Siddharth Srivastava's Blog, page 3

Beautiful Swiss town Moudon

The town retains its medieval charm

We recently spent an afternoon exploring Moudon that has been included in the list of the 100 most beautiful villages of #Switzerland. As became apparent, care has been taken to retain and preserve the medieval character of the town, even as newer and modern facets of urban life have been incorporated. #travelvlog #visitswitzerland

Facing the Faucet conundrum in Switzerland

[image error] The Beautiful Lake Geneva

Usually, one does not worry about faucets during short international trips. A bucket (balti) and mug can be managed at most hotels, airbnbs and homes. It does become an issue when one happens to shift abroad for a longer duration. 

In our case, we relocated to Switzerland, a country like many more in the rest of Europe, that went into panic mode over toilet paper, during the first wave of Covid-19 earlier this year. The biggest available trolleys at supermarkets were stacked with toilet rolls by customers worried about the future condition of their most personal hygiene. To prevent hoarding, several retail outlets were forced to ration the number of rolls that each customer could buy. 

Arriving from India, where basic food and water can be scarce in many parts of the country, the mad rush for rolls of tissue was difficult to understand. 

This is when Lake Geneva is just a step away from most homes here and the 24-hour crystal clear water supply never fails. We had already been warned by elders with longer exposure to the Western world about the number two problem that we could face.

They told us that there are deep-seated social, religious, cultural, habitual and legacy issues involved due to which any jettisoning of the wet process for the dry practise could deeply affect our mental well being. And, they are right. We have grown up seeing and hearing stories about grand and great grandparents making it a point to not only wash but also bathe after every visit, even when stricken down by dysentery. 

Well warned, we decided to include faucets as an important parameter in our selection process to find a house on rent. Any part of Switzerland is picture-perfect and so were the houses overlooking the Alps and Lake Geneva. But, they all lacked the particular piece of plumbing that was crucial for us. Our advisors from back home wisely told us to move into the most suitable home, but address the important task of re-fitting our toilets, immediately.

I was assigned the responsibility of managing the issue.

Following some usual procrastination on my part (as I had already procured a balti and mug for each loo), the initial discreet inquiries from the elders took on a more aggressive tone. They told me in no uncertain terms that I needed to move my lazy butt to find a permanent solution or else they would never visit us, Covid or no Covid, this year or any year. Luckily, I found faucets piled at the corner of a large home improvement store, and immediately bought three, as required. But, this was just the beginning of another set of issues. 

A local plumber, whose consultancy charges were higher than a heart surgeon in India, informed us that the faucets could not be fitted due to the absence of any plumbing system next to the pots. The only way would be to break the walls of the toilets to install new pipes. The plumber promptly sent us another estimate close to the cost of building a new house in India. 

There was no way we could afford the bill. And, there was no way the landlord would agree to pay, even if we did manage to convince him about our ancient tradition to clean our bottoms in a particular way. Luckily, our problem was soon solved. Though we squabble a lot within India, we Indians stand by each other internationally.

And, just like back home, we are very good at finding solutions (colloquially referred to as jugaad) that are effective without costing much. We were informed by a couple of active members of the local Indian community, fully conversant and sensitive to our cultural moorings, to find a longer shower hose that can also operate as an effective faucet. 

And, that’s how the situation stands currently, until a further method is found. 

Inversing my brain, to learn French

This is the second part of my French-learning experience till now, in Switzerland. I think Eliza Dolittle was lucky to learn English from Professor Higgins in My Fair Lady. Amitabh Bachchan, in Namak Halal, would have found French to be a much funnier language to master compared to English.

First up, the part that I have been handling well. It is pronouncing the alphabet R as it appears in a word. In French, R is spoken with a nasal twang that approximates the initial spitting motions of the throat. We Indians are master spitters, signs of which are apparent on walls, streets, platforms, footpaths.

While growing up, we used to line up for the longest spitter competition. My friend Rana (unfortunately, no more) was a master spitter. Given the cultural heritage, I am handling the R’s very well. My French tutor, as a matter of fact, has mentioned that I probably say the R’s better than the local residents.

