A short while ago I was walking up and down my apartment, wondering how to get over this barrier that keeps me from sitting down to write. I had a topic in mind – “The Freedom Slave” was to be the title of the post – and I had thought it through many times over, but I couldn’t get myself sit down and create a structure around my thoughts. It seemed more like homework (“Write an essay on ‘the freedom slave’ you met in the US last month”) than an act of exploration, which is what writing should be. The mind then drifted towards the facets of life in Iran I had seen in a movie some hours before (“Crimson Gold”), and the book I had begun reading yesterday (“Persepolis 2”). Simple things about life in a foreign culture can be so interesting; what about my life here could someone be interested in? I then thought of the lunch this afternoon, and the conversation with the couple who had invited me – yes, that was it. It would be a simple act of describing a Sunday afternoon spent at a friend’s place. Years later, the lines I put down today would take me back to those few hours, and convey a glimpse of life “back then”.

* * *

On Tuesday, I run into S & V at a restaurant. It has been a while since we’ve met, and at the end of a brief chat S suggests I come over for lunch on Sunday. I gladly accept the invitation.

On Saturday, I remember to pick-up a box of chocolates. (Since Wife is not around this year, I have to make a conscious effort and not forget such things). S has suggested that I come around noon, so I leave home at noon on Sunday and drive towards Heidelberg. The dial on the car shows 33 degrees Celsius, and it makes me wonder why anyone would want reams of data as a proof of global warming when the signs around us are so obvious.

I climb three floors to get to their apartment. It is a lovely apartment, airy and full of light. S is his relaxed self, and V looks stunning, as always. I am offered orange juice, and we start with the topic on everyone’s minds: the football world cup. S thinks it is fixed – Germany is winning too easily. I think Germany is playing good, attacking football.

The TV is on, and images from CNN keep floating by: forces kill Taliban militants in Afghanistan; US plan to move troops out of Iraq seen as too optimistic; violence in Gaza strip; Indians perform the ritual of a frog’s wedding to induce monsoon; Germany and Argentina move into quarterfinals; Arcelor shareholders will decide on Mittal’s bid…

For lunch, we have jeera rice, aloo mutter, baingan bharta, and raita. It is delicious, and spicy; I have to use my napkin often.

Throughout, the conversation flows freely; we are never short of topics. We talk of travel (Scandinavia is a part of Europe yet to be covered; taking a cruise would be fun; planning a trip to Spain later this year); German perception of India (which varies from some colleagues who travel to India each year and find it fascinating, to those who come back from one business trip to our Bangalore office and are exhausted by it all); parents in Hyderabad (how S suggested they visit a yoga class so that they could meet others to socialize with); ISKCON (how some brilliant students went into spirituality early on and lost those precious years); Shashi Tharoor (his nomination to the post of UN Secretary General; his novel “The great Indian novel”); Western resistance to eastern ownership (as exhibited by the initial reasons for rejecting Mittal’s bid for Arcelor, and other cases in the recent past); inter cultural marriage (how we had to win over parents opposing the alliance); future plans (of Wife after MBA, and in general).

S & V have been here since three years, and they agree that the years have flown by. They know that they do not wish to settle here, but moving isn’t easy: change in location implies change in work, and there is also a good amount of inertia. I mention that my dad keeps referring to his four years in Ghana as the best period in his life, and I have the feeling that I am presently living through what I will later refer to as the best years of my life. S & V wholeheartedly agree to this: S also thinks of this phase in Germany along similar terms. And yet, there is a desire to move on….

I leave around 3 pm. On the drive back, the temperature display shows 35 degrees.

* * *

There wasn’t anything extraordinary about this lunch. But what would I not give to bring back memories of a perfectly ordinary lunch I had ten years ago: memories of the company, the mood, the cuisine, the conversation, and of course, the temperature.

Every six weeks or so I visit the neighbourhood saloon for my customary haircut. The owner, a cheerful middle-aged man, runs the show with half a dozen ladies, and like most barbers he has the knack of clicking his tongue faster than his scissors. He was at it again last Saturday, speaking on topics ranging from a Costa Rican invasion of our town, his grandmother’s attachment to butter, and the U.S. plan to invade Iran.

“Three thousand Costa Ricans will be in our town in June, you know?” he said, with a mixture of incredulity and excitement.

Ours is a small town – a village if you like, but that may not amuse my German neighbours – with a population of a few thousand. I could hardly imagine how three thousand Central American football fans could fit in, unless each family hosted one. When I expressed this, he replied that the team would stay at the local hotels, while the fans spread out in the neighbouring towns. He seemed to hope for better business during those weeks. My mind instantly focussed on what they meant most: fodder for my camera.

A little later he bid goodbye to an elderly woman – “Einen schönen Tag, Frau Willinger!” – and turning to me he said: “That lady, she sells Asparagus – do you like Asparagus?”

