I’d been warned before I came to Switzerland that Swiss people are weird. No one had really specified any details beyond that, so I was ready for anything.

I’d known one Swiss woman on a trip previously and yeah, she was kinda weird. How? Hard to put my finger on it.

On the train in from Luxembourg, the older Swiss couple sitting across from me were speaking to each other in Swiss German. Whenever she wanted to express agreement, or indifference, or just fill the dead air between two other thoughts, the woman would interject “Ya ya.” She said this about 42 times in 10 minutes. OK, that is kind of weird.

I had heard that the Swiss are extreme sticklers for rule-following, and that I was likely to get scolded for some very minor infraction while I was in the country.

I actually ended up experiencing this in a very positive way. On one of my voyages, two little kids were running absolutely wild on the train, sprinting up and down the aisle nonstop and screaming like a fire truck siren at the top of their lungs the entire time. This got old very very fast and was kind of hellish.

After this had gone on for a few minutes too long (it was too long after about eleven seconds) the Swiss woman sitting across the aisle from me efficiently got up, marched to the back of the train, and very quietly and calmly said something to the children’s mother, who had up until that point been exercising all the parental authority of a coma patient. I have no idea what the Swiss woman said, but that hellish shit was shut down, pronto. I was kind of happy I hadn’t heard what she said, since the calm quiet of the entire exchange made me imagine that she’d made the mother some kind of offer she couldn’t refuse, some kind of Swiss mafia promise that involved sleeping fish or waking up with a horse head in her bed.

Needless to say, I was not at all bothered by any Swiss rule-following fetishes in that moment. You go, Swiss mafia lady!

In retrospect I realize that some of the other rule-following weirdness I may have missed entirely because I don’t speak German. People could have been bitching each other out all day long and I’d have had no idea because German just sounds like that.

One weird thing about Switzerland is that they speak three or four different languages depending on where you are in the country. German, French, Italian and some version of Romani. Only they don’t speak the regular versions of any of these languages, their German is Swiss German, a dialect that the actual Germans gave up on eons ago. Their French seemed to be an actual improved version of French, which did away with some of the nonsensical bullshit in French (“sixty plus ten” instead of “seventy’). I don’t know enough about Italian or Romani to know if they were speaking pig latin Romani or what.

The reality of this for me meant that I was always speaking the wrong language to the wrong person at the wrong time. I took the train all the way across Switzerland and every time I got off to change trains, they were speaking a different language. I ducked into a train station shop to get a snack and was so proud of my smooth French as I interacted with the cashier, until I realized she only spoke German. Gott-dammit.

I did take a measure of pride in my improving skills as an incognito American traveler. Because of the existence of multiple languages with the country, train ticket-takers and other official people sized you up before speaking to you in either German or French, or, if you’re an obvious tourist, English. I considered it a success that the railway people would consistently address me in French, while speaking to the people before and after me in English, and that my French wasn’t terrible enough to change their minds.

My first stop in Switzerland was Lucerne, a medieval village on scenic Lake Lucerne. The Swiss call it Luzern just to make the train connections hard to search.

The guy running the hotel/bar I was staying in was completely cool and awesome, not weird at all. I mean, he might go home and eat Smurfs all night for all I know but he was cool to me. My room had an utterly gigantic window that swung wide open and basically turned the entire room into a balcony.

This was highly cool when the storm I had been racing up the street from the train station cut loose and lightning filled the dark sky above the city.

Thankfully the storm was brief and I still got to check out Lucerne. Lucerne is famous for this old bridge.

Which is decorated with paintings on the wood panels above commemorating… I have no idea what was going on in those paintings.

“I’m Swiss as shit right now.”

“Swiss ‘em till ya miss ‘em.”

“...what?”

Some of the paintings were just a black char so they had clearly pissed somebody off by being too Swiss.

The Old Town of Lucerne was quaint and medieval, though I have to admit after traveling through many similar towns over the past few weeks they tended to acquire a certain sameyness. You can only see so many restored medieval towns with the ground floor of every building turned into a tourist-friendly high end designer boutique store before you start to feel like they’re all the same place. Thankfully I was eventually able to find some artistic flourishes that set Lucerne apart.

One thing that struck me about all of these villages is that they all reminded me of Disneyland. That’s a ridiculous thing to say, of course, but nevertheless it kept coming to mind. And I quickly realized that Fantasyland and the Magic Kingdom are of course actually modeled on old European towns like these. The next day when I was hiking through the Alps and taking in the stunning views of The Matterhorn, I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d have the opportunity to bobsled past a Yeti, like at Disneyland. This was the first trip where I fully realized that the Magic Kingdom is basically Europe: The Theme Park. And poignantly, probably the only way that most Americans will ever experience Europe, in that facsimile.

