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.
To spend an outstanding day with dear friends. To watch the Eiffel, lights et al., in sync with the crescent moon in the backdrop and an accordion played on the metro.
And that's when you realize in love.
PS. Yeah Pritesh, laugh on.
Well. It gets hard. I really cannot think of a single word to describe today that I haven't (ab)used enough already. Marvellous? Brilliant? Excellent? Superb? Wonderful? Fantastic? Fabulous? Terrific? Awesome?
Well. Today was everything above. And add some magic to this, and you have Annecy.
It didn't start this way. No. The beginning was bad. Reaching at 6.15, we played train-train and came back on time to Annecy at a comfortable 8.30. The "we" here was just Patwa and me. Another first. To our disappointment, Annecy was wet. And as much as I love rain, cause I absolutely love it, bicycles and rain just don't go along well with each other.
A little town on the South Eastern part of France, surrounded by the Alps, Annecy was beautiful, uncrowded, plain and simple. The hallmark of the town, if I can call it that, was an absolutely serene lake, with the town on one side, the Alps on the other. And except the mountains immediately flanking the lake, every other peak was snow covered.
Our sole intention of coming to town was to cycle, and it was terribly disappointing to have everything so dreary and wet. Except the lake. Water so clear, we could see the 5 foot deep bottom as if there was nothing in between. A few yachts by the lake, mountains on one side, this lake was long, and narrow. Very long, very narrow. And that made it an absolutely divine place to cycle on.
Well, the weather gods (are you listening Q?) had other plans. And there we were, sheltered under a shed by the lake, watching everything just stand there, calm, serene, untouched, pristine, in heavy rain.
Finally bored, we came back to the station by bus, and this time decided to play bus-bus by picking up the next bus to an unknown destination. After convincing the non-English speaking driver that we indeed could travel on the bus for free (which just for the record went to this forsaken place called Grenoble), there we were, all set to leave by 11.10.
I saw the first glimmer of hope, and sunlight, at 11.09. A speck of sunlight peeking through the clouds. As though it was almost mocking at us. Hell, no. Nobody mocks at us and gets away with it. And so we ran. Out of the bus. The expression of the bus driver, well, it was absolutely hilarious. A look of shock, disbelief, a look that said, "you-bl***y-geezers! What-were-you-thinking-when -you made-me-run-all-around-the station-asking¬-my-buddies-if-you-travel-free-on-MY-bus, and-now-you-buggers-suddenly-run-out-like-that. With-those-silly-grins-of-yours!"
Sunlight. And no rain. All of a sudden. The rain god(dess) did smile upon us at last.
We needed bicycles. And food.
The first pitstop was at Subway. Yes, I loved Amy, for speaking wonderful english and so gladly, in France. And being curious about the world.
Walking on, the cycle rental. 10 Euros for half a day, per person. We could get a half a cycle in India for that amount! The deal closed completely, he had my passport, and I, his cycles.
Jet Black. A blue biker's helmet. A bottle of orange juice. And smell of fresh earth. And the cold, cold weather. Suited up, we were set.
And then it began. Amongst the most memorable cycle rides ever. The cycle track was perfect. Deserted, strewn with autumn leaves, many offshoots every now and then, and even a few stunt platforms! And Scenic. It passed by the lake for the most part, and whenever we didn't, we just went off road.
Passing through carpets of red leaves, passing by pony farms, passing by acres of bright green meadows, crystal clear wave, a few smiling pedestrians (see France, you can do better!), dirt tracks, numerous wooden and metal bridges passing over rivulets. Europe was alive. The countryside. And here I was, on a cycle. Just one deep breath said it all, air so pure, so full of scents, of leaves once, of flowers the next, of baked bread, of the rain the next, of mud the next, and the ever lingering smell of fresh grass.
Needless to say, we stopped often. And so did our cameras. Podiums going far into the water, there we were, listening to Dil Chahta Hai and Yeh Haseen Wadiyaan, going absolutely crazy. We were enjoying it all like never before. And were cycling.
The countryside changed drastically, and often, in spans of minutes. We often cut into the littlest French villages, riding through them. The smell of fresh bread still lingers as I write this.
And at the background all through was this pristine lake. Azure blue water guiding us. And snow capped peaks in the far back drop. We drove on, and on. And on.
Through a cycle only tunnel. Through tracks that were little more than a feet wide. Through dense trees. Through the most romantic of fall enveloped through ways. Through meadows. Through an apple grove even. Through villages. So engrossed were we in the ride, little did we realize it was raining again.
