journey, and we discussed everything, from backpacking (they paid 300€ for my 5€ journey), to economics, to the health care system in India, to entrepreneurship, cranes, Switzerland, education, even Professors at IIM-Ahmedabad. It was really a most delightful conversation.
The second conversation was with a fellow cat lover, this girl who lived in Ulm and study Philosophy for a living, whose cat took an acute liking for me, jabbing it's paw at my muffler (or was it my throat? *in alarm!), with embarrassed smiles from it's owner. And we discussed Nietzsche, (something I've been reading for my tormential pleasures of late). Thus Spake Zarathustra. And we discussed the Rhine, Mark Anthony, Goethe, No Country for Old Men and even Nanu-Nina. Apparently, we are not its only fans. She was a delightful conversationist, and her English was flawless.
This is one of the few things I can never do, strike up conversations with random people when I'm with someone else. Probably it's because I'm rather content with the things I have, probably it's in some parts shyness, i would never know. And i do not like exchange cards, email ids. It is somehow nice, to leave it this way. To leave it as one amazing conversation in my memory, rather than trying hard to make conversation when we are a million miles apart. It's just not me. Maybe I'm losing a great friend this way, but that's that, i'm content. Weirdly, the philosopher girl agreed to me. Weirdly, we did not ask each others names. Weirdly, if i ever need to find her, i'll need to find a cat called Mimo in Ulm. Many of course wouldn't agree to leaving things hanging like that, and I respect that. But for me, a perfect conversation sometimes needs to be just a memory that would one day fade off.
Onwards to Interlaken. SwissLand, here I come.