Le Carnaval!

"Fastnacht Carnaval: Pre-Lenten carnival in Alemannic folklore in Switzerland, southern Germany, Alsace and western Austria...
Basel, Switzerland: At 4am, Monday morning, all street lights are turned off. The carnival kicks off with 'morgenstreich': drummers and pipers playing piccolo flutes marching alongside others in costumes holding some 200 painted lanterns. Flour soup and onion tart are traditionally eaten...

Lausanne to Basel (via Bern): Sunday 13th to Monday 14th; 23:45 - 00:45, 1:52 - 03:20; Platform 8."

Thank you, Google!

So I was going to be sleep-deprived for the rest of the week, but surely, I couldn't pass up a real Swiss experience like this.

Armed with almond cake, fresh strawberries and a Victor Hugo play, I left the house at 11pm, ready to brave the cold and the crowds. Though I began my journey alone (no one on my Swiss contact list was crazy enough), I luckily ran into a few classmates on the train. I say luckily because one, I preferred company, especially while travelling at that time of the night/morning, two, I would have slept past my stop, and three, I would have been trampled to death in the parade. Many times.

After we bought a badge to support the carnival and a pretzel to wake ourselves up, we followed the masses of people to the city square. It was just like New Year’s Eve: no personal space whatsoever.

At 4am on the dot – Swiss precision – the city was plunged into darkness and a hush fell over the crowd. For a moment, we could see and hear nothing. Then, one by one, lanterns began to light up around the square and the first shrill notes of the piccolo pierced the still night air. Tight drum rolls followed, and suddenly, everything began to move. In the darkness, bands and lantern troops seemed to appear out of nowhere. With no set boundaries for parading, the masked musicians created their own paths – all seemingly aimed in my direction – and the crowd was forced to part according.

We admired the beautiful hand-painted lanterns of all shapes and sizes, colours and themes. From Greek gods to pirate ships and aliens to cobras, they floated overhead, illuminating the eccentric costumes of their owners below.

At 5am, morgenstreich ended and we squeezed into a cafe to enjoy some flour soup. As you do. It tasted a bit like gravy, but that was just fine with bread and cheese on a cold winter’s morning.

Perhaps it was my sleep-deprived state, or perhaps it was the big-nosed, commedia-esque masks under the lanterns’ mysterious glow, but the commencement of carnaval was nothing short of magical. Surreal, almost... A scene straight out of a Midsummer Night’s Dream.

Except I’ve got the photos to prove it!

Stop and smell the daffodils.

Upon reading my “internet” blog, a dear friend suggested that I detach myself from my computer desk and take a walk instead. Maybe with a camera and a notepad. It made sense – I was in Switzerland after all. And now, I have her to thank for a wonderful day. It was also the first day that I had spent alone in quite some time, and I liked it. 

First stop: Musée de l’Elysée, a photography exhibition by Hans Steiner of Switzerland during and after of WWII. Haunting images of Belgian orphans in Switzerland, women wearing the first bikinis by the river in Bern, machinery in a chocolate factory, children learning to ski for the first time...

I recently started a postcard collection – it’s the easiest and cheapest souvenir to find while travelling. I’ve also discovered that most art museums carry postcard copies of the artworks on display. A mini Picasso or Cezanne for two francs? Yes, please!

After that, I jumped on a bus to the Lausanne Vivarium. Or so I thought. But apparently not every bus goes through the city centre... Instead, I ended up in a remote little town called Pully: one of those places that you only know by the name of the train line, but never actually visit. But, determined to make the most of my day, I jumped off the bus and went exploring.

What I found were narrow cobblestone streets lined by beautiful European buildings and colourful flowerbeds already abloom with the first flowers of spring. As I reached the end of a narrow alleyway behind the church, I found myself staring at the most magnificent view of the Swiss countryside, Lac Léman and the Alps. Beneath the peaceful church courtyard, vineyards and country villages sprawled outward in every direction. In the distance, a train chugged along the hillside and disappeared into a tunnel. The birds chirped in the spindly trees and behind me, a church bell began to toll. I just stood there and smiled.

My day didn’t end there. On the way home, I decided, quite spontaneously, to get off one stop early. Why not visit the botanic gardens? Spring was just around the corner and the turn of the seasons was always an interesting time in the plant kingdom. What I found was a world in transition. There were some plants still deep asleep and some emerging from tiny green buds; others were already in full bloom, undeterred by the crisp wintery air. I loved them all. For the next few hours, I found myself on my knees in the soil or stretching out on tip toes, clicking away furiously on my camera. The garden didn’t need to be exploding with life for it to be incredibly beautiful. The process itself was enough to take my breath away.

Dawdling home at my own pace, I vowed to take the wrong bus again the next chance I got. It was time I reacquainted with my oldest friend: me.

“Life is about who you share it with.”

I read this quote on a friend’s Facebook status one night. Wedged in between vivid YouTube videos and bizarre quiz responses, it almost escaped my notice completely. Yet once I had read it, my reaction was somewhat blasé. ‘Just another generic lovey dovey saying’ I thought to myself, and continued scrolling down my News Feed in a fruitless search for interesting updates.

That was many months ago. Since then, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the phrase.

Yes, it’s clichéd. But clichés have to come from somewhere. And that somewhere is usually a commonly acknowledged truth – so commonly acknowledged, in fact, that it is taken for granted, unappreciated, and even mocked. That might be why I reacted the way I did...

But, the months that I spent pondering this little quote also marked a period of huge changes in my life. I’m under no illusion that I'm far from calm waters, but at this point in time, I can only reflect on what has already been. Guessing what is yet to come is something I have learned to do more and more in moderation.

I used to be a girl who didn’t need people’s company to be happy, to feel self-assured. I was quite happy in solitude. In fact, I preferred it that way most of the time. It may have something to do with being an only child who didn’t see much of her parents every day, and who didn’t have many friends growing up in a strange culture and a foreign country. I say that with no resentment or regret. It’s just the way it was.

But that all started to change about a year ago.

Maybe it was love? Maybe I just hadn’t found the right company till now? Or maybe it wasn’t the people I had gained, but those I had lost.

In those few months, I felt like the ground had fallen out from beneath me, and I was clutching at anything to make myself a safety net. I craved attention, affection, and above all, affirmation. I felt like a leech: so needy, so desperate. So reliant. And I was – for the first time since being a nine-year-old tucking myself into bed – scared to be alone.

I was beyond disgusted at myself, but it was a vicious cycle that I was too weak to break out of. Flattery and love flowed in from wherever I sucked. Everywhere except where I needed it the most. Yet, the more I got, the more I wanted, and the weaker I became to resist it. It wasn’t what I needed, but I tried desperately to fool myself that it was. It was an addiction of the worst kind.

It took me a long time to even realise I had a problem. Suppressing the pain was, as always, a much easier option. But they say recognition is the first step to recovery, right? I can take a step back now and look at the two extremes I had swung between. The harder part is doing something about it: finding the balance.

It’s learning the art of the three-legged race... Life is not about being the two-legged spectator, nor being the one pulling or being pulled. 

No, life is about who you share it with.