(above) The curiously painted front of a restaurant in Lucerne Old Town.
THOUGHT I'd take a break from food and go traipsing again. It was last Saturday and I was foot-loose and almost fancy-free.
Lucerne is about half an hour's train ride from Cham, the tiny two-street town where I live. Unlike Cham, Lucerne is almost always bustling in the daytime with locals and tourists from all over the world.
It so happened the Old City festival was in full swing with all manner of bands playing here and there in the pedestrian area. For instance, one tent had two singers performing Abba songs while a couple of streets away, a bagpipe band was wailing heartily. The organisers had set up tables and benches for beer drinkers and the like. Seated revellers buzzed with chatting and laughter. It was like a mini Oktoberfest.
I had wanted to do some shopping and museum visiting but had forgotten that street shops closed at four p.m. on Saturdays (and the art museum near the train station closed at five). Only the shops in the train station shopping centre opened till seven or nine but those weren't very attractive.
So I skipped town around six. It was uncanny on the train ride home from Lucerne - I opened the book of Somerset Maugham's short stories I carried with me and the spy in the tale I had begun reading was also taking a train from Lucerne. The agent, Ashenden, however, was headed for glamorous Basel; while lil' ol' me was bound for lil' ol' Cham.
The water at Lake Lucerne (above) is crystal clear.
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