> ## Content Index > Fetch the complete content index at: https://sheholds.com/llms.txt > Use this file to discover other available public pages before exploring further. # Basel - URL: https://sheholds.com/basel/ - Published: 2026-10-26T10:38:27.000Z - Updated: 2026-10-26T13:08:31.000Z - Description: On autumn menus, pink alpacas and telephone books dropping. - Author: Lai Yin 麗賢 - Tags: Travel 旅行, Family 家人, Marriage 婚姻 By the time I was shooting a pellet gun at the Basel Autumn Fair, knocking cans off the shooting stand one by one, we’d left Bordeaux by car, crossed France avoiding Paris, avoiding student protests everywhere. Me driving, him in the passenger seat, macbook on his lap, his left hand on my right thigh. This time him not working. This time him connected to a bar in [Sydney](https://sheholds.com/sydney/), connected to the live stream of Ian’s memorial, connected with people around the world. Anina spoke of growing up in Hong Kong, of having the best brother ever. She had everyone attending in person take a couple of bottles each from Ian’s wine collection. He chatted with a university friend of Ian. She wrote: “I’m actually half French. After my law degree, I logically felt the next step was to learn patisserie and open a café-patisserie in Adelaide where I was living. So logically came to France to learn patisserie. And never left...” He asked: “Ha ha ha, do you have a Patisserie now?” She replied: “No, discovered you have to wake up at 3am and that just didn't work for me. … now a high school English teacher (in a lycée that wasn't burnt).” This time he was planning his return from Germany to Bordeaux. Hip replacement Thursday, five days in hospital, twenty days in rehabilitation. Cutting rehab one day short, he’d be back in time for baby three’s birthday. Baby three stretched out across the back row, cushions, blankets, kept still, listened quietly. He’d booked us a dinner, bed and breakfast where Germany, France and Switzerland touch. By the time I parked, I’d driven from seven to five. Ten hours. We walked through the hotel door, entered a restaurant with a staircase, steep upstairs. The owner greeted us, in a dirndl: “Ah, ihr seid schon da.” She handed us a key, room twelve, upstairs. Dinner booked for seven thirty. I asked: “Can we eat at six thirty?” “Absolutely. No problem. Come down.” By the time we sat down at our corner table, he was studying the menu. I said: “You order for us. You know I’m addicted to Knödel and gravy.” We tucked into Risotto, pumpkin, cauliflower, roasted, rich, smoky. Duck, crispy, cabbage, red, sweet, soft, Knödel, demi-glace, dark, dripping like honey. Venison, pork knuckle, crackling, pommes frites for baby three. By the time he came upstairs, baby three and I were cuddling in bed. I’d given him space to remember Ian over a glass of wine. When he got into bed, his body hot from the shower, baby three said: “Tonight we get to sleep ten hours before we have breakfast.” He said: “Yes, almost eleven. They’re turning the clocks back tonight.” I watched Netflix late into the night, season four of The Diplomat, excited, wide awake. When I fell asleep, he and baby three were beside me gently snoring. At three in the morning, a heavy thud from the room above made me sit up in bed, awake again. Each time I was falling asleep again, another thud, like someone dropping a telephone book on the floor above. By the time my alarm got us up, I was tired and cranky. We came down for breakfast, punctually at the time agreed with our waitress at dinner. The buffet, carefully laid out. Ham, cooked, three slices. Cheese, three slices. Salami, three slices. Eggs à la carte. Coffee in a thermos, on request. The morning waitress repeating: “If you want more, isch kein Problem. Just say me. I’ll bring more from the kitchen.” I said to him: “I’ll have three soft-boiled eggs. Baby three gets two hard-boiled eggs. Get yourself two or three eggs scrambled, runny.” He returned saying, “We’re getting one egg each.” We tucked into breakfast. My single soft-boiled egg was perfect. So was his scrambled egg. So was baby three’s hard-boiled egg. I had him order another round. By the time we’d finished our eggs, the waitress came to our table. I ordered my third egg. By the time I’d eaten my three eggs, he’d taken our coffee thermos to the car, brought the car forward, led us back upstairs to collect our things. Paying our bill, he asked the waitress: “The room above room twelve, is that staff or guest?” She counted. “Twelve, thirteen, fourteen … … No, that’s a guest room.” I said: “So you have a guest up there who kept dropping what sounds like telephone books during the night, keeping me awake.” She said: “I don’t think that’s possible. We don’t have telephone books in the rooms for ten years.” By the time I parked the car in Basel, we’d walked the VitraHaus in Weil am Rhein, starting in the loft on the top floor, standing on the balcony overlooking the Oudolf Garten, descending floor by floor. Dining tables, kitchens, living rooms, home offices, chairs, lamps suspended high above dining tables. The exhibition building, massively grand, large open windows, high cathedral ceilings, an open main room. Everything on display was for sale. A paravent, bamboo. Not tall enough. Not wide enough. Not useful. €2,500. At the Basel Autumn Fair, baby three holding my hand, asking to ride the gravity fall, asking to be thrown around at the end of a massively long arm. We settled on a high-speed carousel, up and down, round and round. He said: “That one’s okay. I did it when I was her age.” By the time we were back in the car, I’d shot baby three a pink alpaca. She’d munched strawberries, coated chocolate, corn on the cob, buttered. By the time we joined the Autobahn towards Karlsruhe, we’d crossed the Rhine three times, driving around Basel in the rain. I kept asking him: “Is this Germany or Switzerland? It looks like Germany.” He said: “It’s the German-speaking part of Switzerland. Some parts looked like Munich, others like Zurich.” We drove past the THOMY factory. I said: “I thought THOMY was German.” He read the sign on the gate. “Whatever it was, it’s Nestlé now.” We turned towards Frankfurt, continued to Göttingen. By the time baby three and I were back in our pajamas, cuddled up in bed, he’d dropped us at the hotel in Göttingen, gone to charge the car, had a beer or two in the lobby. By the time he came to bed, baby two had sent us photos of her weekend with Lily, [Nico](https://sheholds.com/dinner-for-eight/) and Louise in [Singapore](https://sheholds.com/singapore/), standing in Ancient Egypt at Universal Studios, exact frame, exact spots, exact pose he and I held half her lifetime ago.