For a short time, in the days of heat, we went north. The rain surprised us, sweeping up the alleyway by Cologne Cathedral, scattering the tourists. We stopped in a beer hall, sat on barrels among rowdy Germans, and watched lightning zigzag over the square.
The sun shone on Zürich. The water was clean, turquoise-green; swimmers crowded the lakeshore. Swans drifted beneath ornate bridges.
In the silent streets above Lake Geneva, there were high walls, huge gardens, ornate gates. Across the lake, the famous Jet d’Eau fountain shot 140m into the air. The mansions were so grand they made Auckland’s large houses look like quirky shacks.
It was here in Cologny in 1816 that Lord Byron rented the Villa Diodati and spent the summer with his doctor, John Polidori. The villa still stands above the lake. The poet Percy Bysshe Shelley and his wife Mary rented a house nearby, and the group spent days together telling ghost stories.
After a bet with Byron, Mary Shelley wrote her horror novel, Frankenstein. Dr Polidori came up with the first modern vampire story, The Vampyre. They found clever ways to portray violence below surface gentility, menace amid the beauty.
We got on the train, kept travelling. In a town square, the army deployed to protect a municipal ceremony. I watched a young soldier signalling far too intensely to his fellows. He seemed to move in a fantasy of actual combat, as if his dream life might emerge to inflict horror on the scene.
On a hot morning, the train was full. Passengers wrestled with luggage. The crowd remonstrated with a woman who was angrily barging forward. There was a shriek and an elderly woman fell in the aisle. The aggressive woman vanished, and soon we heard, “Is there a doctor on board?”
A dentist arrived, looking shy and conscientious. She was soon relieved by two doctors who sauntered in, both cool, wry, amused. The aggressive woman sidled back into the carriage. Sensing she was going to get away with it, she sat down to watch her victim being treated. A paramedic boarded, and panicked when the train seemed about to leave.
We arrived back in Menton and it felt like home. We stocked up at the local supermarket. Compared with New Zealand, good food here is extraordinarily cheap.
In Menton, the streets are washed and swept every day. The bins are frequently emptied. There is beauty and civic order. There’s a bossy French insistence on manners. In the supermarket, my daughter-in-law is busted for not wearing enough. A glamorous Californian, she strolls from beach to shop in her bikini top. The checkout operators, ladies who control everything, order her to cover up.
We find their prudishness amusing, but my son has an interesting take. In London, the supermarket workers are demoralised and indifferent. There’s no eye contact and they do not care. In Menton, they barge about and rule the roost. They seem invested; they’re in command. They’re polite and buoyant. Morale is high. Could it be that in France, workers are treated better?
All these elements that create order and confidence: clean streets, happy workers, functional families. In various ways, they have to be paid for. There are always people, often the most affluent, who object to paying. But isn’t it worth it, sharing a bit more, to be able to love the environment beyond your own gate?
The heat lingers. The crazy neighbour has suffered another 5G attack and has sealed her door with silver adhesive tape. Outside the supermarket, the nudity police are on a break. They’re still on patrol, keeping an eye out, smoking and gossiping in the autumn sun.