Having had begun at 12,
We’d set 3.30 as the point we would start pedalling backwards.
En route, before I forget, there were several remarkable incidents. A WC (European for a loo) that completely washed itself everytime someone used it, including the room! Patwa ji falling off the cycle while trying a stunt podium. My cycle stand breaking off (poor baby), which I then wrapped splendidly in tissue paper. Some pro cyclists going "zooooop" past us. A meadow where we had doves flying all over our heads as we cycled through it. A pair of ferocious dogs snarling at us. Several intentional wheel skids. Two races, one of which Patwa won. A lady who gifted us two apples. A crazy brilliant tunnel solely for cyclists.
By the time we finally did decide to turn around, we had menacing clouds all around us, and the rain grew steadily heavier. And we cycled back. With just one pit stop. Legs, mind, and the jacket doing an okay-ish job of protecting me from rain, all working towards getting me back.
The rain had got heavy by then, but this was undoubtedly the part I loved most. Riding alone now (for Patwa ji chose to race ahead, while I preferred to go slowly, minimal gear changes and a steady ride), it gave me enough time to ponder over several things. And in the midst of the most scenic routes I've witnessed. Just one pit stop later, we were back.
My jacket drenched completely on the outside. Numb, cold hands. Wet gloves. And hurting calves. Yet, given more time, I would have gone ahead. Far ahead.
It was funny when I presented the broken stand to the shop owner, almost as a gift, neatly wrapped in tissue paper. He laughed himself, and said, well, 1000 Euros. A few stupid explanations later, he decided not to charge us for it. Phew.
And the result.
35 kms of cycling for the day. Through fairly uneven terrain. One stop on the way back. Rain. And the most beautiful part of France yet.
It tested the limits of our endurance on our way back, but wow, never had I enjoyed so much. Even with just one other person. Brilliant. Especially with the pace we set. Many thousands of laughs. Many "wows". Tour de France next, who knows?
And finally. Subway again, a full meal, some brilliant coffee. A change of clothes. Our cold feet warm again. It all happened there.
Walking the streets of Annecy, the constant rain and the cold convinced us to do a little train-train. Well, finally, we screwed up. Going to this place called Remilly, 15 minutes away, we searched for a non-existent supermarket for kicks, and realized our immediate return train was cancelled. An hours wait, brilliant music giving me company (I bow to you, O Ozzy Osbourne and Rahman), we were back to Annecy.
Yay! A lazy day. A day when I get to do nothing at all. And in Paris. Taking a well deserved break from our travels; today was the Sabbath. And why not, we deserved it. Replying to infinite mails, catching up with many friends, this was long due.
Noon brought me to why I'm posting up this blog today.
Notre Dame.
A tour of this centre of Paris. Nestled between an island on the River Siene, this cathedral of gigantic proportions always inspired a sense of awe in me. Ever since Victor Hugo wrote that book.
Guided by a volunteer who "also" spoke Anglais (English), the tour was frightfully uninteresting. After being guided by native speakers in other cities so far, this was bound to happen. Well, it was still good. But not the best.
And that again is not the reason why this blog is up.
It's because of this cemetery at Pere Lachaise.
Reaching a few minutes before Paris fell into darkness, this cemetery was grand. The who's who of the dead; this was the place everyone in Paris seemed to love to be in their afterlife.
Spooky. Eerie. Especially in autumn. With little sun. Frightfully cloudy, the cemetery's cobbled paths were neatly carpeted with golden leaves. Tombs that were uniquely grand, many gothic, many baroque. Dazzling marbles and granites. Several of the crypts had house like towers of the exact same floor size, but enormously tall. Few epitaphs. And crowded. Not with people. With the dead.
But i would have let this post pass if this were all to it.
Cause there was more.
PritS and I were the only ones going. No one else seemed interested enough. Suits me, I enjoyed my time with him. I did not feel the need to talk, to make my presence felt with him around. I could walk silently. You can do that with very few. One was he.
Branching off our different ways once into this huge cemetery, I chose to walk the oft walked, cobbled path. The strewn leaves, the pretty tombstones, they fascinated me. I loved it. I walked on, to the very heart of the cemetery. Totally lost, really. I had some directional sense to the way out, but there was quite some time until it would get completely dark. I was good.
And it was then that it happened.
To look back, I still don't have an explanation as to what happened. Or whether it happened at all.
Wandering through the streets in the cemetery, I suddenly stopped. I still do not know why.
