LEYSIN: Welcome to Lala Land

“Welcome to Lala land,” he says.

This is my friend Jeremy, who I’m visiting in Switzerland, which, for all intents and purposes, is perfect.

I say this because Switzerland has no flaws. Everything is clean. Everything is on time. Everyone sits peacefully at cafes and breweries while sipping beers and dipping fondues and talking in hushed French accents while the Swiss Alps loom divinely behind them. There are no visible problems, no stresses. It is literally picture perfect, like a postcard.

Me drinking the perfect water from the perfect fountain

Jeremy’s been living here for two years. He’s a teacher at a fancy boarding school in the mountains. I met him right before he took this job and he told me to visit anytime, so here I am. Jeremy works five days a week, two of which are half-days so teachers can go skiing or hiking. Their ski passes — which, let me remind you, are in the Swiss Alps — are covered by the school. As are their three daily meals, their healthcare, their housing, and half their transportation. Theoretically, you can teach at the school and pay next to nothing your entire time there (I had to consciously remind myself not to drop everything and try to work there, right now).

Thankfully Jeremy picked me up at the train station, because I was delirious. I’d slept two hours on the plane. On said plane, at around midnight, the flight attendant came on the PA. At first, it was silent; I thought he sat on the button or something. Then, he calmly said: “Attention everyone. If you are a medic or doctor, please come to Row 34. We are having a medical emergency.” I was in Row 30. I looked back and sure enough, a small group was huddled around an older woman. All the lights came on. People rubbed their eyes. A flight attendant hurried past us with a medical kit and a defibrillator. The woman next to me vigorously shook her husband awake. “You’re a cardiologist, they need help, go!”

Everyone was hushed. The crew carried the woman to the back of the plane. This all took awhile. Eventually, my seatmate came back to say the woman was fine — they think it was low blood pressure — and this was very fortunate as we were completely over the Atlantic Ocean and I had no clue how we’d make an emergency landing.

Yet no matter your state, Heaven has a funny way of waking you up. This place was straight from The Sound of Music. Green fields, yellow flowers, purple mountains and blue skies. It’s the type of scene you drew when you were in kindergarten. We drove up and up and up the mountain until we finally reached Jeremy’s school, a version of Xavier’s School for the Gifted, but instead of mutants, the staff consisted of climbing addicts, long-distance cyclists, and extreme sport aficionados. So yeah, mutants.

That night, my weariness caught up to me. The week before was a non-stop storm of packing, selling, prepping, and planning, and I hit my wall. I woke up with the worst sore throat of my life. Each swallow wasn’t just uncomfortable, it was excruciating. In the morning, I could barely speak. It sounded like I was curling my tongue in the back of my mouth and doing a Kermit the Frog impersonation. Jeremy quickly went downstairs and got some Covid tests (the school has, of course, about a million), and they were negative, fortunately. So with that, I slept all day while he taught.

Jeremy, my wonderful host

That evening I felt good enough to amble about, and Jeremy took me to the lakefront. Here I glimpsed the perfection that is Swiss society. Like a Swiss watch, all is mechanically precise. There’s not one spec of trash on the ground. No chipped paint on the buildings. No homeless, no drunks, no commotion. Switzerland reminded me of the mature, organized, law-abiding older sibling, who pays all their bills, follows all the rules, and returns library books on time (we joked that the tagline in Switzerland should be, “Everything works!”). Sure, most of the country is shit-your-pants expensive (like my $16 tiny bottle of sunscreen), yet that money goes right back to the people, resulting in sound infrastructure, free healthcare, a robust middle class, and a generally easy-going way of living.

The scene at the lake was cheerful. Everything in Switzerland seemed cheerful. Groups of threes and fours sipped beers, ate fondue, smoked cigarettes, and talked quietly and happily. When you have a good-paying job, the safety-net of your government, and basic needs easily covered, why steal? Why rob? There isn’t an ideal status of wealth to strive for. You have what you need and so does the guy next to you. So what do you do? You smile, eat fondue, and sip beers by the lake.

The lake

Jeremy, my host, is sweet, gracious, and extremely generous. Though I noticed he tends to undersell a bit. Or maybe I didn’t ask enough questions. So when he says “take a walk,” he really means “hike.” And in today’s case, when he said “hike,” he meant “scaling a terrifyingly tall Swiss mountain.”

It was around 4pm. We drove to the base and started walking. I asked foolishly where we were going. “Right over there,” he pointed casually. I looked over and saw a wall of rock. “Trust me,” he said, “you’ll be fine.”

Something was in the air that day. We were both in phenomenal spirits. At one point, a hawk glided by us right at eye level, so close you could see the glint in its eyes. We took a break near the top and started talking about our lives and travels. “Look at this,” he said, “I can’t get enough of it.” Before Switzerland, Jeremy taught in Colombia for several years. He formed a group of cyclists called “The Bici Bros” (“Only qualifications you need are a positive soul and a zest for adventure,” he said). They ride absurdly long distances through some of the most picturesque countrysides on the planet. Jeremy continues the tradition in Switzerland. “You only YOLO once,” he said. “And I’m trying to make the most of it.”

