Tulips in Axalp
The blue waters of Brienz Lake are shimmering in the sun. Expressionless eyelashless cows are munching on some picture perfect green grass. Tulips are blooming prettily outside Swiss chalets. It could be a scene right out of a Yash Chopra film but there is no Shahrukh Khan traipsing across the yellow wildflower covered hillside, eyes misty with unspoken love. My very own Shahrukh Khan is staring stonily ahead, his long fingers resting on the steering wheel of the Mercedes Vito he is driving. Inside the car, dark clouds are looming. Manoj mumbles something gruffly; Puneet (my favourite brother in law) doesn’t bother to answer and the temperatures dip lower. Requests to put on music are ignored. I turn to my cell in defiance. “Jeet hi lenge baazi ham tum…pyaar ka bandhan tute naa…” the soulful lyrics of the old ditty fill our ears. From the back seat, Saransh whimpers his disapproval while Isha, who has been reading a book, noisily opens a packet of wafers. Cousin Tanu and I (stressed since yesterday since the two guys (who used to be best friends back home) are refusing to talk to each other in vilayat over some silly half-witted male thing) look at each other and grin.
Since we shan’t be washing dirty linen on a public blog, let me just say that it takes 12 hours, Asha Bhonsle’s “Jo bhi hai bas yahi ek pal hai”; and a bottle of Old Monk rum (lugged all the way from Air Force Station, Palam) to thaw the ice and thankfully the driving holiday across Austria and Switzerland returns to Bollywood terrain leaving us free to appreciate the snow capped Alps; the lush meadows; the super fit cyclists; the quaint villages with begonias and geranium blooming on window sills. It also allows Tanu and me to dream once again of the retired life we are plotting to have in neighbourhood huts on some sleepy hillside in Garhwal, a few decades from now.
Sitting on a log bench in Axalp with the snow dappled Alps in front of me the next day I notice a man flying overhead and wave to him. He reminds me of an old friend. The wi fi brings a message from a classmate who is testing audio chat and I listen in delight. The jangling cowbells have me itching to make a video for my mom since I feel she might never come to Switzerland and I want her to have no regrets since it is just a sanitized version of Auli back home in Pauri Garhwal. With better roads.
And then I arm twist myself into switching the wi fi off, reluctantly severing the ties pulling me back across the seven seas. The withdrawal symptoms eventually pass and it is only when I stop checking my cell every few minutes like a trained seal that I am able to open my arms and embrace my first Europe experience. And here it is for your reading pleasure:
Since we shan’t be washing dirty linen on a public blog, let me just say that it takes 12 hours, Asha Bhonsle’s “Jo bhi hai bas yahi ek pal hai”; and a bottle of Old Monk rum (lugged all the way from Air Force Station, Palam) to thaw the ice and thankfully the driving holiday across Austria and Switzerland returns to Bollywood terrain leaving us free to appreciate the snow capped Alps; the lush meadows; the super fit cyclists; the quaint villages with begonias and geranium blooming on window sills. It also allows Tanu and me to dream once again of the retired life we are plotting to have in neighbourhood huts on some sleepy hillside in Garhwal, a few decades from now.
Sitting on a log bench in Axalp with the snow dappled Alps in front of me the next day I notice a man flying overhead and wave to him. He reminds me of an old friend. The wi fi brings a message from a classmate who is testing audio chat and I listen in delight. The jangling cowbells have me itching to make a video for my mom since I feel she might never come to Switzerland and I want her to have no regrets since it is just a sanitized version of Auli back home in Pauri Garhwal. With better roads.
And then I arm twist myself into switching the wi fi off, reluctantly severing the ties pulling me back across the seven seas. The withdrawal symptoms eventually pass and it is only when I stop checking my cell every few minutes like a trained seal that I am able to open my arms and embrace my first Europe experience. And here it is for your reading pleasure:
Magnificent buildings of Innere Stadt, Vienna
Day 1. Cold and wet in Vienna
Jet lagged and tired after 11 hours of flight, we land in Vienna. It is raining. We press our noses against the window of the taxi that is taking us to our hotel, zipping across the wet roads with some classical music playing softly in the background. It has cost us 70 Euros (nearly Rs 5000) for a 20 minute drive. Yes, some of us are wincing.
