Well, there’s a moving van over the road. This, in itself, is not unusual as the building is a two-family house (much in the fashion of North and South Korea) and the gentle tenants in the South constantly move away to greener, quieter, and less threatening pastures.

Moving vans rattle me. I started moving before I was one year old, and am always hopeful that where I am now is the final destination. When I was two, I accompanied my parents into a freezing Canadian winter. My first clear memory is packing my books into a blue tin pram.

After my father became a foot soldier in the great Canadian Protestant army of the Lord we moved regularly every couple of years. I have changed continents and manses and apartments and houses dozens and dozens of times.

The extra-special Swiss moving trauma has to do with the cleanliness of the rented property that you leave behind. Windows have to be sparkling; the grout between the floor tiles scrubbed with a toothbrush; ceilings and doors washed. You have to boil the bathrooms in bleach. (Warning! An acquaintance did this with a wicked-strong product that took the enamel off the bathtub, and she had to buy a new one.)

Then you have to pass the real-estate agent test where a man with bad hair, bad attitude and a clip-board feels behind the back of taps to make sure there isn’t a bump of lime scale or a flake of soap.

If you fail the test, not only are you hygienically bankrupt, you also lose at least part of your blocked deposit (three months rent) as professional cleaners have to be called in to remove water spots from tiles, dust specks from the corner of drawers, invisible (to the naked eye) fingerprints from door handles. I’ve heard they work with microscopes.

Even if you have been asked to leave (due to a relative needing one of grandpa’s many, many houses) you have to scrub the kitchen raw (even though it is all going to be ripped out and replaced.) It’s more than depressing: it’s traumatic.

The moving van over the road has the English phrase “The Human Touch” written on its side. Due to wear and tear from my vantage point it seems to read “The Lunar Torch” – a much more whimsical and fitting concept.

I recall my old Uncle Harry being traumatised by his one big middle-aged move. He swore he would never ever do it again. He said it took him three weeks to find his tooth brush. His wish came true, and last I heard an urn containing his ashes is still in the back of the upstairs closet.

We are stardust, after all.

Well, the way things are going, I may well be writing my next blog from a jail cell. Actually, that is a grotesquely optimistic exaggeration, as in prison you only are given a tiny little stub of a pencil to write with, so if all goes badly there will be no more messages to the outside world.

I have just received an official letter from the head of the Geneva Cantonal Road Maintenance Department. Again. These are the same people who have come up with the startlingly original policy to NOT maintain road verges in order to let Mother Nature expand and explode. (See last summer’s rant: https://blogs.letemps.ch/joy-kundig/2016/08/08/warning-geneva-government-sponsored-aliens-could-be-hiding-in-plain-sight/.)

Anyway, the thick 7-page document included the usual rude covering letter, two official forms, and four colour photographs. Again.

One of the photos is a helicopter shot of my house and garden and the road out front. Studied under a magnifying glass, in it there is not one single criminal hedge branch outside the property line.

The other three photos show a few little hedge twigs outside an arbitrary artificial orange vertical slash. I once spotted the cameramen who take these pictures lurking in the village. They travel in pairs—one has a clipboard and the other a tripod camera. They look a bit like Mormons and spend time fluffing leaves and giggling before they take their incriminating shots.

They obviously target certain locations as they childishly know they will achieve instant gratification. As May went past without a nasty government letter I thought the new roadside vegetation freedom rules were giving us all a break. But no: the photographers obviously come back and back and back again until they catch the twig out of line.

On my specific photo-shot day (July 18^th) perhaps it was windy? Or, even more probably, a car on its way home to France has sucked some branches behind it in its slip stream and they were energetically bouncing back.

I know that the way forward in these tricky legal situations is NOT a good idea to act as your own legal counsel, (a colourful family member did this a few years back and this is how I come to know about the prison pencil stub rules) but my defence is straightforward:

• My name is incorrectly spelled.
• I am addressed as Monsieur.
• The street cited does not exist in my village.
• The official property line is far out in the road, as the old cantonal road has been widened to accommodate speeding rush-hour traffic and my land has been stolen.
• I agree with the greeny policy to let road verges completely take care of themselves.
• There is no sidewalk involved, and so no pedestrians are disturbed by caterpillars in their hair.
• The speed limit is 30 kph.

How can I possibly lose?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Back in the day, the tourists of Geneva organized summertime fun for themselves. There were the young British rakes who took row boats out onto the lake, banged drums, and set off explosions. There was the visiting royalty who on full-moon nights sent up little new-fangled hot-air balloons, so their guests could swoon in wonder at seeing two, or even three, moons. Then there were those endless wet summers when people sat around waiting for the rain to stop and telling each other horror stories: things like Frankenstein were written.