That, I am afraid, has been the only part that has been smooth, so far. French is a difficult language. The basics are complicated. The articles, for instance. 

Everything, animate or inanimate is feminine or masculine. Thus there is a la, le, un, une to signify the gender of a city, fruit, road, vegetable, number, without any distinctive difference or formula to determine the difference. 

One just needs to figure out along the way. Moving on, the basic grammar is not simple to remember. As a matter of fact, there is plenty of mugging to do in French, which has never been my strong area. 

Auxiliary verbs “are or is” are referred to as Etre. Now in normal English, we permute “Is or Are” depending on plural or singular subject as in “He is, We are, You are, She is, They are.” 

Not in French. Each subject, I (Je), They (Ils/Elles), We (Nous), You (Tu or Vous), She/He (Elle/Il), is followed by a different Etre. Further, “You” has two forms, the formal (vous) and informal (tu). Hence, two different Etre’s. 

Thus, there are six forms of “is, are, am” depending on the subject, And they are, suis, es, est, sommes, etes, sont. It doesn’t stop here. Avoir or “to have” is similarly more elaborate. We have “has or have.” In French, there are as, a, avon, avez, ont and ai, as per the preceding subject. Even as one is struggling to remember the Etre and Avoir combos, one is hit by conjugation of Verbs. 

For instance, the verb “eat.”  In English, we say “We eat, they eat, she eats, I eat, you eat.” In French, “to Eat” is translated as “Manger.” 

For convenience we can refer to it as “Eater.” Here is the catch. Just like in Avoir and Etre, “Eater,” takes a different form with each subject:” “I Eate, you (informal) Eates, He/She Eate, We Eateon, you (formal) Eatez and they Eatent.” The verbs, thankfully, follow a formula. 

Thus, we have verbs ending with ER, as in Manger, following a pattern. Then there are verbs ending with IR and RE that follow patterns of their own. However, just as you begin to remember some conjugations, there are irregular verbs that follow no pattern. One has to just learn them by heart. 

A new language, it is said, is always difficult to learn. And, so it has been with me. I do take inspiration from little kids here, who seem to rattle off French sentences with ease, I am assuming with the right Etre and Avoir. Maybe, by consistently working hard, I will get there too. 

However, before concluding, I would like to state another complexity that I am currently struggling with. In English we say, “A beautiful house.” 

In French, the noun usually precedes the adjective, as in “A house beautiful,” or “une belle maison.”  Despite years of trying, and watching Shilpa Shetty videos, I have not been able to achieve the headstand. I hope to be able to inverse the way my brain works, in order to parle en Francais.

Je parle Francais, en Switzerland

Usually luck does not favour me, and so it was when we arrived here in Switzerland. The laws were changed around the time we came here to make it mandatory for the accompanying spouse to learn French. 

The official logic is that the better (in our case the lesser) half needs to integrate with the local community as the lesser (in our case the better) half would be too busy in productive economic activity or working.  

Since I, the unproductive one, am expected to run the household, visit the supermarkets, attend PTMs, interact with parents and teachers, deal with electricians, plumbers, gardeners, neighbours, I need to be socially integrated.

All better/lesser halves who arrived little earlier than us have got away without learning French. Unfortunately for me, my French speaking skills are now linked to my right to remain in the country. If not, my Permit can be withdrawn and I can be sent back.

Anyway, resigned to my fate and usual bad luck, I started to learn French, merci beaucoup. Progress has been very slow.  Before I get into details of why French is such a complex language let me first warn about some uncomfortable experiences, that can possibly happen after a few lessons. Online, in the current Covid-19 scenario.  

First, after putting in a bit of effort one is inclined to test one’s newly acquired linguistic skills, in a real life situation. And, here is where it can get tricky. 

In response to a query that you might have rehearsed several times in front of the mirror, the person you are speaking to could rattle off phrases and sentences in French, assuming that you are a fluent local resident. 

Such situations can result in a brain freeze as you are unlikely to process a single French word spoken at great speed. Et, a, en, au, aux, est, will all sound the same. The word blank will not do justice to your expression. 