Hotel Cyrus is dark and gloomy and eerily peopleless at 10 pm. At the reception is a gaunt old man with a hook nose who has stepped right out of a Ramsay brothers’ horror film. I smile at him nervously. He won’t smile back. “Can’t we go to the US?” Saransh whispers in my ear. Isha is trying to hide behind me. “Uncle is scaring me,” she mumbles. Uncle is scaring me too so I wait for the guys to start a conversation. That, we soon realize, is next to impossible since uncle only speaks German. Through theatrical gestures, smattered with the German he has been cramming over the past few days over Scotch, Puneet manages to discover that we have to haul our suitcases up to the first floor; there is no dinner; the restaurants outside are all shut. There is no hot water either so we can’t even heat up our ready to eat MTR chole and rice. In our rooms, we nibble on cold puris that Puneet’s mom had so lovingly fried for us in Delhi. Tanu has forgotten the achaar. Everyone glares at her and one by one we drop off to sleep. A bent old man with a surgical scalpel in one hand keeps shuffling in and out of my dreams.
Jet lagged and tired after 11 hours of flight, we land in Vienna. It is raining. We press our noses against the window of the taxi that is taking us to our hotel, zipping across the wet roads with some classical music playing softly in the background. It has cost us 70 Euros (nearly Rs 5000) for a 20 minute drive. Yes, some of us are wincing.
Hotel Cyrus is dark and gloomy and eerily peopleless at 10 pm. At the reception is a gaunt old man with a hook nose who has stepped right out of a Ramsay brothers’ horror film. I smile at him nervously. He won’t smile back. “Can’t we go to the US?” Saransh whispers in my ear. Isha is trying to hide behind me. “Uncle is scaring me,” she mumbles. Uncle is scaring me too so I wait for the guys to start a conversation. That, we soon realize, is next to impossible since uncle only speaks German. Through theatrical gestures, smattered with the German he has been cramming over the past few days over Scotch, Puneet manages to discover that we have to haul our suitcases up to the first floor; there is no dinner; the restaurants outside are all shut. There is no hot water either so we can’t even heat up our ready to eat MTR chole and rice. In our rooms, we nibble on cold puris that Puneet’s mom had so lovingly fried for us in Delhi. Tanu has forgotten the achaar. Everyone glares at her and one by one we drop off to sleep. A bent old man with a surgical scalpel in one hand keeps shuffling in and out of my dreams.
Salsa on the streets of Vienna
Day 2 Salsa on the streets of Wien
After a lousy breakfast of salamis, bread, orange juice and coffee; we walk down to the tube station that is just five minutes’ away. Puneet is turning into a brooding monster ever since people accused him of scrounging and booking us into a rotten hotel; completely ignoring the fact that no one else was interested in doing the dirty work. We marvel at the organized traffic, the delightful roadside cafes, dogs on leash stepping obediently into the tube, incredibly tall girls on high heeled boots and poodles and old ladies with strange haircuts. Buying a day pass for 7 Euros each (kids free), we take a ride to Stephansplatz and climb the steps to where the towering Stephansdom overpowers us by its sheer presence. Bingo! It starts to rain. Cold and wet, we decide to take a Tram 1 ride around Innere Stadt (Old town) recommended by Lonely Planet and gush over the marvellous old world architecture with fountains and statuesque figures (mostly killing other people) looking down at us from the walls. The rain spoils things that day but on our way back from Switzerland 10 days later, we stop by for a day to find the sun shining. Puneet wants to chill in the hotel (a nice one this time) since he wants to check out some pubs in the evening so we dump the kids with him. Manoj insists on chaperoning Tanu and me (much against our wishes) on what was to be a “girls only” shopping spree.
