Basel and Bern

Basel

Borders and boundaries and demarcations, territories within territories. At the airport you are given the option of exit left into France or right into Switzerland. Beyond the latter, a sealed umbilical road of a mile or so before Switzerland itself begins. National borders form much of the boundary of the city - customs posts slow the traffic but pedestrians cross to or from France or Germany unregistered. The Rhein Center sits in an opportunistic corner of Germany between the new footbridge to French Huningue and Swiss Kleinhüningen. It takes 9 minutes to walk from France, through Germany and into Switzerland (it took me longer in the other direction on account of the attractions of fish and chips from Nordsee). Several tram lines terminate within spitting distance of the border, though along the intinerary of the outer reach of the no. 10 tram, a single stop is isolated in France. An annexe of the main station, administered by the French railway company, lurks behind a visually impermeable structure, shabby yet intimidating in comparison with the rest of the station. Rather than 'Gare SNCF', the sign makes it clear that to enter platforms 30-35 is to enter France itself. The other big station in the town, Badischer bahnhof is a more solid and attractive structure, being large and designed to declare itself. Its innards are entirely Deutsche Bahn, from the ticket office to the coffee being priced first in euros. This extends to the forecourt, containing a green-banded German polizei van and one of those distinctive green and yellow 'H' bus stops. Nevertheless, numerous trains from France and Germany serve Swiss platforms and stations without bureacratic intervention.

Inevitable to wonder how, and in what circumstance, those borders might be closed or restricted. Reminders of the possibility of this in the SVP's sheep posters everywhere.

Evening. In a country as clean as this, one feels self-conscious just carrying litter. Somewhere around Zürcherstrasse I saw a bin on the other side of the road, crossed between the lights, walking over the clovered lawn into which the tram tracks are set. Bats were tumbling above the grass in the middle of the carriageway, I've never seen them so close before, under sodium lighting. Further down the road a middle-aged man on crutches waylaid me and addressed me in Swiss German, and then in English. He was not entirely sane. Grinning, he said 'I can see you are a game-breaker. Don't be a game-breaker! I am with the mafia, I shoot you, blam!' and with that he lifted one of his crutches to point at me, rifle-like, losing his balance and tottering backwards into the road. Regaining the kerb he assumed a sheepish expression, his repertoire evidently exhausted. We wished each other good night.

Apropos of nothing, Walter Benjamin once interjected: 'Germans, drink beer!' And they still do, on the move, from bottles, it is refreshing just to see it. Ditto the Swiss, at least in the north of the nation, and very brand loyal they are too, particularly in Basel, although the availability of Feldschlösschen in the shop fridges is mainly in cans. I see those blue and white cans in my sleep.

Bern

The River Aare passes around the town, flat but swift moving, a vivid milky turquoise. There was no river traffic but a small inflatable raft. That raft's two occupants lolled in the sun, occasionally maintaining their position in the median of the river with an oar as they were borne along. They were not equipped to make any progress in a contrary direction, nor did they appear to want to. Where they had started from, or where they would end up, seemed not at all relevant. Seen from the bridge, there was only now.