I shared about my trip. This was a bit of a soul-searching journey for me. Granted, I wanted to learn how to cook Italian food. But on a deeper level, I’d like a clearer understanding of where I want to live, what I want to do, who I want to be. Before leaving, I would tell people of my plans to spend three months in Italy, and I’d hear two basic responses. The first would be overly enthusiastic, supportive, and cheerful. The other was a bit apprehensive, and they’d end the conversation by saying something like: “Well, I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

“Bro, I hate that,” Jeremy said. “I just find it so condescending. Like they’re saying, just because you like to travel it means you’re lost, so good luck finding yourself.”

I agreed. I didn’t feel like I was lost, nor that I was running or escaping from something. This felt like the next step for me — I felt like I was running to my life, not away.

But a few days later, that conversation sunk in a bit. When people would say that line, “I hope you find what you’re looking for,” it’d bother me. I wanted them to see me as brave, adventuresome, interesting, but they saw me as lost. And I realized, they were partly right. I am lost! I took this trip to find purpose. I was tired of ambling about, spinning my wheels, pretending like I knew what I was doing when a thin layer of doubt would lay dormant. So I realized, the next time someone says that, I’d treat their words as a gift. I could use their hope, and if I hear that line again, I know my response.

“Thank you. I hope I find it too.”

After some real thigh-scorching ascents, we finally reached the top. And once we got there, it was the most nerve-wracking hiking experience of my life.

The peak, which was a million miles above seawater, had one small path you had to cross in order to get back down. This path was maybe a foot wide, covered in loose rocks, and had a straight drop-off on either side. Like, if you looked over, you’d fall over. And to make matters fatally worse, the wind was super gusty. One big blow at the wrong time could send you tumbling. And tumbling.

I, shamelessly, scooched on my hands and tush. And though I kicked a few rocks over, I made it through. On our way down, we heard a soft horn in the distance. Jeremy excitedly told me to hurry so we could catch it. He was right, it was an Alp-horn, a five-foot-long wooden horn that was designed to communicate between mountains in the Alps. A Swiss woman with short, cropped hair was playing one beautifully on the balcony of a cabin. Her husband was setting up plants. We quietly walked up and started listening. Jeremy, who spoke a bit of French, got into conversation. He knew some of the folks they knew, and they graciously invited us for a glass of wine.

So began one of the greatest glasses of wine I’ve ever had. It was sweet, cold, and delicious. We were on a balcony overlooking the Swiss Alps. The couple, Suzanne and Jean-Pierre, were incredibly amenable and spoke fluent English. Jean-Pierre opened a bag of nuts, poured some into a bowl, and we noshed and chatted — a reward perhaps from our near-death experience.

Sitting at the Peak of Death. Not comfortable.

Suzanne worked as a researcher, and she lived in the States for four years. I asked her, what were the major differences she noticed between the States and Switzerland?

“Well, for one, I worked in this laboratory. And for some reason, they insisted we’d be there every day. I didn’t get it. Me and the others quickly found a better, faster way of working, so that we could finish early and go enjoy a beer. But the managers would make us stay, no matter what. Even on Fridays! This I didn’t understand.

“Another thing was the small talk. I’d call the insurance office, for example. A woman picks up. She’s so happy to hear from me. She asks, ‘How are you doing? How was your weekend?’ I’m shocked! I’m like, I don’t even know you, why are you asking me this?!

“Americans also need to be positive. I would come to work, the people would ask, ‘How are you doing?’ I’d say, ‘I’m okay.’ And they’d go, ‘Oh my god, what’s the matter?! How can we help?’

We finished the bottle shortly after. Suzanne, being the sweetheart she was, let me play the Alp-horn, during which I disgraced this beautiful art form with some sputtering, flatulent sounds before handing it back over. The sun was now setting, so we all bid each other adieu, and then Jeremy and I dipped into some fondue.

My time in Switzerland eventually came to an end. Jeremy was a fantastic host. We had wall-to-wall activities in the most gorgeous environment I have ever experienced. Our last night we went camping with like fifteen guys in the most manliest of adventures, eating bratwursts and drinking strong whiskeys with fires and grunts and general cacophony.

My last morning, I was at the train station, smelly and barely slept, taking a train from Leysin to Rome. The Swiss woman booking the ticket looked puzzled. “I’d love to get you a longer layover in Milan,” she said.

“Why?” I asked. “Isn’t twenty minutes long enough to transfer?”

“Yes, but the train might not be on time.”

“Really?” I said. “I thought they were pretty reliable.”

“Well, in Switzerland, yes. Of course. But with Italy…” She shrugged her shoulders in a helpless gesture.

That comment made me smile. Like I said, if Switzerland was the buttoned-up sibling, then Italy was the rascally middle child. And I yearned to get back.

After all, Italy was my reason for travel. And now my Italian adventure would begin.