We landed in Geneva during its watch convention, meaning if it wasn’t Patek, it was Phillippe, and all the hotels were full. 

The room we got reminded me of Hong Kong, those rooms where you can’t fling a cat, that is if you were in a mind to fling a feline around, I suppose. 

It also did not have a bed. 

We realised it was up on the wall and had to pull those levers down to assemble a bed that ended inches away from a television screen showing an unshave, gun-toting Clint Eastwood snarling threats, in impeccable French, to a tattooed villain.  

“Mon Dieu,” exclaimed Rebecca and hastened to the front desk where she convinced a sympathetic lady to give us a nicer room. It had 9 channels in English too.  

But it was stifling with no air-conditioning.  The front desk was desolee but the air-con was only available in spring which was, apparently, tomorrow.  

We opened a window. Translation:  we retired at around 21 degrees and woke up, shivering, at 14 degrees. It was 6 degrees outside then.  

Rebecca was in Geneva on Apec-business, and I’d never been. We flew to Switzerland by way of Amsterdam where we caught up with Raisa, our daughter.  

Hannes took us to Keukenhof in Lisse the next day. It’s open once a year for eight weeks. One of the largest spring gardens in the world, it’s home to 7 million flowers (mainly tulips) over 80 acres of lovingly maintained parkland. 

We tip-toed through the tulips, and the hyacinths, daffodils, lilies and sakura. We were told that the larger tulips bloom only in mid- April. 

The Dutch know how to put on a show. The reds ranged from fire engine blazing to almost-burgundy. And I had no idea there were so many shades of pink, all the way from coral pink to cherry blossom – ok, Raisa read the labels.  

There’s something about a sun dappled park in crisp 16-degree weather. There must be because I saw a woman hugging a tree in seeming ecstasy. The tree itself seemed impassive but who knew? 

It all added up. The flowers, its sights and smells, the children, the dogs and a man selling ice-cream: it brings out the best in people. They smile at one another and, for a second, you can almost imagine that better world. 

The Swiss think it begins by the shores of Lake Geneva, one of the largest lakes in Europe and mostly in Switzerland except that 40% juts into France. 

A cold wind blew off its waters as we walked along the shore and marvelled at its beauty – no plastic or trash, only a clear, green blue body of deep water silhouetted against faraway mountains of blue, and framed against a postcard- perfect, snow-capped Mount Blanc. 

Our friends Sulyn and Azmil generously took us to Café de Paris for dinner. It was a legendary place, where Hemingway had supped many times. It was packed, that night and every night for the foreseeable future. 

I don’t know why.  

You are served immediately because everyone, even, presumably, Ernest, gets the same thing. Steak (sadly only tenderloin), salad, and chips. Your only choices are the meat’s “done-ness” and your drink. 

The ambrosial glue holding the meal together is, apparently, the butter sauce. It is, of course, a secret recipe but it is said Ernest swooned in delight and had to lean on the restorative benefits of a bottle of cognac to recover. 

Ordinary mortals need not fear though: the butter is, apparently, sold at a Village Grocer near you. 

ENDS