We take a walk down the street from Stephansdome and soak in the full splendor of Europe’s street side musicians, sensuous salsa dancers, leggy beauties with small skirts. Manoj gets into photographer mood and starts changing lenses. We happily lose the photographer and saunter around the shops with our leftover Euros jiggling in our pockets. Mozart is playing on a giant screen and people are sprawled on the road, sipping beer in silence. We wander inside the beautiful Stephansdome, check out a Gustav Klimt exhibition and roam the streets picking up gifts for friends back home: silk scarves and pendants with Klimt’s The Kiss on them and glass lamps painted with city landscapes. We sip spritzers and coffee while listening to the musicians on the street and drop coins into hats and open guitar cases. A Johnny Dep lookalike doing the Salsa with his beautiful partner catches our eye. Destiny reunites us with Manoj who is still clicking away passionately. Reclaiming him, we pick up pizza slices and doner sandwiches and head back to the hotel, bypassing an Erotic Show poster with incredibly buxom babes doing incredible things with ropes and poles that make Manoj grin like a school boy. Outside the hotel we run into Puneet looking fresh as a daisy. It’s his turn to explore the city and having seen the Erotic Show poster, Tanu decides to ditch us and tag along with him.
After a lousy breakfast of salamis, bread, orange juice and coffee; we walk down to the tube station that is just five minutes’ away. Puneet is turning into a brooding monster ever since people accused him of scrounging and booking us into a rotten hotel; completely ignoring the fact that no one else was interested in doing the dirty work. We marvel at the organized traffic, the delightful roadside cafes, dogs on leash stepping obediently into the tube, incredibly tall girls on high heeled boots and poodles and old ladies with strange haircuts. Buying a day pass for 7 Euros each (kids free), we take a ride to Stephansplatz and climb the steps to where the towering Stephansdom overpowers us by its sheer presence. Bingo! It starts to rain. Cold and wet, we decide to take a Tram 1 ride around Innere Stadt (Old town) recommended by Lonely Planet and gush over the marvellous old world architecture with fountains and statuesque figures (mostly killing other people) looking down at us from the walls. The rain spoils things that day but on our way back from Switzerland 10 days later, we stop by for a day to find the sun shining. Puneet wants to chill in the hotel (a nice one this time) since he wants to check out some pubs in the evening so we dump the kids with him. Manoj insists on chaperoning Tanu and me (much against our wishes) on what was to be a “girls only” shopping spree.
We take a walk down the street from Stephansdome and soak in the full splendor of Europe’s street side musicians, sensuous salsa dancers, leggy beauties with small skirts. Manoj gets into photographer mood and starts changing lenses. We happily lose the photographer and saunter around the shops with our leftover Euros jiggling in our pockets. Mozart is playing on a giant screen and people are sprawled on the road, sipping beer in silence. We wander inside the beautiful Stephansdome, check out a Gustav Klimt exhibition and roam the streets picking up gifts for friends back home: silk scarves and pendants with Klimt’s The Kiss on them and glass lamps painted with city landscapes. We sip spritzers and coffee while listening to the musicians on the street and drop coins into hats and open guitar cases. A Johnny Dep lookalike doing the Salsa with his beautiful partner catches our eye. Destiny reunites us with Manoj who is still clicking away passionately. Reclaiming him, we pick up pizza slices and doner sandwiches and head back to the hotel, bypassing an Erotic Show poster with incredibly buxom babes doing incredible things with ropes and poles that make Manoj grin like a school boy. Outside the hotel we run into Puneet looking fresh as a daisy. It’s his turn to explore the city and having seen the Erotic Show poster, Tanu decides to ditch us and tag along with him.
The guys gearing up for the right hand drive
Beleagured cow: Where are your eyelashes girl?
Drive to Axalp
We hire a nine seater from Hertz at the airport the next day for the staggering figure of Rs 90,000 a week. It was much cheaper when we had checked from India but we didn’t book then and now it’s too late for regrets. The guys flash their newly acquired International driving licenses (Rs 500 and a day’s work), say a little prayer (it’s a right hand drive) and hop in. It takes a while to fix the Tom Tom and they give the Hertz guy some tense moments when they can’t start the car. Next, they almost ram the car into the parking gate. Mr. Hertz jumps to our rescue yet again, beads of sweat lining his forehead. Finally with a bump and a growl, the car quivers to life and we are out on the highway. Hertz guy is last seen reaching for a cigarette with trembling fingers.
