In the early afternoon I arrived in Bern, the capital of Switzerland, in time for lunch with a Zurich local who I had met in Hanoi many months ago. Bern is a tiny city of 130,000, considered one of the most charming in Switzerland. unmistakably the sandstone buildings create a uniformity of green. The perfectly preserved medieval street plan, with its arcades, street fountains and clock towers persuaded UNESCO to deem Bern a World Heritage Site. What I found most appealing was the Paul Klee Museum, a grand edifice constructed by architect Renzo Piano. Klee is my most revered artist and reason enough to come to this city where he spent much of his life. After many hours lost in the fascinating mind of Klee, I was met by a friend from long ago with whom I had shared many travel adventures. And now our Swiss chapter was about to begin…
The rain was falling in Geneva and I decided it was time to head to the mountains. Four hours aboard a train winding deep into the snow-peaked mountains, destination Zermatt, one of the great skiing and climbing centres of the world. Stepping into this mountain village, nestled in a deep valley surrouned by Swiss peaks, dominated by the gracefully curved point of the Matterhorn, I felt a replete calm. In this place so far removed from the world there exist no cars or congestion, merely a tranquil scene of ski-bound pedestrians amidst the barns and chalets leading into hidden cobbled streets.
I had heard much about Geneva from Swiss friends and all those who had traveled to this city of prosperity and elegance. I was most impressed with the old part of the city, where time (as precise as it was) seemed to stand still. Amidst the cobbled streets only the placid sounds of water flowing from a fountain could be heard, mixing with the occasional ring of a church bell. The air was crisp as I spent many hours walking around the lake, gazing at the mountains beyond the grand industrialization looming in all directions. One afternoon I took the street car to Carouge, the Mediterranean style village in the middle of Geneva. I was lost in tranquility. At least for a moment.
Due to the train strike (who would have guessed the strikes go on for weeks!?) Bartosz and I rented a car to drive North, I was headed to Lyon and he to London via Paris. The adventure continued as we drove straight into what felt like the twilight zone, from a blue sky into a snow storm!! Perhaps it was one of those moments shared between friends that will never be understood by another.
In very little time and much amusement, I arrived safely to Lyon and after a speeding ticket, hours of circling the city of Paris and a missed train to London, Bartosz too arrived home.
I have long desired to drive along the path to Sainte Victoire, the mountain apparent in much of Cezanne’s work, 444 oil paintings and 43 watercolors to be exact. It was my persistence and slight pleading that led us to the mountain as we exited Aix-en-Provence which in the matter of less than 24 hours I introduced to Bartosz who I know would find it as warm and inviting as I had. As the mountain loomed in our presence I experienced one of those rare moments in life when all rational thought dissipates and you can only feel with your heightened senses…
I have always been curious about this modern version of a medieval town, filled with yachts and terraced cafes, appealing to those desiring to enter a scene of wealth and glamour. When we arrived the town was sleeping. But undeniably charming with its pastel colored facades and cobbled streets leading to a night of over-priced cocktails with the locals who keep asking where have all the jet-setters gone, and a morning of fresh pastries and fruit markets. My regard for Saint Tropez is quite high in the low season. Perhaps one day I shall experience the other side.