that Swiss Hippy Chick: Annecy & the Almond Croissant

Internal dialogue. It goes on and on and rarely solves a thing. Well, that’s how it feels to me. The babble in my head is usually about my health. In short, it goes something like this:

headache = brain tumour,

cough = lung cancer,

sore elbow = elbow amputation (no it’s not, yes it is, no it’s not, yes it is), and

thirst = diabetes.

Funny, but not.

I have other topics. I worry a lot.

The reason I bring this up is because in my last entry I wrote that I’d lost my appetite and now I am committed to telling you why.

By the time Lynda and I exited Zurich my stomach had started to feel funny. It was manageable at first, and after a while determination physically forbade me from tipping myself over the toilet in the train’s urine infused WC, though I did investigate the option. By the time we rolled into Geneve I knew I was not going to die, but it might have been nice. I had to get to my hotel room.

I find there’s hardly a more embarrassing topic of conversation to be had than the topic of airline meals – especially when people say they like them. We sit cramped together, elbows at our sides and try to manoeuvre forks and spoons into our mouths without hitting our foreheads on the seat in front of us. Dishes like Chicken Cacciatore or Baked Pasta Bolognese with sides of cubed fruit and cold bread entertain rather than tempt us. Meanwhile the advent of post 9/11 plastic knives sets me to thinking of the damage I could do with a fork…

My meals come complete with anxiety as I wait to hear my what my preference might be, never sure what I’ll choose until the flight attendant looks down on me politely but impatiently, “Chicken or fish?” she asks.

I hesitate. I want to say, “Nothing, thanks – I’m having chocolate I picked up from 7/Eleven on the way here.”

But I don’t. I take the chicken. I admit, in-flight food’s always a welcomed distraction, and for the experienced long haul traveller it can be an indication that your destination is near.

Anyhow, I’m convinced I was poisoned by an ashen mushroom sauce served atop a plastic omelette onboard Emirates flight E53 between Melbourne and Zurich. Lucky for me I didn’t eat it all, because I wasn’t entirely sure mushroom sauce belonged on an omelette.

Almond croissant - currently of no interest

Only a few days before I left Melbourne I went into the local Vietnamese bakery where I had been buying my daily coffee and declared that my next almond croissant would be eaten in France! When the French occupied Vietnam starting way back in the late 1850’s until the end of World War II, their legacy was generations of French Pastry chef’s, many of them who have migrated to Melbourne during and after ‘our’ time there. My buddies at the French Quarter in Queensberry Street, North Melbourne were so pleased for me they cheered! And I promised to report back.

Can I conclude by saying that I couldn’t face an almond croissant for the whole time I was in Europe. In fact I haven’t had an almond croissant since July or August – the association is still too vivid. Food poisoning is an amazing thing!

Back off coffee -
Presse Citron is here

I did suffer great thirst though, and one afternoon during our stay in Annecy while we sat in a little outdoor café watching a Bollywood movie being filmed, I had my mind blown by a drink called Presse Citron. It was a half a glass of pure fresh lemon juice and ice served with a pitcher of water and a shaker of sugar for me to mix myself. I thought without the sugar, if anything was going to sort me out that would. Talk about K’POW!

The Busker

I could pluck a paragraph out of a Google page to give you an idea of what Annecy is like, but I suggest you go there for yourself. I suggest you be there for a weekend when the Market is on and look at weird food like salami with hazelnuts or raspberries in it. You will see the busker, and the old lady who sat against the wall on a down turned bucket to sell basil and flowers from another bucket at her side. You can buy yourself some bread and cheese, and then hop on a boat or bike and tour the lake.

The lake’s surrounded by mountains and within every frame of your camera you will see something that fills your heart with longing or glee. There are castles, mansions, holiday homes on big properties, farmhouses with gardens, and apples in orchards. On the lake lapping at its shores, patio café’s with bright logo stamped umbrellas advertising local mineral waters and ice creams make me want to sit at each one and bask in the freedom that is travel.

Annecy is so beautiful that it hurt my eyes to take it all in. We looked up past the tree-line and above the gray and white jagged peaks and wondered how the dozens of hang gliders floating in the embrace of the cloud dotted sky would descend at the end of the day.

When the sun sets in September we may feel a chill, but Lynda and I could not leave the sights from the deck of the big boat that had picked us up from across the lake after our hike to the Chateau de Menthon. Besides, we hadn’t really spoken to anyone else all day, and we have a travel policy that prohibits such lack of activity. Conveniently we had found a victim.

Jonathon sat on deck near us. He’s the kind of guy who American girls would like if he had better teeth, and had better posture, and wore better clothes. Australian and Swiss girls too, I guess. Better, better, better.

But Jonathon is from the UK, and Anglophiles revere his type, because he's well educated, modest, polite and understatedly engaging. We liked him. He carried a worn hard covered pocket book that told us he had been to Annecy before. In fact Jonathon was a frequent visitor to the area, challenging one big stereotype by coming to visit French friends a couple of times a year. There’s a time honoured cross-cultural agreement that the French don’t like the English, and vice versa.

One day I'll get off the boat here

Like us, Jonathon was returning to town after a day of hiking, and was quick enough to point out to us where he had been before the boat changed tack to feature a new set of sights.

“I enjoy this time of year,” he said, “September – when summer’s energy starts to wane and we treasure each fine day.”

“Wow, beautifully put. Can I use that line?” I quipped, like the wise-cracking American I try not to be.

The word ‘Bingo!’ flashed across Jonathon’s face before he could stifle a faint blush and a smug smile. Advantage Jonathon! You see, the Brits pride themselves on their reserve, and Jono had scored himself a point based on his perception of my lack of discretion.

The awkward moment passed and we picked his brains for more information on the trails and other things to do in the region.

Since Jonathon was there visiting his friends we didn’t invite him to dinner, but he suggested we dine in the same place he had the night before. If we got there early, he suggested, we might be seated on the balcony by the canal. So, that’s where we went and that’s what we did.

Sitting alongside the colourful medieval buildings at dinner we watched the swans disappear one by one into the setting sun, and the street lights start to glow along the walkway beside us and across the canal.