Soon red poppies start nodding at us from the roadside, the road ambles along lush green countryside dotted with patches of forest, interesting houses, churches and abbeys. The frown lines on Puneet’s brow have eased and he is comfortably overtaking trucks on the highway. The car cruises at a leisurely 100 km plus an hour and by evening we are at our destination – Tulfes - a small village near Innsbruck. Puneet gets down to check the hotel we are booked at. Tanu and I use his absence to crib about how he tries to save money all the time and how he must have booked us into some cheap and rotten place here as well. He returns with a half smile (the widest he smiles without a beer can in his hand) and invites us in. We have to eat our words. It is a beautiful old country house with red cushions, exquisite linen, lights that get switched on and off on our footsteps and a quaint restaurant with lace curtains. At Rs 5,000 a room, with breakfast thrown in, it is a steal. A balcony overlooks the gorgeous snow clad mountains. Across the road is Burnout Bar on Jack Daniels Road (no, seriously!).
The kids take up the bedroom attached to ours and the Pareeks are left to romance in the one further away. Puneet has been resurrected from the dungeons and is a hero once again. We rush to get him his well deserved cans of beer right on the balcony where he is busy clicking pictures.
Switzerland
Tulfes is the most beautiful village I have ever seen. There are flowers everywhere, fat cats clean their whiskers on wood benches; apricot trees (yes trees) clamber up house walls; goats graze in fenced enclosures, horses neigh under trees, a beautiful church with paintings on stone walls stands sleepily at the corner and there is just one store where you get everything from plants to potato wafers. We stock up our car with large bottles of orange juice, bread, milk and spreads since the chalet in Axalp, the Swiss ski town (where we have got good off season rates) has a kitchen we will be using for the next five days. With friendly smiles and dankes (thank you in German) to our hostess and the white aproned fat East European cook who has fed us chilli pork ribs and fries the evening before, we are off. We cross the border at Liechtenstein, drive past Lucerne and Brienz, and with just a few wrong turns and just a few angry wags of the finger from fellow drivers finally climb up a steep slope covered with wild flowers and grazing cows to reach Axalp. There our host and soon-to-be dost the six feet plus Peter with the salt and pepper beard, an interesting I’m-sharing-a-secret-with-you voice, a wide smile and a bright red “One Life, get one” T shirt welcomes us warmly. This time the Pareeks are saddled with the kids, who are having a noisy pillow fight on the bunk bed right above theirs. Shaking our heads in wicked delight Manoj and I lug our suitcases to a small but peaceful room on the other side.
We are on a hill slope overlooking the mountains. Peter junior, a chubby cheeked schoolboy, is doing a barbeque. Soon he and his dad pull out deck chairs, put on snazzy dark glasses and enjoy an Alps view dinner of sausages and chips at a bright and sunny 8 pm.
The next morning I wake up early and find my way to the log bench outside. Around me wild flowers bloom, right ahead the Alps form a wide semi circle, a gentle breeze rustles through my hair and carries the sound of the bells of cows that are grazing somewhere out of my visual range. It is a meditative moment and I soak it in before dragging Manoj out for a walk.
Running into the SOTC juggernaut
The next few days we start the car every morning and drive down to places around – Bern with its bear pit; Interlaken with hang gliders in the air; and Brienz, famous for its wood sculpting school, where I am almost mauled by a Rotterweiler that I try to pet; mistakenly assuming that it has been giving me loving come hither looks. Luckily he is chained and I just get to smell his bad breath and see the sunshine reflecting on his canines. We take a train ride to Lauterbrunnen and Jungfrau and marvel at the sheer beauty of the landscape and the waterfalls and the engineering feat that has made tunnels possible right up to Europe’s highest point. There we run into an SOTC group that has left a trail of destruction behind it. Someone has puked right in the middle of the restaurant and a Gujarati gentleman is helpfully directing traffic around it. The loos are dirty and overflowing with toilet paper. A surging mass of people pours into the lift, not allowing anyone to get off till weaker mortals whimper to be let out. The mechanically turning door is filled with chattering tourists who are trying to push it to make it turn faster. Since I am claustrophobic, I almost die imagining that the door will get stuck and scream at them to let me get out. Tanu is frowning darkly and the guys, who are putting up a brave face, are shaken too since they agree readily when we tell them it’s time to go back. We have paid around Rs 30,000 per family for the visit but no one wants to hang around, except Saransh who says he wants to ski and/or go to the US. He is ignored and dragged onto the waiting train and we return to the world of easy breathing.
