Adjusted Realities of a Hopeless Romantic...

We literally breathe in literary history and sublimity in our continued exploration (and conquest) of Switzerland. The weary wayfarers of our group were tired, and rightly so, after a hike that took us from Solalex to Derborence. The grey fog clouded our visibility; only the silhouettes of the person in front of you could be seen like ghosts dancing in the mist. In the half-light of the mountains, the grey fog that had adamantly chased us up from Solalex finally lifted to reveal the majestic peaks that blanketed us. But every rose has its thorn; the beauty of the steep trails provided dangers to my fellow traveler, Cailtin, who stumbled in a particularly muddy area. The incident echoed the ideas of Ramuz—floating back into our periphery and reminding us of the mountain’s treachery. Through sweat and blood our journey ended that evening with the taste of victory triumphing over the dryness.

Saturday brought us a different adventure, however. As we boarded the train from Gryon, I could hardly anticipate the scenic train ride, the open-air market of Vevey, and the crystal waters of Lake Geneva. We soon arrived in Vevey, but behind the pale hues of the aged architecture, the town took almost a tangible form. Strolling on the waterfront, I could see why Charlie Chaplin (and a plethora of others) would spend a portion of his life here. His statue stood overlooking the lake, and I could only think what a view for this inanimate object to view everyday: the sailboats dancing and the mountains rising out of Lac Leman. In front of us, the pale shutters and the three crown insignia of Hôtel des Trois Couronnes filled our eyes and our minds. And suddenly through the streets a parade of bicyclers dressed in aged clothing strolled the streets, and I could only gain a nostalgia of something fiction; I could see Daisy Miller and Monsieur Winterbourne strolling in the warm Swiss nights around the town. I’m not sure how or why the Millers' would ever depart from Vevey, especially the grandeur of the hotel.

As we walked through the foyer, we tiptoed through the bar to the outside of the patio for drinks. Lake Geneva sat silent in front of us, as if it were posing for a picture. Despite the price tag, a whiskey sour in the Swiss breeze was as close to nirvana as I may ever come.

After our adventures in Vevey, we took the lake boat across the way to Montreaux, the home of the famous Montreaux Jazz Festival. The view of The Palace Hotel was a sharp contrast from the conservative shutters of Hôtel des Trois Couronnes. The bright yellow of the shutters almost personified the melodies that have haunted the town for years. I could almost hear B.B. King’s soulful voice while sliding Lucille’s strings in his shockingly bright attire. Fittingly, a statue of Freddie Mercury found its home near the waterfront. Caroline, Caitlin, Jay, and I ventured further into the town and enjoyed a large Feldschlösschen at the Adams Café. As we waited for our train to depart, the feeling of literary nostalgia overtook me once again. As Montreaux sloped above us, I could almost see a place where I imagined Catherine and Henry, from A Farewell to Arms, were holding each other hidden from the world and the war that raged outside.

And in the Montreaux evening, as the train loudly came into the station, I could only remember Hemingway’s words, “The world is a fine place and worth fighting for.” It most certainly is what I reflect to myself now as I sit in the rustic living room of Chalet Martin with the window open, listening to the sounds of a Brazilian and a Brit, one playing the ukulele and one playing the guitar.