It was all jolly good fun. Not quite as good as the royal entries (Beatrice of Portugal, for example) of the REALLY good old 15^th-century days with jousting competitions, mystery plays in the streets, and wine running in the fountains.

Of course, Geneva has been a tourist city since forever, and the lake and warm summer days have always been a winning cocktail and has now become a 10-day officially organized party called Les Fêtes de Genève.  However, in the grim reality of the 21^st century The Geneva Lake Festival seems to have spun completely out of control.

Last year, for example, the fêtes lost an astonishing 3.5 million francs. A new director has been put in place and this year’s budget is a strict 3.5 million francs with an extra ½-million just-in-case reserve. They are on their last warning. Any serious financial foolishness, then their future is not assured.

Two days in, there has already been a major goof-up. To the uninitiated, this local political spot of bother is called a Genevoiserie or a Genferei and is the source of much ongoing mirth to the indigenous inhabitants and the rest of the country.

The Festival was scheduled to run from August 3 – August 13. However, the carnies with their flying elephant rides came into town early, optimistically set up their stands, and opened for bustling business on August 1^st. The new director was contacted, and shook a cotton-candy-coated finger at them, but agreed to their going-for-the-money “fait accompli.”

Now the first of August is the sacrosanct Swiss National Day—William Tell, flags, sausages, and fireworks. It is not to be tampered with. It stands alone, much like the Matterhorn and is not to be mixed with frivolity—except, perhaps, a round or two of Swiss wrestling.

You raise your thumb and first two fingers and take an oath. You put an apple on your son’s head rather than doff your hat to outside powers. You relish your Swissness.

Unfortunately, the Geneva town council did not give their permission for this early start of their Lake Festival, and are now full of righteous indignation, bombast and threats as they try to wiggle out of their flagrant breach of Geneva cantonal law. There is talk of fines of up to 60,000 francs for those dastardly spinning pink and blue elephants.

We’re all looking forward to see what is going to happen – especially the new director, one presumes. Hopefully an apple will not be involved.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Just as the French-speaking Swiss and the German-speaking Swiss have their differing languages, priorities, and cultures so, too, do their mountains.

A few days back, before leaving for a long-planned family wedding in Davos, I paid a rare visit to William, my hairdresser.  He gave me a new hair-style, cut me some bangs, and I was all set.

The Davos church was Roman Catholic with tastefully-placed saints and statues; the pipe organ music flew out of the loft and bounced off the walls; the priest reminded us of the miracle of turning water into wine—the point being that one mustn’t drink alone. I think. The crowd was mostly young, freshly coiffed, clean, and hip.

The bride choked up with emotion as she approached her grinning groom and everyone had a specially-wrapped tissue in which to shed their tears of happiness. I dropped a tear or two, but then came to my senses and realized that bride was far too young, beautiful, and thin to cry over.

The entire wedding party boarded a little funicular up to a charming Art Nouveau hotel and drank champagne and ate canapés to while away the late afternoon.  There was dancing and family films and speeches and too-loud music and a lovely old nonna (grandmother of the bride) who held my hand and showed me her hearing-aid. I lost an earring.

We had a lovely time, and all around us the magic mountains of Davos stood guard—the Jakobshorn, the Pischa, the Strela—cold, quiet, still, sedate and steady.

Returning home mountain-struck, we set out immediately to seek comfort on our local mountain just over the border in France.

Now there are many similarities between the two places.  For example, Shack and Schatzalp both begin with an “s”.  Both the alpine farmhouse and the famous sanatorium were built in exactly the same year. Both face full south and have grand views of the Alps.

The Shack is slightly superior, perhaps, as there is a small television in the chimney corner.

But after that it all goes downhill. A terrible tempest a few days back topped, uprooted, snapped off hundreds of trees in the valley. Crawling through and around two huge pines on the way up to the Shack, we arrived, pants be-holed, arms bloody, tear tracks through the face dirt, to find a perky pine with a bad attitude resting on the roof.

Cables and ropes and winches and chains and chainsaws combined with extraordinary skill, strength, and pithy Swiss-German vocabulary to solve the problem. My wedding hair-do lost its bounce, my new bangs were poking me in the eyeballs, and there was not an earring in sight.

No white wine to be found in the evening, the pink fondue was invented.

Mont Blanc looked down on all of this and smiled. This morning she put on her hat as she always does when bad weather is coming.