On our way back to Wien, we check out Salzburg and a pretty Austrian village called Gosau. Our knowledge of German now extends to “guten morgan” (good morning); “guten abend” (good evening) “danke” (thank you), “where is WC?” and thumbs up signs. The people are friendly, the toilets sparkling clean, the order and respect for traffic rules unbelievable. Sitting in a romantic roadside café in Vienna on the last day of the trip, Manoj and I marvel at the trams and the traffic moving on the street in perfect harmony along with the ladies with dogs and old men with umbrellas. We marvel at just how organized Europe is, how disciplined the citizens are, how valued human life is. We have seen bus drivers peacefully reading books while waiting at stops; dogs drinking from a special canine water fountain at Interlaken, restaurants having dog dishes, families cycling with a picnic meal in a park, no one checking tickets on the tube in Vienna. “You think India will get there in 50 years?” I ask him. He shakes his head silently. In hundred? He shakes his head again. We silently sip on our beer/wine and check the menu for food. Nothing interests me. Europe may be like a dream but I’m still feeling homesick for dal, chawal, sabzi and achaar. It’s time to pack our bags and return where we belong.
We hire a nine seater from Hertz at the airport the next day for the staggering figure of Rs 90,000 a week. It was much cheaper when we had checked from India but we didn’t book then and now it’s too late for regrets. The guys flash their newly acquired International driving licenses (Rs 500 and a day’s work), say a little prayer (it’s a right hand drive) and hop in. It takes a while to fix the Tom Tom and they give the Hertz guy some tense moments when they can’t start the car. Next, they almost ram the car into the parking gate. Mr. Hertz jumps to our rescue yet again, beads of sweat lining his forehead. Finally with a bump and a growl, the car quivers to life and we are out on the highway. Hertz guy is last seen reaching for a cigarette with trembling fingers.
Soon red poppies start nodding at us from the roadside, the road ambles along lush green countryside dotted with patches of forest, interesting houses, churches and abbeys. The frown lines on Puneet’s brow have eased and he is comfortably overtaking trucks on the highway. The car cruises at a leisurely 100 km plus an hour and by evening we are at our destination – Tulfes - a small village near Innsbruck. Puneet gets down to check the hotel we are booked at. Tanu and I use his absence to crib about how he tries to save money all the time and how he must have booked us into some cheap and rotten place here as well. He returns with a half smile (the widest he smiles without a beer can in his hand) and invites us in. We have to eat our words. It is a beautiful old country house with red cushions, exquisite linen, lights that get switched on and off on our footsteps and a quaint restaurant with lace curtains. At Rs 5,000 a room, with breakfast thrown in, it is a steal. A balcony overlooks the gorgeous snow clad mountains. Across the road is Burnout Bar on Jack Daniels Road (no, seriously!).
The kids take up the bedroom attached to ours and the Pareeks are left to romance in the one further away. Puneet has been resurrected from the dungeons and is a hero once again. We rush to get him his well deserved cans of beer right on the balcony where he is busy clicking pictures.
Switzerland
Tulfes is the most beautiful village I have ever seen. There are flowers everywhere, fat cats clean their whiskers on wood benches; apricot trees (yes trees) clamber up house walls; goats graze in fenced enclosures, horses neigh under trees, a beautiful church with paintings on stone walls stands sleepily at the corner and there is just one store where you get everything from plants to potato wafers. We stock up our car with large bottles of orange juice, bread, milk and spreads since the chalet in Axalp, the Swiss ski town (where we have got good off season rates) has a kitchen we will be using for the next five days. With friendly smiles and dankes (thank you in German) to our hostess and the white aproned fat East European cook who has fed us chilli pork ribs and fries the evening before, we are off. We cross the border at Liechtenstein, drive past Lucerne and Brienz, and with just a few wrong turns and just a few angry wags of the finger from fellow drivers finally climb up a steep slope covered with wild flowers and grazing cows to reach Axalp. There our host and soon-to-be dost the six feet plus Peter with the salt and pepper beard, an interesting I’m-sharing-a-secret-with-you voice, a wide smile and a bright red “One Life, get one” T shirt welcomes us warmly. This time the Pareeks are saddled with the kids, who are having a noisy pillow fight on the bunk bed right above theirs. Shaking our heads in wicked delight Manoj and I lug our suitcases to a small but peaceful room on the other side.
