The day I learned Paris was a confirmed spot on our Europe tour, I was beyond excited. I remember scouring over the itinerary, my eyes skipping over the other locations we would be stopping at. Belgium…Geneva…Pisa…Mt. Titlis…Paris. The other countries and cities meant nothing to me. All I saw was the glittering golden lights of France waiting for me.
If you know me well, then you know Paris has been my dream vacation spot for as long as I can remember. I know it’s cliche, and it’s every teenage girl’s dream to go there. I know it’s one of the most popular tourist locations on Earth, and it’s overrated by most people nowadays. But I ignore all of that, because there’s just something magical about the name, the language, and the lights that will never fail to impress me.
This was the mindset I stepped onto the plane with. Arriving in London with two hours of sleep and a whole day ahead of us with our tour guide, all I could think was Paris is in eight days. Hang in there. Don’t get me wrong, I loved the day we spent sightseeing in London. The people, the London Eye, Big Ben, Buckingham Palace, fish and chips, Sherlock’s apartment; everything was just perfect, honestly.
But Paris is in eight days…
The next two days were the same. We saw the famous Atonium building in Belgium, trailed along the Rhine Falls, and tasted Black Forest Cake in Germany.
Paris is in six days…
Driving up around the mountainous roads to our next country, I was content with my trip so far, and yet still expectant for what the future days held. I remember checking the itinerary of our next spot, reading “…spend the time admiring Lake Luzern…take a walk around the Old Town in the pretty cobbled streets.” Okay, another small town before we head to our hotel. Hopefully it won’t be too long.
I remember the moment our driver halted to a stop, the wheels shaking on the cobblestone road. We gathered our bags and stepped down from the bus.
I took one glance around me, and couldn’t even gasp.
Our bus was parked by the side of a long, covered footbridge. My brother beckoned me to follow him onto it, and I did, hearing the light creak of the aging wood. The bridge ran over a river of translucent teal water, which glistened like tiny stars underneath the sun. A crisp breeze blew through my hair as I looked around. Off in the distance, the snowcaps of the Swiss Alps caught my eye. It was like being transported to a medieval fairy tale.
And it didn’t end there. The bridge brought us to the bustling streets of the Old Town, where not a single car was in sight. The sound of gurgling stone fountains, and the scent of fresh bread and creamy chocolate guided us through to the center of town. I couldn’t stop gazing at the shops and building walls, where intricate murals and paintings were displayed. Everything looked handcrafted and perfectly preserved. I couldn’t think of a word to capture what I was experiencing.
I was in Switzerland. The country of the Alps, cows, and chocolate. Up until this moment, I thought standing in front of the Eiffel Tower would be the moment that left me awestruck for days. I never imagined it would be this quaint city that I’d never heard of before, despite its popularity with tourists.
Arriving in Lucerne had me waiting impatiently for the next morning, because we’d be climbing up one of the mountains, Mt. Titlis.
Mt. Titlis is in twelve hours, I thought as I ate my dinner and brushed my teeth.
Next morning, the journey up to the summit was, in the simplest word, magnificent. As we were carried in a cable car over lush green valleys and little springs of water, we heard the clinking of cow bells and the whistle of the wind. We slowly approached the top.
As we stepped out towards the top of the summit, at over 10,000 feet, we were met with a chilling but tranquil silence. Gone was the movement and noise from the town below us. Gone was the scuffling of animals and chirping of birds. Families around us talked and took pictures while their children laughed and played in the snow, but something in the air was muted. It was simply spectacular. I took a breath to steady myself on the ice and looked out in front of me, where rows and rows of jagged mountain peaks stretched out across the horizon.
I was in Switzerland.
If you’re surprised these are the moments that blew me away the most, in comparison to majestic cities like Venice, Rome, and Paris, I don’t blame you. I often surprise myself with how much I think about my days in Switzerland. I think it comes down to what my expectations for the trip were in general. My initial focus was just on France and Italy, but after experiencing more of the other countries, I started to realize that I shouldn’t discount the other beauties just because I’m fixated on the most famous. Every city had its own vibe, and I was blessed with the opportunity to experience each of them, with a different light and a different perspective.
If you were to ask me which country was my favorite out of this whole trip, I genuinely wouldn’t have an answer for you. Paris was a dream-come-true type of beauty. It was my strongest desire, held my highest expectations, and it was elegantly fulfilled. But Switzerland… to be amazed by something you were not expecting in the slightest; that’s a different kind of beautiful.