Worming through the Alps: ferried through a railway tunnel, 2003

After our misadventure and a fitful night in Milan, we drive north towards Interlaken, Switzerland. We have a rough idea of our route but we must have missed a sign somewhere. The Alps stood before us but how to we get across them? The directions all point elsewhere. 

When in doubt, ask. 

We notice a restaurant/bar with convenient parking lots. So we enter with  inexplicable unease only to be greeted heartily by a jocund, bearded, stocky male. That helps to settle our nerves and, in halted English, ask for directions. We need not have worried. He spoke fluently with a strong Italian accent. Apparently we were nowhere near the road that would take us over the Alps. 

With an impish glint in his eye he reveals a surprise. He utters the magic words. Nearby was the entrance to a tunnel, a railway tunnel, an inclined railway tunnel that would take us to the Swiss border!

Excitement

Still under the spell we drive forward following the signs for the station. There's a huge parking area that could fit 50 cars. As we purchase our tickets an attendant tells us where to park. It's done in such a way that the order in which you park determines the order in which you board. Is there valet parking? Will there be a separate carriage for the passengers as in ferries?

Surprise surprise. 

We are asked to drive forward when the lights in front of us turned green and then follow the arrows. We find ourselves on a ramp over which we drive onto the train. Once parked we are told to put the car in first gear and switch off the engine. There was probably some contraption by which the car was secured to the flatbed. 

Once all the cars have been loaded and its time for take off the real  thrill begins. Within a few metres we are in a pitch-dark tunnel. Only our car alarm light is blinking. The musty air seeps in through the slits in our windows. The experience could have been creepy had we been less adventurous or had a fear of heights and dark spaces. The ride must have taken less than 10 mins but it remains one of the most remarkable experiences in our travels.

Experiencing the Alps inside out

Instead of driving through the Gotthard Pass as per our original plan we were riding through the Gotthard tunnel taking us from Airolo in Italy to Gotthard in Switzerland. When completed in 1882 it was the longest tunnel in the world at 15 km. Starting at 1142 m above sea level, we rise up to 1511 m and then descend to 1106 m.

The less the fizz the greater the figure in francs

We didn't realize how excited we'd been until we felt parched. Conveniently a big store looms up in front of us. We steer clear of all the aisles and head straight for bottled water. We are stunned by the variety not only in brand names and sizes but also in price. We go for the cheapest. This is Switzerland and what significant difference can price make to the taste? 

Back in the car, with tongues practically hanging out, we eagerly unscrew the top. Drink takes a mouthfull and gags. We have bought carbonated water! Uncarbonated water is the most expensive. Deduction? Carbonated water is hugely popular. We leave the bottle open hoping that the water would become 'flat' but even when we reached our hotel in Interlaken we couldn't palette it. Not till the next day!

Blowing a fuse

That night we heated up milk in our rice cooker to sate our thirst. Never mind that it burnt and blew a fuse. We got away with it. The hotel simple replaced the fuse, not bothering with an inquiry.

Ditched by a London taxi-- August 2019

Promising Beginnings 

We flew into Heathrow from Cologne-Bonn Germany after our motoring trip in Eastern Europe. This was our fourth trip to London but only the second to Heathrow. Having expected long queues and not so pleasant questions from the immigration officers, from what some of our acquaintances had experienced, we were very pleasantly surprised that our biometric passports were processed in record time by the machines and our baggage arrived almost as soon as we reached the belts. 

Smooth sailing 

Now we had to take the blue line to Holburn and transfer to the red line towards the station closest to our AirBnB accommodation for the night. We'd take a taxi from there. Under normal circumstances we would  take the bus to our destination.  However it was getting dark. The possibility of missing our stop  would be greater.  Besides clouds had begun to gather.

No London experience is complete without the use of a brollies.

By the time we reach our station it has started pouring. Typical London weather, of course. We wait at the entrance hoping to flag a cab but to no avail. Wiping down our wet spectacles, like wiping down sweat from eyebrows ( woudn't it be  nice to have wipers on them?) we spy a taxi ofiice on the opposite side of the road. There is not much traffic but because of the puddles, slow moving cars splashing them, and the rain relentlessly obscuring our view, we tread warily making our way there only to find a single non-white person in the office. He has no driver available immediately and here we are drenching to the skin, in spite of the brollies( we never leave home without one), and shivering.  

Cast Aways

Finally he manages to contact one. Sure enough a simple looking cab pulls up and we give the non-white driver our host's address. It doesnt look as though he knows the place. But something strikes and he pulls away to our destination. It takes a good 20 mins since he has to search for the road reading off the street signs, not GPS, or Sat Nav as the Britts call it. He tells us perfunctorily that we have reached our destination. We are left on the pavement with our bags. We have been cast off!

Left high and dry

We don't see the house number. The garden is overgrown and looks like a rubbish dump. The house number is visible only when we get close to the door after gingerly stepping on what bits of the path remained in the yard,  and skipping across the muddy spots. The number is correct. We ring the doorbell and wait poitely. No answer. Giving a respectable interval we ring again. After a short delay, the door opens a crack, the safey hatch is still on.a veiled young woman peeps at us and asks us what we want. She doesn't sound friendly at all. If it was the AirBnb they woud be expecting us. Our host was designated 'super'. Something was seriously wrong here. We maneuver our way back to the street. Our bags are getting wet. My shoes are squeaking, my toes squishing. Its dark. It's stlll pouring. No sign of life anywhere. No traffic! Should we despair? 

Do I feel like I'm on the literary Elm St, expecting to see a haunted house, or a witch flying by on her broom? After all it is close to the witching hour!

Do we trust each other?

But there is a glimmer of hope. A figure transpires. Someone, a non-white is walking in the near distance. This is no time for apprehension. We try calling out to her but we are not heard. Nothing for it but to run after her. Who, but me? We had to get out of this dinghy neighbourhood. It was getting creepy. I reach her, and she hears me. Obviously she does not consider me a threat. I ask her if we were at the right place shown in the address. She too is a little confused. But almost imediately she whips out her mobile and calls the number our host had given us. She is actualy two streets away. The area had its postal code and street numbers changed just recently but the taxi driver had probably been unaware of it . Our host tells us to meet at the bus stop nearest her place. Our good samaritan is dressed for the night out but she has kindly stopped to help us. She does not leave immediately. Concerned that we might get lost again, the visibility being so poor, and us being like wet chicken, she actually walks us to the bus stop where our host is waiting for us a with big wide smile. 

What did we miss?

So much for the London taxi driver - a different breed. Ours was not of the kind that London is famous for. Drivers-to-be have to take a knowledge test of the more than 5000 streets and alleys in London. They should be familiar with all the landmarks and all the nooks and corners (even of restaurants by the name of the Chef rather than that of the Restaurant). They ride the streets for three years familiarising themselves with all the details, finding umpteen ways to go from point to point taking into account the time of the day, the conditions on the roads, etc. In fact they are better than Uber and Lyft drivers who use Sat Nav. The devices do not always show last minute road closures; they do not always show the places clients want. in fact the London taxi drivers' brains have been studied for their extraordinary feat  comparing them with the brains of people with dementia.

We certainly did not get the legendary London Driver. But we are not complaining. They cost infinitely more! Our trust in humanity rose higher in our index.