“I don’t.”

“I like them very much. In olden days, this vegetable was mainly for Kings and you know – people higher up in society. So people who wish to feel they are higher up eat it now-a-days!” He laughed out loud, and continued: “My grandparents had little chance of getting it, especially during and after the war….” He paused, as if trying to bring back a forgotten memory. “…They had little to eat those days, after the war. Even butter was not available – people had to eat plain bread. So when things became better they tried to make up for what they had lost – my grandmother would put a huge slice of butter ” – he indicated an inch between his fingers – ” over my bread when I was a boy, and I would hate it….. but she only wanted to give us more of what she had too little.”

There was a bit of silence, and I noticed him peering into a newspaper the lady nearby was reading. The headline facing us read (in German) “This man speaks the way Hitler did” : it was about the Iranian president Ahmadinejad and his proclamations to wipe Israel off the map.

“The U.S will do it again – they will attack Iran next” he said, shaking his head.

“It seems likely, ” I replied. By coincidence, I had just been reading an article in The New Yorker on this subject; I pointed to the magazine lying in front. “An article in that magazine gives a lot of evidence in that direction.”

“Oil prices are already high. What will happen if there is another war? We need oil for our heating, you know. ”

I was struck by his pragmatism on this occasion. Usually, he would start off on a philosophical note and bring in a good deal of history into his arguments; this time, he seemed focussed on the bottom line.

“Perhaps you could increase the price of a haircut.”

He laughed. “If that becomes necessary, I will do it! I hope you will still keep coming.”

“Surely.” I replied. “Your shop is the closest to home.”

After I paid, he waved a goodbye: “Until next time!”

Yes, more stories will have to wait until next time.

A couple of days back an electric bulb burst in our apartment. We had just finished dinner when I switched on the main light and *pop* – the bulb burst, and threw the apartment into darkness. My first thought was not about what to do next – that would come later – but how lucky we were not to have been anywhere near the bulb. Pieces of shattered glass reflected light that filtered in through the windows; there were probably many more in the darker areas of the room.

Perhaps it was a blown fuse; I looked around to see if the fuses were located inside the apartment. This was a new place, not yet familiar. When the obvious places didn’t reveal anything, I went outside and scanned the common areas of our building – no luck there either. We didn’t know our neighbours yet, so the only alternative was to call the concierge phone number listed on the message board and ask for help.

“Hello, do you speak English?”

“er…just a little..” A woman’s hesitant voice.

“I’m calling from Avenue d’Ouchy 85. We have a small problem in our apartment -”

“Wait minute please – what is your number?”

“It’s the one I’m calling from.”

“Is it xxxxxxxx?”

“That’s right.”

“OK, one person call you soon. Bye.” She hung up.

A few minutes later, a man called and started in French. I interrupted him.

“Excusez-moi – do you speak English?”

“Non”

This was going to be tough. I tried telling him – in English – what had happened, stressing on the words “problem” “electricity”, and after listening to me he started off again in French, but it could as well have been Swahili. We take communication mostly for granted, which makes situations like these – where one doesn’t understand a word of the other – more surprising and disorienting than it should seem.

After struggling for a couple of minutes I gave up. I had his number, and perhaps a friend familiar with French could act as an intermediary. Before hanging up, he said “Bye, Bye” – the only two words that had made any sense to me.

Wife then called D, who called this man and got back to us: the man had reluctantly agreed to come over; he should be at our place in about half an hour. We lit some candles and waited.

The darkness, and the silence it brought along, took me back to childhood days in India where we faced frequent power-cuts in summer. I welcomed them – they gave me an excuse not to complete my homework due next day – but the mosquitoes and the heat would eventually have me cursing the local electricity board. I would rub Odomus – a mosquito repellent cream – over my hands and legs and sit next to candles, listening to the hollow sound of crickets in the dark. Sometimes, while with friends, we would exchange stories and jokes.

The man arrived after a while. He was short, plump and looked typically French – like one of those characters in a film depicting the Victorian era, if you chose to disregard his unkempt appearance. He shook hands in a brisk manner, and said something in French; I nodded, as if in complete understanding, and showed him the socket the burst bulb had occupied. Then he went outside and opened the “fuse room” – apparently each floor had one – and began to look for the blown fuse. I walked back and joined Wife inside our apartment.

“What’s he doing?” she asked.

“Checking for a blown fuse. Typically French, isn’t he?”

“Quite handsome, actually.”

“I thought he looked like Napoleon. To me most Frenchmen look like Napoleon – wonder why.”

“He’s probably the only Frenchman you know.”

“Probably the only Frenchman worth knowing…”

The man returned a few minutes later. Inside, he looked for a fuse and found it above the front door – the problem appeared to be with this one. He disappeared again for a while and returned with another fuse, which worked …. temporarily. The real problem was with the socket of the blown bulb: he unscrewed it, and left the wires hanging from the ceiling. Then, the new fuse worked: light, once again.