Across the old city sits the Lion Monument.

This commemorates the Swiss Guard being massacred while trying to protect King Louis during the French Revolution. The effed up lion cradles a broken shield with a Fleur de Lis on it, the symbol of the French monarchy.

The monument’s quite sad but it’s hard not to want to tell the lion “Sorry buddy, but you were really, really on the wrong side of history here.” I was fascinated by what message the monument was supposed to send… that it would be better if France still had a monarch? I also wondered how the fight went between what I presume where elite and highly trained Swiss Guard dudes and a mob of peasants. I kept imagining the throne room fight in The Last Jedi where the guards all get lightsabered in the face but I’m ready to admit it may not have gone down that way.

The other great thing about the Lion Monument is that all the streets and neighborhoods around it have all kinds of signs saying HEY DUMB TOURISTS, THE LION MONUMENT’S NOT OVER HERE. This seemed unexpectedly salty but I’m sure it must suck having people bang on your door all day demanding to know where the lion is.

Nearby was the city church. If I can make one thing clear in this blog let it be known that the Swiss really know how to put big clocks on shit.

There’s a promenade along the lakefront that offers great views of the distant mountains and the up-close rich people.

I had basically blundered into Lucerne solely because I wanted to take the Golden Pass scenic train through the Swiss Alps and Lucerne was where that train started.

Switzerland is, by any measure, grotesquely expensive. Buying my first train ticket in the country I thought “Oh wow, that’s expensive compared to the other countries I’ve been in.” Then I realized I was looking at the price for Swiss nationals. For everyone else the ticket cost double that. Ouch. I’d been saving money on train tickets so far in Europe by traveling at off-peak times instead of buying a rail pass. And now I was about to give that all back in Switzerland.

The Golden Pass train voyage did not disappoint, in spite of the off and on rain that morning. It seems like a bit of an oversight that they fitted the train that goes through one of the most scenic stretches of planet Earth with windows that are unparalleled in their ability to reflect the train’s interior lights into every last photo you take.

The train journey ended in Montreaux, which gave me a chance to run around and take photos of the beautiful flowers on the waterfront...

...before continuing on to my actual destination, Zermatt, high up in the Alps at the base of the Matterhorn.

Stepping off the train in Zermatt, I was stunned by how invigorating the mountain air felt and babbled on about it to anyone who would listen. I was completely energized and skipped up the pedestrian-only streets of this heavily touristy and yet still beautiful little town, nestled in the crook between several towering mountains.

My mom had mentioned to me that she’d wanted to visit Switzerland since she was a small child, a feeling she took to be a sign of a past life there. I hadn’t really thought much about this in Lucerne, but now Zermatt was making me feel like I do in the Monument Valley in Southern Utah, a place that makes me feel like I have lightning running through me. If I had lived in Switzerland before, it had to have been in a place like this.

I remembered visiting a restaurant on a road trip with my mom when I was in my early teens, which had a panoramic scene around the ceiling of the room, featuring little Swiss figures in snowy chalets. Seeing that scene then filled me with an intense sense of yearning and convinced me that I’d probably had some past life in a place like that. Which would help explain how I’ve spent most of my life living in Minnesota and Alaska, the two coldest and snowiest places in the United States, in spite of growing up around Los Angeles.

I settled into my pretty little hotel, which came complete with an amazingly quaint balcony and a tram across the way that squealed as it came down the mountainside.

After paying for a few mediocre $25 meals in Lucerne, I decided I was going to outsmart the system by buying dinner from the grocery store in Zermatt instead.

At the check-out my total came to $23. Goddammit Switzerland. A pint of Ben & Jerry’s was $12.50. No wonder Swiss people are thin. Being overweight would be a sign of great wealth, as if it was still the 1400s.

I was up early in the morning and off on the steep, steep, steep trail up the mountain and out of town. What I thought was going to be a brief climb turned into three hours of up and up and up, the town below growing microscopic over my shoulder as I climbed into the sky. It was too late in the summer for most of the wildflowers to still be in bloom, but the views were still spectacular.

Partway up the mountain there was a restaurant perched on a ledge, the last possible place to buy important provisions like cake. I chugged a tall glass of lemonade before heading off further up the mountain.

I’d already had my legs pummelled by countless hikes in Wales and Germany, not to mention days upon days of city walking and theme park exploration all across Europe. As the mountain steadfastly refused to stop growing taller, I began to question if I’d signed myself up for more Alps than I was really in the mood for. The mountain was unmoved, and towered above me in response.

