Geneva, Wednesday 8 April 2020

For the last week or so, I’ve noticed beefy blokes in hi-viz orange hanging around our park. I didn’t really give it much thought. Maybe I should have. This morning, there was a ramping up of this presence; The vehicles were the giveaway: the Civil Protection unit.  

I had never noticed, so close to where I have lived for 24 years, that right among the trees on the far edge of the park, there is an underground entry to something big enough to have a drive-in entrance. Today, I see there is, in fact, a very discrete Civil Protection sign. An opportunity to ask one of the hi-vizzers what all this was about presented itself. As I approached, he was making admirable headway into a fistful of sandwiches; it was clear he needed to keep his not inconsiderable strength up for whatever protective task he might be assigned. I asked him what he and his buddies were there for. He took two steps back; whether he saw me as a potential contaminator or was simply appalled by my heavily accented French, I don’t know. He answered though without interrupting his lunch. “We’re here to assist the population in the event of a national emergency!” he stated through a spray of crumbs and mature Gruyère. “May I ask what’s down there?” I enquired politely indicating the ramp down which a Civil Protection vehicle had just disappeared. “A shelter for the population in the event of a national emergency!” he replied with dogmatic authority having moved on to a plum jam doughnut. “Is it a big shelter?” I asked, now intrigued. “Yes.” he replied. “Is there food and water down there?” I asked. “Yes.” he replied. “Chocolate?”I asked. He smiled. “Beds?” I persisted. “Yes.” he replied. “How many?” The last nourishing morsel at the bottom of the paper bag suddenly took all his attention. 

Then I started to piece things together. On our side of the park, only about fifty metres from our front door is a very discrete low concrete structure. Yesterday, it was open and I could see some steps going underground. There were a number of vehicles from the Services Industriélles de Geneve (SIG) – the outfit that brings us our water, gas, electricity and internet connection. The distance between the SIG guys and the Civil Protection guys was all of 200 metres. The penny dropped! Our park is the roof of one huge underground shelter and all this preparatory activity must have something to do with the COVID-19 pandemic!

I shouldn’t be surprised really. Switzerland, since the early days of the cold war, has been massively prepared for national emergencies; in particular, nuclear war and threat of invasion. Consider this: in 1963 the Swiss Federal Law on Civil Protection stated “Every inhabitant must have a protected place that can be reached quickly from his place of residence” and “apartment block owners are required to construct and fit out shelters in all new dwellings.” A survey published in 2006 found that Switzerland had about 300,000 nuclear shelters in homes, institutions and hospitals, with about 7.5 million places, as well as 5,100 public shelters adding another 1.1 million places. This meant that there was adequate shelter for 114% of the population!

The measures to fend off the threat of invasion of Switzerland are no less radical. Every Swiss male between 19 and 34 is in the army and has his uniform, rifle and ammunition at home. In the 1950s, the army carved hangars and airbases out of those lovely mountains and strengthened sections of highways for runways. Strategic points near border crossings have pre-dug holes into which explosives can be dropped to blow the roads in case of imminent invasion. Some of those pretty chalets along the lake road up to Bern are, if one looks closely, massive concrete bunkers; the green window frames and lacy curtains have been painted on. It is no surprise then that this tiny peace-loving neutral country spends more per capita on its military than any other. Switzerland, it would seem, is prepared for pretty much any kind of national emergency. Apart from being pretty and clean, it is also a safe place to be. I am very pleased that, of all locations to do lockdown, I can do it here.

Wait a minute though… I would have thought being confined in an underground shelter with hundreds of others would not be the best place to practice social distancing. Furthermore, I can’t see how the military’s preparation to deter potential invaders can fend off the coronavirus as it has already snuck over the border undetected. Nevertheless, there is talk of mobilising the army… but to support the health services. Fair enough! But maybe the authorities are also considering the possibility of civil unrest? I have no doubt at all that the Swiss army’s response to this eventuality would be swift and efficient. 

There are five businesses that are booming as a result of the lockdown: games, whether indoor or outdoor, like scrabble and badminton; gardening stuff especially seeds for vegetables; reading material both electronic and in print; bicycles; and electrical appliances such as fridge-freezers, televisions, laptops and gaming consoles. Makes sense.

A glorious victory to me on the putting mat winning 2 and 1 (I sunk 16/17 putts.) That’s 12 games to 6.

Hoping you are all well, safe and calm. We’ll get through this.

Geneva, Tuesday 7 April 2020

The news gets no less bizarre. The UK’s Prime Minister is in intensive care with COVID-19. Most regrettably, less than twenty-four hours beforehand, we publicly named our new and petulant sourdough starter “Boris.” O Dear! We hope this causes no offence. We join many others in wishing Mr Johnson – and indeed all those hospitalised by this virus – a speedy recovery.

Also yesterday, a Malayan tiger called Nadia in a zoo in New York showed symptoms of and tested positive for infection by the coronavirus. It is believed she caught the infection from an asymptomatic zoo-keeper making this the first proven human to animal transmission.

