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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
Rachna Bisht-Rawat is a journalist and writer but mostly she is mom to an 11 year old and gypsy wife to an Army officer whose work takes the Rawats across the length and width of India. She blogs at http://www.rachnabisht.com/