Second, it is possible that the reply is in English. It will be easy to recognise that your French is quite imperfect, so the person you are speaking to could choose to make life easier for you by replying in English. This will defeat your objective of the first meaningful French conversation.

The English reply could also be due to a perceptible change, especially among the younger generation here that feels the need to learn the Queen’s language, be less insular, integrate with the rest of the world to become globally enabled citizens.

Hence, it may happen that just as you want to practise French, the other person sees it as an opportunity to test his/her English on you.

Third, it is quite possible that in your eagerness to showcase your newly acquired knowledge of French, you could embarrass yourself. It has happened to me a few times. The one instance that stands out is when I went to buy garbage bags at our local supermarket Denner.

Switzerland has a system of garbage disposal that requires residents of different localities (referred as communes) to buy garbage bags of a specific colour. I intelligently combined my efforts at vocabulary and grammar and asked the sales person, “Je suis ordure sacs.” What I meant to ask was, “I am looking for garbage bags.” 

What I actually said was, “I am a garbage bag.” For a brief moment the eyes of the young salesperson popped out as if I had asked her out for a coffee date. The other big faux pax was during the test drive for my new Swiss Driving License. 

The test , that lasted nearly 45 minutes, was quite uneventful.  I, however, did make one big mistake. Some Indian habits die hard. Keen to please the examiner, I kept a bottle of mineral water next to his seat inside the car. 

Also, keen to impress that I knew French, I asked him a few times to drink the water that he kept refusing. All of that was fine except that I had fed Google translate horribly wrong. What I was asking the examiner was to take a bath with the bottle of water. Thankfully, I passed the test. 

I will explain why French is such a complex language in my next blog post.

Story of my Swiss Driving License

In Switzerland, traffic on the road is like an orchestra where everybody plays a part

Recently, I became the proud owner of the lifelong Swiss Driving License. The process of procuring one, however, was not easy. 

Back in India, I learned how to drive by the time I was 12-years old, courtesy drivers who worked for my father. Of course, all of them were not so easygoing and cool. But some were. And, that sufficed. 

Looking back, my Indian trainers were undoubtedly good. In my decades of driving in India, I have had no major incident apart from a couple of bumper hits. The Swiss process involved quite a bit of learning and unlearning. In India driving is instinctive. 

The only aspect that is predictable is the unpredictability. A cyclist can appear from nowhere in front of your vehicle disregarding his own life and safety; a lorry may brazenly charge ahead just like VIP vehicles fitted with red lights on top; an autorickshaw may approach at high speed from the wrong side; a traffic cop hiding behind a bush could suddenly jump in front of your car to claim you have been speaking on your cell phone; pedestrians weave through traffic believing they will never be hit; beggars bang on the window at red lights, while enterprising ones peddle food, books, balloons, toys. 

There is never a dull moment while driving in India.  In Switzerland, traffic on the road is like an orchestra where everybody plays a part to ensure that the final product is a symphony of vehicles moving as per the rules.

There are notes to be deciphered everywhere: multiple signs, drawings, dotted lines and designs on the road, right and left priorities, different zones that have their own set of rules and priorities, speed limits that keep changing though there may not necessarily be a sign indicating the same. In short, there is nothing instinctive about driving in Switzerland, as also other European countries such as Germany, France, Austria that I have driven to. 

I needed to unlearn my Indian habit of wedging my car into any opening that sometimes is the only way forward. Needless to say, I caused quite a bit of dissonance to the perfectly calibrated movement of vehicles here in Switzerland. Many honked, and a couple even showed me the middle finger. In India, I would have laughed it off and showed my middle finger back. The writing was, however, on the road. 

I needed to re-calibrate and re-skill quickly or stop driving. As advised, I took driving lessons. My new teacher was not easygoing, unlike the friendly drivers who worked for my father. I don’t know whether all Swiss trainers follow her militarist style, if I may use the word. 

She was clear that she had a job to do and needed to get it done in a ruthlessly efficient way. There was no room for small talk, banter, chai or coffee. She arrived in a tiny car, the size of a Maruti 800 or Alto. 

