On our first day in Paris, we successfully accomplished the single most touristy act we could possibly partake in. We got lost. And this is where we grasped how fortunate we really were to have the constant support of Catterfly, no matter how odd the hour and how unseemly the request. Notwithstanding their exemplary logistical upkeep, the entire team at Catterfly tirelessly tackled the irksome task of regulating our insular tours, placing off-beat recommendations on record and essentially extricating us from every mess we happened to get ourselves into. Had it not been for their support, it would have been nearly too stroppy for us to visit Rue Cremieux, The House of Nicholas Flamel and Shakespeare and Company, amongst other obscure locations.
Aside from the obvious tourist-magnets the likes of Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame and Musee dé Louvre, we made our way around Paris the way I imagine Celine and Jesse did. We trotted down Latin Quarters and feasted on fluffy aesthetics. We visited MontMartre and watched Paris bathe itself in hues of pink and salmon. We traded birthday greetings, sketchy French and umbrellas with strangers. We ate too much cheese and drank far too little wine. There was a a certain je ne sais qoui about Paris, in the pith of which we found intricate architecture and unceasing pride.
Although we were entirely too sad to leave its animated city lights, cobbled streets and wild soul, our next destination was an easy excuse to take recluse from the world. To say the very least, Interlaken, with its sweeping mountains and rustic appeal, was magnificent. Although we were unfortunate enough to face terrible weather on Mount Titlis and sporadic bursts of hostile behavior elsewhere, we had much to thank for. Not only did we find ourselves in the wonderful company of Richa and Nitin, who brought us a little piece of home with them, but we also wolfed down par for the course Swiss delicacies and the liberation that came with living by ourselves.
Unrestricted by the hustle of city life, Interlaken soon appeared to be an antonym to the cultural language that we experienced next. As mountains melted away from sight and houses with skewed roofs made way for buildings overwrought with history, we finally arrived at the last peg of our journey. Our car rolled into the streets of Zurich and the aura of Switzerland switched poles, almost tangibly. Ironically, the street we took up lodging in, was mottled with biker gangs soaked in matted hair and piercings, a gay bar, a cannabis store and an endless array of hippie cafés serving up the promise of a good night, all within range of a renowned church. That night, as silvery streaks of drunken laughter and the sound of the church bell floated up simultaneously to our hotel window from the street below, my mother, in her sharp wit, was quick to joke about the irony. I hypothesized that if anything, Zurich was the reckless laughter of those who were unanchored to the burden of expectations.
On our flight back home to Calcutta, we each remained silent in our thoughts. Somewhere, I knew that was because we were overwhelmed to a greater degree than we were either weary or sleep deprived. When we’d planned, iterated and eventually commenced on our journey, we were entirely oblivious to the fact that we would partake in an experience far greater than anything we could have hoped for. If most ways, this trip was the antithesis to Lacan’s objet a petit; an experience so wildly independent of the boundaries of our fantasy that to experience this instant was to say yes to all of eternity.
On a concluding note, we’d like to thank Catterfly for being our pillar. If we’re lucky enough to travel the entire world with you, maybe one day, we won’t be tourists anymore.
