Basel

I sauntered out of the airport towards a taxi.  'Hilton Hotel, Aeschengraben,' I instructed the driver.  He gave me that look of pitying disdain of which Parisian waiters are the masters.  'You’re in the wrong country,' he growled wearily, 'take the exit for Switzerland.'  Startled, I retreated to the baggage hall and found signs to France, Switzerland and Germany.  The three countries meet in Basel and there is evidence of their influences everywhere.

I was on a business trip but Basel encourages exploration; all hotel guests are given a card providing free access to the multitude of bottle-green trams which clatter and whoosh along the streets.  At intersections, a dense thicket of overhead power lines darkens the sky.  An open-sided 1920s tram offers vintage tours, trundling along the tracks and contrasting with its sleek modern counterparts which operate to timetable with Teutonic precision.  During peak times they’re packed with chattering school children, bleary-eyed students and smartly dressed commuters.  At the central market, well-coiffed old ladies struggle on board with bulging bags of vegetables, sweet-smelling hams and cheeses. 

The calm magnificence of the Rhine is a welcome relief. Crossing a bridge, I was puzzled by a strange flotilla of orange jetsam: they were large waterproof bags protecting the belongings of swimmers who hug them as buoyancy aids and drift downstream with the current.  I decided to try it.  At the edge, the river is shallow and unexpectedly warm.  The current is sedate, nevertheless at one point a large buoy appeared in my path, racing towards me implacably like an obstacle in a computer game.  Just in time, I steered round it, grazing my leg on its anchor cable.  Hauling myself out after a kilometre I was exhilarated and trotted back to repeat the fun, passing knots of students who colonised the riverside.  Basel’s fifteenth century university attracts studious types and the atmosphere seemed relaxed, somewhere between a scouts' jamboree and an officers’ mess.

Returning me to the city, an ancient wooden ferry traverses the Rhine mysteriously without sails or oars. The boat is attached to an overhead cable and oriented at an angle to the current which gently urges it across the water.  Silently sliding over the broad river is a serene experience.  Huge cargo ships tower over us but give way to this tiny vessel.  On the bank, expensive apartment buildings glow roseate in the setting sun, their generous balconies splashed with geraniums.  In the distance, tall chimneys signal the presence of Basel’s thriving chemical industry, where my business lies.

At dinner time I head for the medieval district, a twisted skein of steep, narrow streets.  Worn stone steps corkscrew between crepuscular passageways lined by quiet churches, crooked houses and obscure university departments.  Exclusive boutiques attract disoriented tourists to fastidious displays where rare watches and jewel-like Swiss chocolates are accorded equal status. Comforting stillness drapes the quarter. In the secret heart, cosy candlelit restaurants celebrate Basel's French influence. 

© David Thompson 2015