Before leaving, he explained something about the socket; we listened and nodded. We expected a bill, but he didn’t come out with any. I tipped him ten Francs, which he gladly accepted and wished us “Bye, Bye”.

Among the things that happened during the last weeks of inactivity in this space, an event of note was our getting the German permanent residence permit. We came to Germany on a “Green Card” visa, valid for five years and due to expire at the end of this year. Five years of stay enabled us to apply for what the Germans call “Niederlassungserlaubniss” – the permanent residence permit. The process involved, among other things, a proof of competence in the German language. We initially wondered if this implied some sort of examination, but we were told it was enough if we could converse in German with the authorities while collecting the application form and submitting it. That did not prove difficult, and three weeks after we submitted our papers we received our new visas. I do not know the exact rights this status confers upon us, but for me what’s important is that it allows us to continue living and working in Germany without having to periodically bother about renewing our visas.

My German teacher T, who kindly offered a certificate as additional proof our my language competence, was relieved to note we were spared further bureaucratic hurdles. My lessons with him continue, of course; the objective of learning the language is far from complete. (On a slightly different note: Before he left for his Christmas break, T mentioned he was going to attend a Vipassanna course in an east-German town. He had done it once a couple of years before; it was rigorous but very satisfying. Leela’s experience with Vipassana came to mind).

* * *

An encounter with a new language is one of the many exciting aspects surrounding a move to a new place. Lausanne is in the French part of Switzerland, and the last week here has taken me back to those early days in Germany, when German was as alien to me as French is now. I’ve managed so far with the most basic words – bonjour, merci, au revoir, pardon; some other words have come my way through interesting encounters.

At a restaurant when we asked for the cheque, the waiter said something like “Addition“, and nodded. We later confirmed it meant cheque.

At a local market while paying for a purchase with a hundred Franc note, the lady behind the counter said something in French of which I understood only one word: petit. No I do not have a note smaller than that, I replied, checking the contents of my purse. She then proceeded to give me the change anyway. On another occasion, I was asked if needed the “ticket“; no thanks, I said, I do not need the bill.

A couple of days back when Wife burned her hand while cooking, I decided to go to the nearby pharmacy for a cream. Since I did not have a dictionary (I still haven’t found a bookshop in the vicinity) I logged on to the net and translated “burn” – Brulure – and jotted it on a sticky-note before leaving for the pharmacy. The girl behind the counter understood English, but I showed her what I had written and she nodded in confirmation.

As I was writing the above lines I wondered if there were some online French lessons I could take to pick up a few more phrases, and I ran into this nice BBC site that offers simple tutorials for spoken French. I have a week more to spend in Lausanne, and its time I did something about the current state of my French. Au revoir!

It is a small apartment – one room and a bathroom. The room is partitioned into two: the kitchen is separated with the rest by a bar counter that runs along its edge; the rest of the room has a bed, a showcase, two single-seater sofas, a small dining table with a couple of chairs, and three bar stools next to the counter. The side facing outside has windows running end-to-end – the room is filled with light during the day. From the balcony one can see lake Geneva in the distance, and, on clear days, the mountains on the far side.

I’m in Wife’s apartment in Lausanne, Switzerland. It sounds strange to me as well, the phrase “Wife’s apartment”; I’ll have to get used to living in two places over the next eleven months, when Wife shall be doing her MBA at IMD.

We got here last Sunday, driving through snow-covered meadows (I still cannot decide if I like Switzerland better in its green outfit or white). Our routine in the last few days has fallen into a pattern: I get out in the morning and walk to the parking lot next to the lake to place a ticket for the day (it is too expensive to park in front of our apartment), and on my walk back I pick up fresh croissants for breakfast. We spend the morning and afternoon indoors – reading, cooking, setting up the apartment – and in the evening we go shopping (the never-ending list containing things needed for the new home) or meet other IMD batchmates who have recently moved in.

It is a mixed batch, with people from various backgrounds and nationalities. Most students are over thirty (the average experience of an IMD MBA candidate is seven years), and have been in middle-management. Conversations so far have revolved around their background and past experiences, why they chose IMD over other schools (with INSEAD topping the list of discarded colleges), what salaries the previous batches received ( $120K per annum seems to be the average), and what they intend to do after their MBA. It appears most people are looking for a change in their line of work – they’re hoping to figure out what they’d like to do as the course progresses. But there are some who wish to get a broader outlook on management (in contrast to the specific area – like Sales – they have been working on so far), and a course with a focus on General Management seems an appropriate choice for such candidates.

Lausanne is a beautiful city. I’ve seen only parts surrounding the lakeside (I had posted some pictures last year) – there is a lot more to explore, and I hope to do that during the weekends I come visiting over the next eleven months.

We were at the Frankfurt Book fair on Saturday.