Tall and powerfully built, it was hard to believe how she fitted into her car. She seemed more suited to train lorry drivers or operators of heavy agricultural or construction machinery. Though we live in the Canton of Vaud, which is French-speaking, she belonged to the German side of Switzerland, where the population knows English. 

During our initial introductions she told me that she was a grandmother of four. Her two daughters and one son lived in other parts of Switzerland. She stayed somewhere in the mountains closeby, with her pet horse. I assumed her husband was dead or more likely left her. I found out about her horse as she understandably cut short a driving session when a neighbour called to say he was unwell. 

“Why don’t you keep a dog or cat, why horse,” I asked her later.

“I love horses. Cats and dogs are too easy to look after,” she told me.

As I found out, she mainly trained youngsters, under 20, about to begin their driving life-journey. And, treated me like one too. In the first couple of classes she would jump on her seat, gesticulate animatedly, even grab the steering, thinking I would crash into every vehicle on the road. To reassure her, I said that I had driven in the Himalayas, Himachal, Kashmir, on very dangerous roads, without any incident.

“Here, in Switzerland, you will fail,” she replied sharply. “My aim is to take you to a level that is much higher than the expectations of the examiner during the driving test. That way you may not fail,” she said. 

That was the only time she used the words “not fail,” in 15 sessions.

Soon, she was pointing out dozens of mistakes, real or imagined. She wanted me to wait when I did not and move when I waited; she told me my eyes needed to look right when I looked left and vice versa; indicators were either too early or too late before a turn; I was either over or under the speed limit; when I got the road signs right she reminded me of the ones I did not; she told me to wear a mask when I did not and remove it when I did.

She carried a notebook with her and jotted all the mistakes I was making, even as she scrutinised all my movements very closely. By the end of each class she would have filled several pages. Before leaving, she pointedly said to me every time that I was going to fail the test. She never answered any questions. Her standard reply was, “What do you think?” 

And, when I did express my opinion she said, “Maybe you are right or maybe you are wrong. What do you think?” Predictably, her constant carping resulted in a couple of narrow misses and major honking by irate drivers that disturbed the tranquility of Switzerland. This angered her even more. The day before the driving test she told me categorically that I will fail. The test, that lasted nearly 45 minutes, was quite uneventful. As a matter of fact after being badgered by the lady for weeks, the experience with the examiner was calming.

“Nobody can be worse than her,” I told myself. I, however, did make one big mistake. Some Indian habits die hard. Keen to please the examiner, I kept a bottle of mineral water next to his seat. Also, keen to impress that I knew French, I asked the examiner a few times to drink the water that he kept refusing. All of that was fine except that I had fed Google translate horribly wrong. What I was telling the examiner was to take a bath with the bottle of water. I passed the test. 

My trainer was surprised. She told me, in his report, the examiner said that I did not make a single mistake. “It is not possible that you did not make mistakes,” she said. We, however, parted on good terms. I gave her a pack of chocolates. Though I did not agree with her over exacting teaching style, all’s well that ends well. My DL soon arrived. 

I did try to probe, one last time, about her humane side.

“You too must be indulging your grandchildren,” I asked her. 

“I am unlike other grandmom’s. I am strict,” was her parting comment.

Check out most beautiful Swiss village, Romainmotier

Romainmotier is ranked as one of the “most beautiful villages of Switzerland.” As one would expect, there is stiff competition to be eligible to be a member of this elite ranking.

Recently, we spent an afternoon at the village, located in the Canton of Vaud, along the Jura mountains. Needless to say, we were quite dazzled by the beauty and ancient architecture of the village that has been very well preserved.

The abbey-Church is Switzerland’s oldest Romanesque-style building dating back over a thousand years. What we thought was a stream turned out to be the River Nozon that cuts through the village. All construction, whether old or new, has been designed to ensure that the flow of the river is not impeded.

I am, therefore I run in Switzerland

The outdoors in Switzerland are quite conducive to running

Diet, exercise, health care, clean air and water are big factors that make the Swiss among the longest living populations in the world. Having lived in Switzerland for over nine months now, one does get a sense of the importance attached to exercise in the country.