Whilst noting advice on-line not to get too absorbed by stats, I can’t help looking at the Johns Hopkins site. It informs me that new cases per day in Switzerland have levelled off. Are Italy, France and Spain doing likewise? The stock markets seem to be reacting favourably. We can but hope.

At a local level, the 21:00 stay-home party of the residents of the apartment block on the other side of the park is louder than ever. It draws a small but near-illegal crowd out on to the car-less street. We can hear that the inhabitants of other buildings are now likewise rockin’ the town. Bella Ciao! 

I jog around the park early most mornings. I noticed today that my fellow joggers have worn a new track two metres from and parallel to the main path maintaining the required distance from walkers. Respect! 

Here’s my latest lockdown painting. Inspired by other spring-time happenings on our balcony, this is “Pigeon love!” Blue for Boys Are Back in Town (Thin Lizzy;) Pink for Girls Just Wanna Have Fun! (Cindy Lauper.) Room for improvement, I know, but this diary is a bit of a soul-baring exercise. 

We missed our putting competition yesterday. Its resumption today saw a total loss of putting mojo on my part. I lost 5 and 4 missing 7 of 14 putts. That’s 11 games to 6 in my favour; but I’m not sure for how much longer I’ll stay ahead.

Us humans, having such a short attention span, have understandably been distracted away from the other great challenge facing us all, climate change. The Geneva winter has passed without a single flake of snow in town; this is a first. Also unprecedented, we played golf in nearby France throughout the whole of January and February. Now in lockdown, during this first week of April, it is warm enough to have dinner on our balcony; this also has never happened before.

Looks like the future is not what it used to be!

Geneva, Monday 6 April 2020

She had invited her boss to dinner. He, his CEO. The invitation list included high-flying partners and a scattering of supposedly brilliant personalities. It had to go well. They had decided on Beef Wellington as a nod to their British mettle. And for entrée? Something that made manifest their eclectic and cultured tastes despite the Brexit they had voted for. Snails? Oui! Escargots!

With elegant ease he tied his bow-tie. She put the finishing touches to her eye make-up. “Darling, are the snails still in the fridge?” she enquired. “The snails? I don’t know. You were going to order them!” Piercing exchange of eye-daggers as the awful truth sets in. Pas d’escargots! A snail-free soirée loomed. Merde!

“Listen,” she said, flustered, “Just go down to the riverside and grab snails, any old snails. They won’t know the difference. They’re English after all.” Feeling that it wasn’t really his fault, he put aside this minor injustice and complied. He pulled on his wellies, grabbed a bucket from the kitchen cupboard and headed off into the fading light.

His bucket was half full when a young lady came past on a bicycle. Intrigued by a man sporting at once dinner suit and wellies, she stopped to ask him what he was doing. Noticing that she was really a most attractive woman, he fired up his most winning smile and gabbled something about gastropods. She giggled. His heart melted. “Well,” she said “I live in that cottage down there. If, when you have filled your bucket, (another giggle) why don’t you come in and have a glass of wine?”

It is no coincidence that the last rather common little snail dropped into the bucket just as he found himself before the goddess’s cozy little home. He knocked on the door. She opened it having changed into something very, very comfortable indeed. He gaped like a netted cod. She offered him a glass of cool crisp Sancerre that he downed in one mesmerized gulp. “Another glass? Well, why not? Hmm… delicious! But I must head off soon. Ah… well…. I’m sure I can help you finish the bottle. Really, I must get going. Ooh, you’ve got another bottle. Smashing! I must buy a case of this. Champagne? Pomerol! Abso-bloody-lutely! Bring it on, Babes!” It can be of little surprise that, after chanting “Amo, Amas, Amat it again!” midnight found our sozzled hero making sozzled love to his sozzled hostess.

The sun rose over the cottage and its first few rays shone through a gap in the curtains. He woke. He surveyed the passion-crumpled bed with Her Loveliness not yet awake. Despite a sand-paper tongue, he felt total serenity and joy for a second or two and then blind, gut-wrenching panic took over when reality hit a home run. He kissed the dozing beauty, pulled on his clothes, rapidly retied his tie, leapt into his wellies and sprinted out  grabbing the bucket on passing. At least the slippery little suckers were still alive and well!

He raced up the path to his front door. He tripped. The bucket fell to earth scattering its contents over and around the door step. He was face down, arms spread and groaning when his wife – never far from eruption at the best of times – opened the door trembling with rage. “Good morning!” said Vesuvia with a rock-splitting edge to her voice. “I trust you have a very, very, very good excuse for this.” He looked up at her. He looked down. He looked up at her again. He looked around at the snails who, in their newfound freedom, had started to slither hither and thither and in his most whiny voice he pleaded “Come on, babies! We’re nearly there! Daddy wants us all home soon!”

Blogger’s note: Looking for a connection between this story and the COVID-19 lockdown might prove a disappointing exercise.