Di’s pumping out pics on WhatsApp quicker than I can blog, and most of my best photos are Di’s. This is not to be borne. I need to lift my game; punch out less words quicker and spend more time composing outstanding photos. Unfortunately, this post will be an example of neither of those. There are 3 days I need to catch up on, and today’s photos, out a train window into a blizzard, are rubbish. Oh well.
Five days ago in Paris, Di, ironically, purchased a big dickie (UniClo), and I scored a new pair of 501s, a size that’s not been available in Australia for months. Fun fact, Levis use heavier duty cotton for Europe. We’d slept in, deliberately and deliciously and needed some chill time.
We wandered to Cafe Zimmer on Place Chatelet on Roger’s (Movie producer from Polidor’s) recommendation and spent a delightful afternoon sipping French wines and drinking coffee. We may have eaten something. Created in 1895, Zimmer has been frequented by Jules Verne, Proust, Toulouse-Lautrec, Debussy and others. We enjoyed it as, like many other Parisian cafes, one looks out at the world passing by, and you can sit there indefinitely with a single glass of wine (if that’s what you really want). Cafe bathrooms are an odd but common Paris comparison and talking point. We can confirm Roger’s very positive Zimmer WC review, purple and white marble with timber trim, very spacious…with only a single drawback. By some ventilatory aberration, the dunny vestibules are heavy with tantalising sauted garlic, butter and parsley aromas. Whilst it’s certainly one up on urinal cake smell, salivating while taking a dump leaves one a little confused.
In the evening, we walked in the direction of a restaurant Di had seen reviewed by a French dude on YouTube – particularly good for l’entrecote (juicy beef with special sauce and fries), somewhere near the Bastille. It was pissing rain, and whilst the warm glow of the street side cafe’s seemed to spill out and shimmer on the wet pavers invitingly, half an hour’s sodden walk later, we’d had sufficient ‘warm glow’ and headed for the tube.
It was a delightful little local’s restaurant, where everyone’s at the bar before dinner, turning to the door in unison when someone enters – and turning away again just as swiftly when they don’t recognise their neighbour. One chef and one waiter – barman – owner handling the lot. For all that, the proprietor was warm and friendly, and we enjoyed our entrecotes, spuds and wine in the cosy dry warmth before heading out into the Parisian rain.
Four days ago, we were farewelling Paris and leaving our delightful balconied room, our morning exercises happily enhanced by the ongoing elevator outage. A brief stop at the magnificent library of Bibliothèque nationale de France, a wander down the beautiful old passage off Rue Vivienne and we were off to Gare de Lyon to commence our journey into Switzerland.
In contrast to Kings Cross St Pancras in London, there were no passport checks nor baggage checks, just an open door to Geneva (there were some ominous dark curtains for questioning (?) , but given there were no potential interrogators in sight – or officials of any kind really, we were spared the experience.
Denis picked us up from the station, another of Colin and Johanna’s long-time friends from IMEDE. We enjoyed solving the world’s problems over a drink at Denis and Minouche’s delightful apartment before heading out to Le Casanova restaurant in town for dinner. The local lake fish is amazing. Ahead of our train to Montreux the next day, Denis provided a brief drive-around tour, Minouche showed us around the old town on foot and we re-gathered to dine for lunch in a cosy corner of the Cafe Du Centre (1933). Wonderfully generous people, amazing.
As if we hadn’t been spoilt enough, we arrived to an upgrade at the Hotel Rouvenaz, Montreux – the whole fifth floor overlooking Lake Geneva, ridiculous – the benefits of the quieter winter season, we assume. Good looks?