During winter months everybody is skiing and during summer there are people running and cycling all around you. If you look up at the sky, there are paragliders floating about. 

And, if there is a lake in the vicinity, people swim, canoe, yacht, paddle. It is entertainment, but exercise also. When we arrived here, we looked forward to long leisurely walks to explore our amazingly picturesque neighbourhood, Saint-Legier, nestled on top of a mountain, a 20-minute drive from Lausanne. 

During our walks, we noticed that a large numbers of runners overtook us from both sides. Quite a few walkers whizzed past as well. Those we managed to pass were really very old or pet parents leashed to their dogs going about their business.

I mentioned to my wife a peculiar phenomenon. It seemed the runners who were overtaking us were very young while a whole lot of those heading towards us seemed much older. 

“Maybe, it is a Swiss regulation we have missed as we do not understand the French language,” I told her. “Maybe there are age and agility connected road direction rules for runners, walkers and those with pets, we don’t know about.”

As is usual, my wife cleared my doubts. “From the back one cannot figure out the age of the person here as everybody is so fit. One needs to assess from the front.”

Despite efforts, I continue to be very bad at estimating the age of any Swiss runner from behind. Sometimes, I think I am off target by over 50-years. 

My initial reaction to the Swiss passion for running, that cuts across generations, was to call my mother in India. She is over 70. I told her that she needs to get rid of her sari, step into track pants and start running, instead of walking in the park, once the Covid-19 restrictions are eased in the country. 

“Ladies your age are skiing over mountains here,” I told her. 

Her reaction was along the lines that I had lost my mind due to drinking too much of the very cheap European wine that one can pick up at supermarkets here.

It is not as if I do not exercise. Back in India, I was a member of a gym in Gurugram, where we lived. Weight training was the most popular corner where young Haryanvi Jat boys focused on building their bulging biceps further (colloquially referred to as dolay).

I regularly used the treadmill that was patronised mostly by a few ungainly uncles and aunties who walked endlessly at speed levels lower than four. Hence, they profusely praised and admired my running abilities and fitness levels.

Here, in Switzerland, the outdoors are obviously quite conducive to exercise given the good weather conditions, no dust and pollution. I did struggle to meet the acceptable running pace here, made even more difficult by the undulating mountainous landscape.

Uphill running is not easy at all, given the extra pressure on the calves. I distinctly remember my first outdoor run. Progress, obviously, was slow. I was overtaken by an elderly lady, in figure hugging red track suit, out on a brisk walk.

I think she was a little embarrassed as she passed, smiled and good naturedly wished me Bon Jour, as most Swiss in small towns and villages are likely to. The incident, however, did not break my resolve to keep running. I have been steadily getting better. 

Today, I can confidently say that I will not be overtaken by an average Swiss runner, male or female, 10-years older than me. I have set a target to reduce the gap to five.

It is possible that I have started to look taut and young from behind. I may have knocked off 10-years, but there is some way still to go, to be able to rock the 20s again.

Thank you Switzerland, I can cook

If the maid could do it back home, so could we.

If your maid can cook, so can you. Well, it is not so simple, as we found out after shifting to Switzerland nine months back. There can be no maid in Switzerland, unless you belong to the super rich SEC. We hired one, during our naive initial days here from India. She arrived in a BMW. 

For precisely two hours of effort, she charged more than our Indian maid’s full month’s salary, back home. Worry not, we told ourselves. If the maid can do it, so can we. After all, cooking is such a glamorous activity, globally. 

A successful chef, with a TV show to boot, is like a film star, a fashion icon. My initiation happened at the very basic raw material level. Dals, or lentils, for instance. I spent an afternoon at an Indian grocery store (appropriately called Exotic Shop, here in Switzerland), studying the various Dals (sabut, dhuli, chilka series of each dal), that we have been consuming for years. 

I know them by taste, but not by how they look, uncooked. The maid was handling all of that, along with a younger assistant maid who also helped with mundane tasks such as chopping, cleaning and washing. Sticking to the basics and keeping it simple, rather than aiming to achieve masterchef productions, we targeted the roti. The maid always served us hot phooli hui rotis, straight from the tawa. Our rotis refused to phoolo. A few did. 