I chose to walk in the midst of the graves, which had little more than a few centimeters of distance between each other. Treading carefully, as i did not want to step on the graves themselves, i walked in the heavily soggy and leaved little path. Wandering between many hundreds of graves. Looking around, I suddenly realized I truly was in the middle of rows and rows of the dead.
It was sad. Beautiful. Melancholic. In a wonderful way. In a supernatural way.
As I stood there, watching in silent contentment, a certain grave caught my attention. I still do not know why. I really don't know why this particular grave. It was amongst the simplest of them all. Something I would have just looked over otherwise.
Drawing close, I was surprised. The slab covering the grave was partially open. Curiosity. That mother of all dangers.
I peered in.
I actually peered into an open grave.
And I had the fright of my life.
Roughly 6-7 feet deep. And I was peering in intently from up close. A minute later, all I remember is backing away suddenly. Running away from the graves. On to the nearest cobbled track. It's suddenly so hazy as I write this. Why was I running? Why was my heart pacing?
I saw something move.
Looking back, I have several unanswered questions.
Why was I at that grave in particular? What attracted me there? What did I see in it? Why was I running away even before my mind registered the fact that I was running? Why did I walk briskly all the way back to the entrance? What made my legs carry me away from that grave?
There were too many unanswered questions. Too spectral. Too other-worldly. I still don't know whether it happened at all? Had I fallen asleep somewhere in between? Or did it all happen.
It was almost dark and raining by the time PritS came back.
I was ready for another walk through it. Oscar Wilde was buried in here. I wanted to see his grave.
PritS said another day. Thank god for that. I had had enough for a day.
Still. Did it happen? I can never say.
Waking up lazily at my convenience hasn't happened at all on this Eurotrip. Waking up fresh, like I've slept forever, especially while travelling, hasn't happened either. Well, finally it did.
In the most peaceful, almost subconscious sleep so far, we woke in the hotel, having cup noodles (yummy) for breakfast, and hopping out rather quickly to be greeted by an Indian sun, warming, bright and blinding.
We had the enormous Roma Forum and Palantine Hill for the day. To imagine Palantine Hill and the Forum in its heydays, it the era of Trajan, was a bewildering experience. The huge pillars and arches that remain are testimony to how massive the place was. The heart of Roman Civilization, Palantine Hill was where, as legend has it; Romulus and Remus were brought up. Where successive generations built the foundations of Rome. Where the kings and nobility erected magnificent villas, banquet halls, temples to Jupiter, baths, private arenas and courtrooms. Each of them, as their foundation reveals, was enormous in their entirety.
Today, alas, most of it lies in ruins. Yet, it isn't difficult to imagine the place in its heydays, to imagine filled courtrooms and the neighbourhood Colosseum teeming with people cheering, to imagine the enormous white marble and granite pillars and kings and generals walking the very roads we were walking now.
Spread over a huge bread, we hardly had time to see it all. And having spent four hours there already, E moved on to the city, looking for the Holy Grail - food.
Finding no pizzeria that was affordable and good, we all settled for shakes at McDonald's, and walking on, soon did find rolled Margaritas.
And then the Pantheon.
A 2000 year old structure. A 40 metre perfectly spherical dome. A dome that was free standing. No one really knows how such a massive, immensely massive dome can remain standing with absolutely no reinforcements, just plain concrete created some 2000 years ago.
Initially a temple to all the pagan gods (and hence the name - Pan and Theo), it was later consecrated by the Church to be a church for St. Joseph. What this did do was save it from pillage and destruction. And thus it still stands. A beautiful example of early Roman architecture, the huge dome and the mighty pillars are an example of how advanced the engineering of those days was.
As I stood there, feeling little, gazing in awe at the pillars, the open dome (the dome has a circular opening from where sunlight streams in), I couldn't help but want to stay there forever. A live choir played there at the back, probably because it was a Sunday. The earthy, eerie tones of the choir echoed in the interiors, with Tards and Bansi and I chatting away about Roman history, of the Papacy, of the church and pagan gods. We spent almost an hour there, in what might appear to be nothing more than a massive room.
Almost time to leave Rome, we walked around the old Pantheon area, which is scattered with several relics of the past. En Route, outside a certain McDonald's, I saw a wonderful street artist, using nothing but cardboard and spray paint to create starkly beautiful, supernatural paintings out of nowhere. Using a few moulds to cover earlier work, she worked with fantastic speed, and amazing, almost careless accuracy. And the paintings never came to life until the very last moment. Brilliant. I wanted one so badly, but we were running out of time and had to rush forth. Some other day. For in my mind, I knew that if there was one city that I was coming back to, if ever, this was it.
Rome. Forever.