But then, she is a different sort of mountain.

 

 

 

 

Well, you cannot trust anything anymore. The greatest fun in Geneva of a Sunday was always a trip to the cantonal dump. It’s a glorious place; full of action, excitement and true human drama.

After your bucolic drive through the Geneva countryside filled with colza blooms, dripping wisteria, and fields attesting to great human activity and endeavour, you must then pass through two important signposted gates (reminiscent of a penitentiary) and then negotiate your way up the ramp.

Much like an inverted Roman arena, this circular spot on top of the crown of a little artificial hill is the centre of the action. Various huge containers are spoked out below invitingly signposted as to desiring glass, wood, iron, building rubble, electrical things–and you actually get to pitch your worn-out objects down into the bins with glee, noise and panache.

This exercise is entirely satisfactory. Much like throwing Christians to the lions, one would think.

Old beds, old computers, old lawn furniture, are all grist to the mill. The only forbidden item is entire cars. You must not simply drive your old banger into the appropriate bin. This is a bit of a pity, but to make up somewhat, tires, batteries, metal, oil, and bulky objects are all allowed. So, you just have to take your car apart.

There is even an audience. Not only are other citizens taking an active interest in your rubbish, and your hauling/dragging/swearing abilities, but the décharge employees also have their eye on you, as your antics backing up the ramp with your trailer full of oddities has captured their full attention.

However, today there has been a hideous surprise. This morning’s car full of interesting things—a compressor that has compressed its inner organs into jelly, garden chairs that have slowly turned into rust buckets, and an exercise bike that has been pedalled into oblivion—have all had a nice drive to the dump, but have also come back home.

A new sign has been placed on the second gate at the dump (the first entry gate was wide open) announcing new hours – afternoons only!

Rechecking the official web-site, the information is profuse and varied and like Alice in Wonderland invites the belief of at least six impossible things before breakfast: open mornings and afternoons; closed on the weekends and open on Saturdays and Sundays; open on afternoons and Saturdays; open all the time and only ever truly really completely shut on Christmas and New Year’s days.

This is a truly shocking and confusing development. So, in a saddened state of mind, we will try to capture an afternoon dump moment one day soon. The car must remain locked with the old treasures all safely inside.

These are the chosen ones and, like a smile-without-a-cat, their destiny is assured.

 

 

 

 

 

I’ve just walked a bit of the Swiss Path and it almost killed me. Constructed jointly by the 26 cantons for the 700^th birthday of Switzerland in 1991, it is a steeply glorious thing—35 kilometers of lovely Swiss tricks and treats.

First of all there is pure beauty. When the sun is shining, the backdrop is that of soaring mountains, blue skies, white summits and grey craggy drop-offs. However, the multiple pylon grids with their looping power lines probably look better in winter than in summer as snow would tend to camouflage them somewhat.

The belle-époque lake boats slide smoothly through the turquoise waters. Just the sight of their massive white magnificence coming to rest beside the Schiller stone can make tourists (well, the ones that did not grow up watching The Lone Ranger) start excitedly humming the William Tell Overture.

The flower-filled meadows tinkle merrily with cow bells. Much like electronic cars, the cows are perhaps moving forward into a silent future. Animal-rights activists have declared cow-bells disruptive to the animals’ inner peace and innate tranquility causing possible psychological damage, turned milk, and irritable cow syndrome.

The Swiss Army is subtly present. There are fewer screaming low-flying fighter jets than there used to be; however, the bunkers and mysteriously-numbered concrete constructions along the way are interestingly ominous. Swiss lore has it that whole mountains have been hollowed out and are filled with the Swiss Air Force planes (with pilots) ready to scramble straight south towards Italy or north towards Germany on the drop of a pin.

The juxtaposition of the old and the new is also breathtaking. One of the oldest wooden buildings in Europe (a farm house dated 1348) is just across the road from a carefully disguised (as another old farm building) space-age stainless steel toilet with rolls of sparkling white toilet paper. This is a god-send for anyone who has had too much pro-biotic Swiss yogurt for breakfast.

There are picnic tables, BBQ grills with already-split wood, crosses, shrines, grottos, chapels, the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi’s Ayurveda Health Centre, dangerous slippery icy spots, vitaparcours (to be strenuously avoided), red wood benches with fine views, and many many cheerful hikers all wishing you a hale and hearty “Gruezi-mitenand!”

Sitting waiting for the train to take us back to Brunnen, I was so delighted and exhausted that if someone had put an apple on my head and shot it off I don’t think I would even have noticed.