We are on a hill slope overlooking the mountains. Peter junior, a chubby cheeked schoolboy, is doing a barbeque. Soon he and his dad pull out deck chairs, put on snazzy dark glasses and enjoy an Alps view dinner of sausages and chips at a bright and sunny 8 pm.
The next morning I wake up early and find my way to the log bench outside. Around me wild flowers bloom, right ahead the Alps form a wide semi circle, a gentle breeze rustles through my hair and carries the sound of the bells of cows that are grazing somewhere out of my visual range. It is a meditative moment and I soak it in before dragging Manoj out for a walk.
Running into the SOTC juggernaut
The next few days we start the car every morning and drive down to places around – Bern with its bear pit; Interlaken with hang gliders in the air; and Brienz, famous for its wood sculpting school, where I am almost mauled by a Rotterweiler that I try to pet; mistakenly assuming that it has been giving me loving come hither looks. Luckily he is chained and I just get to smell his bad breath and see the sunshine reflecting on his canines. We take a train ride to Lauterbrunnen and Jungfrau and marvel at the sheer beauty of the landscape and the waterfalls and the engineering feat that has made tunnels possible right up to Europe’s highest point. There we run into an SOTC group that has left a trail of destruction behind it. Someone has puked right in the middle of the restaurant and a Gujarati gentleman is helpfully directing traffic around it. The loos are dirty and overflowing with toilet paper. A surging mass of people pours into the lift, not allowing anyone to get off till weaker mortals whimper to be let out. The mechanically turning door is filled with chattering tourists who are trying to push it to make it turn faster. Since I am claustrophobic, I almost die imagining that the door will get stuck and scream at them to let me get out. Tanu is frowning darkly and the guys, who are putting up a brave face, are shaken too since they agree readily when we tell them it’s time to go back. We have paid around Rs 30,000 per family for the visit but no one wants to hang around, except Saransh who says he wants to ski and/or go to the US. He is ignored and dragged onto the waiting train and we return to the world of easy breathing.
On our way back to Wien, we check out Salzburg and a pretty Austrian village called Gosau. Our knowledge of German now extends to “guten morgan” (good morning); “guten abend” (good evening) “danke” (thank you), “where is WC?” and thumbs up signs. The people are friendly, the toilets sparkling clean, the order and respect for traffic rules unbelievable. Sitting in a romantic roadside café in Vienna on the last day of the trip, Manoj and I marvel at the trams and the traffic moving on the street in perfect harmony along with the ladies with dogs and old men with umbrellas. We marvel at just how organized Europe is, how disciplined the citizens are, how valued human life is. We have seen bus drivers peacefully reading books while waiting at stops; dogs drinking from a special canine water fountain at Interlaken, restaurants having dog dishes, families cycling with a picnic meal in a park, no one checking tickets on the tube in Vienna. “You think India will get there in 50 years?” I ask him. He shakes his head silently. In hundred? He shakes his head again. We silently sip on our beer/wine and check the menu for food. Nothing interests me. Europe may be like a dream but I’m still feeling homesick for dal, chawal, sabzi and achaar. It’s time to pack our bags and return where we belong.
Now is that, or is that not, a loving "come hither" look?
Just in case you didn't believe me!
Sleepy church in Tulfes
Apricot tree climbing up a house in Tulfes
Flowers on window sills
A wood sculpture in the walking trail at Axalp
Salzberg
An old world photo studio in Salzberg
The village of Gosau near Salzberg
Saying goodbye to Peter and the log bench
RSS Feed