After wisely taking a few breaks to allow my gumption to recharge, I finally reached the top. Ah! Holy shit! The Matterhorn!

Wow. Adorable and strange black neck sheep nearby agreed.

I spent the rest of the afternoon hiking back down the other side of the mountain, taking in the epic face of The Matterhorn from every angle. The legendary mountain seemed to be forming its own microclimate, as otherworldly clouds clung to the summit and swirled in slow motion, seemingly independent of anything else happening in the sky.

Over the course of the full day of hiking I began to feel, strangely, like I belonged there. I’d picked up enough German that I could greet German-speaking hikers and mountain bikers as well as the French ones, which somehow made me feel like less of an imposter who was about to be found out.

After reaching the end of the trail at the base of the Matterhorn, the trail turned back toward town, following the river. Ah, nice. A nice flat hike back to town. I should get back in plenty of time to check out the Matterhorn Museum before it closes. Well then, that hike was tough but, it was all worth it in the end!

Switzerland allowed me to indulge this fantasy for about 20 minutes, before the trail turned hard left and went back up the mountain. Goddammit Switzerland.

Up the mountain I went.

I’d imagined this was one of those mountain hikes where the first half takes a long time but the return is a breeze. Nope. I did the math and realized I’d need to bust it if I wasn’t going to miss the museum entirely, since I would be leaving early the next morning. I double-timed it up the mountain and along the ridge, passing a mix of German and French hikers and mountain bikers as the trail ducked in and out of the tree line.

The highlight of the return was a waterfall that dove suicidally off the rock face, with the Matterhorn posing in the background.

When the wind gusted, the falling water formed a huge blanket of mist that wrapped all the way around the rock face in a ghostly embrace.

After a few hours of pushing, I reached Zmatt, probable typo and the last town before Zermatt. Cool, almost there! I passed through the tiny town and followed the trail as it... turned hard left and went straight up the mountain, again.

Oh Switzerland, you bastard.

I may or may not have been crying as I clomped down the other side of the mountain, past ancient cabins that both seemed to have been abandoned and simultaneously might be being rented out today, somehow, all of which looked like they’d burnt down two or three times. Weaving through the yards of these strange and haunted ruins made me question more than once if I was still on the trail at all. But I was, Switzerland was just getting its last laughs in while it could as the minutes ticked down to the museum closing.

I stumbled into the museum completely dehydrated and with my feet insisting that I should crawl into a coffin and die now, this life has been enough. This may have influenced my enjoyment of the museum, which was, hilariously, not at all worth racing down a mountain for. It seemed to be trying to simultaneously tell the story of the village of Zermatt and at the same time the saga of the historical efforts to become the first person to climb the Matterhorn. Strange indoor buildings attempted to recreate Zermatt farming life of old, the museum seeming to suggest these were actual real buildings that had been preserved and moved to this spot. But this was confused further by several of them obviously not being to scale, like one building the size of a car that was full of toy sheep inside.

Another room had a button you could push on the floor that opened a spinning carousel of sheep and people that played realistic village sounds. I have absolutely no idea what was going on with this thing.

The Matterhorn exhibits were somehow even less clear, as excerpts from various climbers’ letters from the 1800s were presented completely out of context, referring to their efforts to be the first to summit the Matterhorn, without the museum ever presenting the minor detail of who actually got to the top first and when. I got the sense that every Swiss person knows this by heart so they didn’t bother addressing it at all here in the Matterhorn Museum.

Another room was covered in photos from various climbing efforts, listing the year and the height that team reached. Which ones made it to the top? How tall is the mountain? Nobody knows.

Most strangely of all though was the theater, where a projector screen was obscured occasionally by panels that pneumatically lifted out of the floor and formed together into, I think, a blocky geometric representation of the Matterhorn. I sat in the theater for a while and watched an old black and white movie about some Italian guy trying to reach the top of the Matterhorn, mostly as a way to get my feet to stop loudly announcing that they were moving without me to Kansas, a flat state where people know how to treat a pair of feet.

When I bought my ticket, the receptionist gave me a stylus to use on the museum’s touch screens, a clever way to address the covid transmission problem.

The museum contained no touch screens whatsoever.

Also, there was a donkey that I think was a real stuffed donkey.

I stumbled out of the museum confused and chugged the closest Gatorade I could find, fresh from the hands of a confused child.

Stiffening and exhausted, I moseyed like an elderly cowboy over to the town church and into the small graveyard in the shadow of the church tower. Oh, I’d heard this was here! This is the climbers’ cemetery, where all the people are buried who died climbing The Matterhorn. The graves spanned from the 1800s to the present day, and it was mesmerizing seeing the timelessness implied here, people who died doing exactly the same thing, as if the 150 years that passed between them didn’t matter at all.

