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.