But, most did not. Some ballooned a little, then burst, like an imported Chinese balloon. In other instances, parts of the roti phooloed, while other portions stayed put. The final look was hilly with flat stretches, much like the topography of Switzerland. We have had several discussions about the right way to make a roti phoolo: texture, refrigeration, hydration, fermentation, heat, weather, attitude, altitude etc. Indeed, life has its twists and turns. Back in India, my main concern was figuring out the complexity of the golf swing. 

All of that has now taken a backseat. Well, after tasting failure, I told myself, maybe I am too talented to make rotis. Maybe, I should try something more complex in keeping with my overall higher skill and intelligence levels. So, I tried to make vadas, as the family loves them. 

Our maid back home makes the most delicious vadas, freshly fried, straight from the kadhai to our plates. Thus, we were all craving for some spicy vadas, in any case. Additional benefits include no sugar and high protein.  The Youtube stars I studied offered technical insights to make the perfectly shaped round vadas. Progress so far is not bad, compared to the roti performance. Colour is right. Taste is fine too. Aroma is very vada-like. 

It is the shape, the curves, that is, that are missing. Just not good enough to post on my Insta feed, unless I falsely caption my vadas as pakoras or some such. Moving on, over the past few months, forcibly homebound due to Covid-19 and Covid-20, I have managed to upgrade my cooking skills.  I can make rice, dal (including differentiating the ones that need to be pressure cooked), pasta, omelette, boiled and fried egg, rajma, noodles, tofu, sandwich, burgers, French and cheese toast and most vegetables. 

In short, we are not starving, rather, if not for the Swiss summer that is conducive to running and other forms of exercise, we would all have fully phooloed long back. I have also been trying to find ways to cook while minimising usage of utensils that need to be washed. The dishwasher is very useful, but there is still the process of rinsing, placing and removing utensils, that is cumbersome. Necessity, as is said, is the mother of invention.

I would like to immodestly announce that I have made progress with my experiments with minimal cooking effort. A flat cast iron skillet, purchased at a discount, works quite well both for cooking and eating, when I have to prepare a meal for myself. I can manage a nicely stuffed masala omelette or steam heaps of cut veggies with tofu, mushrooms, eggs, chicken or fish.

To conclude, I am not as good as our maid back home, but can safely say that I can be counted among folks that can cook.  And, for this, I thank Switzerland, an amazingly beautiful country.

Train to Les Pléiades

Its a short but stunning journey

The train journey (from Vevey/St-Legier/Blonay) to Les Pléiades may not be the most exotic in Switzerland. It does have its moments of sheer beauty.

Fruit freebie in Switzerland

There is an amazing variety of fruit growing in the wild in Switzerland

Plum, peach, cherry, loquat, pear, apple, even walnut. Take your pick. No need to buy. I don’t know whether this is a carefully planned exercise (everything in Switzerland is thought through thoroughly), fruit trees abound anywhere, roadsides, along lakes, rivers, hills, plains, valleys. And, summer is the season when the trees are laden with fruit that one can just pluck and chew, fresh, crunchy and juicy with no monkeys to contend. 

Children on their way back from school laze in the shade, climb (some, as skilled as monkeys), eat at will. Can an afternoon be more fulfilling and idyllic, than time spent under a tree with a group of school mates, chatting and fruiting, away from gadgets and Netflix? Also, so much more pleasure than buying, masked, from a cold supermarket. Left to themselves, children do like fruit, not when parents keep telling them to like fruit. 

I never liked pears. The ones straight from the trees, with a flush of red and pink on their skin, are so good that I have started loving pears. Back home in Delhi/Gurgaon, where I have lived most of my life, local fruit varieties such as mulberry, berries, guava, lychee have given way to real estate, urbanisation and construction activity. 

While there have been efforts to re-forest, destruction of fruit trees has affected resident monkeys the most. Hungry and aggressive simians are a menace, raiding houses foraging for food, causing damage to property and attacking humans. Development at the cost of balance of nature and environment is never a good idea anywhere in the world.