The Swiss Secret Service

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Issy's got a cold, which really sucks for her, so she says that I should go out on my own while she rests up.

I go wandering across the Chapel Bridge. First stop is the very prominent riverfront Lucerne Jesuit Church with its two characteristic large towers. I read that it's the first large baroque church that was built north of the Alps in Switzerland (silly me thought we were IN the Alps), and its construction began in 1667.

There are bike racks all along the riverbank, and not nearly enough room in them for everyone who wants to park there. The number of two wheelers here suggests that everyone in Lucerne must own at least two of them. A lot of them aren't locked; they've just been left leaning against the racks. The Swiss must be very trusting; if I left my trusty bike unlocked in the street in Melbourne I'm pretty sure it wouldn't still be there a few minutes later. I Google "Crime in Switzerland". In a recent survey of crime rates in 110 countries, Switzerland ranked 101 (rank 1 had the highest rate). It seems that countries to be most avoided if you don't want to be mugged or murdered are Venezuela, Papua New Guinea, Honduras and South Africa. The country with the lowest crime rate was Singapore. The crime rate here was so low at one stage that security became very lax, and it then became a target for foreign crime gangs. It's perhaps unsurprising then to find that in 2015 nearly 60% of crimes here were committed by non-resident foreigners.

I head into the massive plaza under the station; there's a whole other town hidden away down here.

I wander into some gardens on the south shore of the lake, and spend a long time composing a photo of some locals sitting eating lunch under some large trees. This will be a great photo - a real prize winning work of art. Just as I'm about to press the shutter, two African children suddenly appear in the view finder. It seems that they want to be in my prize winning shot too. I think you can get arrested for taking photos of children, so I pretend not to notice them and wait for them to move out of the way. By the time they've gone, the lunch eating locals have gone too, as too has my award winning photo. I'm shattered.

I walk back across the river and into the Church of St Leodegar. This is the town's other prominent church, characterised by its two very tall and pointy metal spires; paragliders should definitely stay well clear. I read that there was an abbey here from as early as the eighth century, construction of which was funded by the local ruler Pepin The Short; Pepin's son was the famous emperor Charlemagne. I assume that Pepin The Short was vertically challenged, but it seems not - he had short hair at a time when everyone else's was long. The current church was built in 1663 after the previous iteration was destroyed by fire. This place really has had a big problem with fire over the years. I saw some signs earlier this morning saying that you're not allowed to smoke on the Chapel Bridge any more. It might have been handy if these had been in place before some git dropped a cigarette butt there and burned most of it down back in 1993, but better late than never I suppose. Given its history, I think they should probably consider banning smoking anywhere within a ten kilometre radius of here, and barbecues should probably be off limits as well. The gardens around the church are very attractive, and are surrounded by an arched cloister with graves in the floor.

I climb up the hill behind the town past a large old building hidden behind a very high ancient stone wall. I assume it must be a monastery or some other type of religious institution.... but maybe not ... there seem to be an awful lot of massive tall aerials towering up over the ramparts. I wonder if the monks are keeping an eye out for aliens, or maybe I've stumbled onto the headquarters of the Swiss Secret Service. I wonder if you're allowed to have a secret service if you're neutral.

I wander on realising that I'm now lost, which is a bit embarrassing; Lucerne's not very big. I briefly contemplate asking someone for directions ... which seemed like a good plan until I realise there doesn't seem to be anyone around to ask. I s'pose I could knock on the door of the Secret Service building, but that might make them think that I'm a spy which probably wouldn't be good. I hatch a cunning plan to walk downhill until I get to the river, and then walk along it until I hopefully run into something that looks vaguely familiar. There, that wasn't so hard.

Issy's still not feeling at all well so we spend the afternoon lazing around the apartment.

We need to do some washing, but we don't have any detergent. Issy points in the direction of the apartment next door, and says that if we're not that desperate there's a washing machine there. I'm very confused. I assume she wants me to knock on our neighbours' door and ask them if we can use their machine, although I'm not quite sure why; there's a machine in our apartment, we just haven't got any detergent, and anyway why would we do that if we're not that desperate. Several confused minutes later and it dawns on me that she wasn't pointing to the apartment next door, but rather in the general direction of Spain, and that the next apartment she was referring to is the one we'll be staying in when we get there in a couple of days time. I think our communication skills might need some work.....

We stroll along the riverbank and settle on a restaurant next to the Chapel Bridge. We think we should sit inside because of Issy's cold. There's a sign on a stool near the door that looks like it probably translates to something like "get stuffed". We think this could either mean that they want us to come in and each order and scoff down several main courses, or alternatively to go away and eat somewhere else. Issy says that it looks like there's a rope across the door to stop anyone from getting in, which would tend to favour the latter option. I'm struggling to see the rope, so we go in anyway and are quickly shown to a table, still none the wiser about the "get stuffed" sign. Issy has two whiskies, and spaghetti loaded with chilli and garlic. She scoffs it all down and then tells me that her cold's now feeling much better. She then quickly adds that unless I'm particularly fond on the smell of garlic oozing from her every pore I might want to consider sleeping on the couch tonight.

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Photos

Bikes
I'm sure that everyone in Lucerne must own at least two bikes