As I strolled along and read the gravestones, in a mix of German, French and English, I found myself deeply moved. Some of the inscriptions reflected a beautiful sense that the climbers’ families understood and honored that their loved ones had died while attempting something immense, doing what they loved most in life. This sense was balanced by the tragedy of their early passing, all from the ages of 19 to 37. Most of them had died during the descent. Some families called this out proudly on the chiseled tombstones, that their lost son or daughter had indeed made it to the top, they had won, before they disappeared into the abyss.

I was especially moved by the gravestones for climbing partners who were buried together. What an intense bond! Some graves were for unknown climbers whose broken bodies were found on the mountain. I was surprised at how touched I was by every bit of this... perhaps I was recognizing kindred spirits. I felt not only the sadness of their passing, but the exhilarating passion with which they went all-in on a dream. Even now I get choked up writing about it and looking at these photos.

I stood on the grass, overwhelmed by a deep sense of grief and wonder, as tourists streamed by the overpriced mountain fashion shops on the main drag nearby.

On my way from Switzerland to Liechtenstein I stopped in the city of Bern to see the Baby Eater.

The Kindlifresser is a fountain from the 1500s that depicts a dude eating a sack full of babies. Nobody is sure why. There are a few theories.

Theory One: The statue is a warning to Jews. This surely sounds like I listed it first purely for shock value, but it actually seems to be the most likely theory, given that the statue is wearing the same kind of distinctive pointy hat that Jews were forced to wear at this time in history. I had never heard of this before, but apparently after the Fourth Council of Lateran, Jews and Muslims in Medieval Europe were required to wear distinctive clothing so that Christians wouldn’t accidentally have sex with them.

Apparently too many Christians were getting away with the unpardonable sin of having sex with Jews under the “Whoopsie! I thought she was Italian!” loophole and something had to be done about this. The yellow stars of David that the Nazis required Jews to wear leading up to WWII turn out to have been a revival of old traditions rather than a new invention, harkening back to previous eras when Jews had to wear various badges and markings that had evolved out of those pointed hats, which themselves were often yellow in color.

Theory Two: Another possibility is that the statue represents either Kronos, the Greek titan who ate his children, or the older brother of the founder of Bern, who legend has it was so upset about being overshadowed by his younger brother that he gathered up all the children of the town and ate them. That one’s kind of doubtful since such an event was never recorded in the town history, and those kinds of things usually are written down because they make for killer movies later.

Theory Three: Or, it might just be there to scare the shit out of kids. Either it’s some kind of Krampus representation warning kids to be good, or possibly was put there to scare kids out of falling into the nearby Bear Pits, where live bears were kept as they were the symbol and namesake of the city.

I couldn’t help but laugh at the dismayed child the Baby Eater had strapped to his back as an apparent snack for later

The base of the statue featured several hip-thrusting bears who contained a lot of sass.

The rest of the statues in Bern are of bears wearing armour and other nonsensical things but none of them rise to the level of the sublime the way the Baby Eater does, effortlessly.

Two blocks away sits the apartment that Albert Einstein lived in while he was working as a Patent Clerk and coming up with the theory of relativity. If I were a different person I would claim that I went to Bern to see Einstein’s house and then just stumbled across the Baby Eater, but we both know the opposite is true. Clearly Einstein picked this location for its proximity to the Baby Eater, as pondering the mysteries of this statue cannot help but inspire leaps of incredible mental genius.

It was interesting to read the exhibits and learn more about Einstein, like the fact that he was kind of a dick to his wife. I guess that kind of stuff gets kind of swept under the rug in the grand sweep of history. It was also fascinating to see his life progression from rather humble beginnings to “crazy guy with a weird idea everybody thinks is B.S.” and finally to “literal synonym for the smartest dude there is.” When you grow up and learn about someone who is already canonized historically, it’s easy to forget that’s just where they ended up. For much of Einstein’s life he wasn’t that yet and wasn’t seen in that light.

The house/museum was free that day because it was Einstein Day or something so that was lucky for me. I celebrated by getting a weird Swiss parsley lemonade drink and wandering back through town to the train station.

Making my way to Liechtenstein wasn’t as simple as taking the train, since there aren’t any train stations in Liechtenstein. So I had to catch a questionable bus in some little town on the far end of Switzerland. As the bus pulled away I glanced out the window and saw a statue far more terrifying than the Baby Eater could ever hope to be, as it appeared to depict a small child being kidnapped by some kind of homeless clowns.

Jeez Switzerland, if you don’t want me to come back you can just say so.