On Saturday, we get out at a very civil hour, not wishing to make too hasty a morning’s departure from our palatial digs. It’s a short but delightful walk along the lake’s edge to Chateau Chillon. Spots of rain interspersed with patches of blue sky accompany us past winter flowers, lakeside sculptures, larch and conifer (and weird little furry mascot creatures made from them), the Chateau drawing ever closer and more picturesque as we go. Every tree branch, stonewall and flower bead becomes a new frame for the looming chateau and we take stupid amounts of photos (Di even took some good ones) – remember when we had film, taking more than a few was cost-prohibitive, and you never knew how you’d done till they were developed weeks later. We stop for a gluewine at a little hut by the waters edge. She has handmade chocolate and flower arrangements set out on a table for Valentine’s Day and hums happily in her cabin as the hot alcohol floods our veins with cheery warmth.
Chateau Chillon dates back to the 1200’s, has been well restored and deserves a visit. Byron’s graffiti signature was a standout for me, and the stone foundations and massive timber support beams are impressive. Less spectacular but perhaps more interesting is Fort Chillon, the Chateau’s modern day eqivalent, just across the road. Both the Chateau and the fort leverage natural geography to control traffic and would-be invaders – a pinch point where the toe of the mountain almost meets the lake. The fort was only declassified in 1996 and has now been converted into a museum. All the facilities to support 250 men (for one full month without outside contact) are set up as if in operation for visitors to see. Live sets extend into wall-projected movies where uniformed soldiers dine, operate, cook and sleep, providing immersive insights into how it all operated.
We dined that evening on raclette in a little traditional Swiss restaurant in the old town. At the end of the meal, the owner encouraged partaking in another apricot schnapps ‘digestif’ (I love how they make drinking sound healthy), “Don’t be shy madam, are you driving? No, so……(and he pours madame another)”. Dangerously full on potatoes, onions and melted cheese (and digestives), we waddled home to bed.
That brings us up to date (Yesterday was Hotel Budapest) except for today. In precis, we took the Golden Pass to Zweisimmen, our reserved booking unnecessary on a train that carried, essentially, us and the driver. At the back of a valley rising up from the lake we pass into a tunnel and emerge in a winter wonderland, Brigadoon, a whole new microcosm of snowy loveliness. It’s gently snowing as we reach Zweisimmen, and we stop for a hot saffron vegetable soup (delicious), noticing that all our ‘merci’s’ and ‘s’il vous plaits’ are now ‘dunke’ and ‘bitte’. The waitresses are friendly and warm, but we decide to head back to Gstaad as, not stopping to ski, there’s not a lot going on.
Fur and Botox are the haute couture of Gstaad and if you can pull those off while copping a selfie in front of Louis Vuiton, Moncler or Ralph Lauren, you’re truly part of the Gstaad inner circle. Most of them can’t pull it off, unfortunately – the inner circle is likely very small. It’s perhaps with this realisation that many of them return to their Porches and Range Rovers and do laps around town.
Notwithstanding, snow is falling heavily here and it looks magical backdropped by the timber chalets and fairy light lit topiaried trees. We wander up the wooded path to the Palace Hotel as the snow turns to slippery slush on the warm pathways, the conifer hedgerows turn white and the woods take on that lovely snow-cloaked silence. Back down in the village, we queue for a time to parade our puffers and jeans through a bistro full of fur, Vuiton and Botox, and enjoy a wine and truffle oil-parmesan cheese fries before hopping on the train (a fur-lady looks Di up and down here in animated condescension – ‘puffer jacket, how dare you’ – she’d be more animated if her skin wasn’t streteched so tight). Wonderful to sit, toasty warm, and watch the world go by. The sun is setting over the lake as we drop back into the lake valley, gold-lighting the chalets and vineyards. We snap at impossibly beautiful golden-lake glimpses between blurred gaps in trees, laughing at our inability to capture a single decent shot. At the hotel, the wind has whipped up a swell that pounds against the rock wall shore, golden-sunlight-bejewelled spray shimmering in the twilight. There seems to have been a surfeit of shimmering the past few days – I’ll look into that.
Magical photos Jeff! and commentary to match!! Loved that part of Switzerland!
I’d never been, and am so glad Di thought to take me there. Absolutely delightful.