Swiss Tease

It was a dreary mid-morning when I touched down in Geneva, but the precipitation was only successful in dampening my sweater, not my spirits. I was extraordinarily excited and could scarcely believe I was finally in the playground of Europe.

The genesis for this trip occurred back in early January, when I scoured—as I perennially do at that time of year—the New York Times’ list of fifty-two places to visit over the coming twelve months. One of the locations was Vevey, Switzerland, slated to host the sporadic Fête des Vignerons. I had never heard of the place before, nor had I heard of its wild, once-in-a-generation wine party, but I made up my mind pretty much lickety-split that I wanted to attend.

Fast forward to summer, as the festival’s opening date was on the horizon, and I began laying the groundwork for the vacation. I borrowed two Switzerland guide books from the local library—Lonely Planet and Frommer’s, of course—and began charting an itinerary. I selected locations in the cantons of Geneva, Vaud and le Valais, charting what I thought would be a stunning little tour. And during my work trip to Shanghai at the end of July, I finally buckled down and booked my flights. 

I also reached out to several of my friends who I thought might want to join in some of the fun. My old roommate Valentine lives in Geneva, but, sadly for me, was summering in Paris. Another former roommate, Max, lives in Zurich, but my itinerary wasn’t slated to include a stop there and he couldn’t get away. My good friends Ben and Angele relocated from Hong Kong to Lyon earlier this year, and their new home is only a few hours’ drive to where I’d be, however they were on their own holiday in the south of France during my visit.

But one friend was able to make it happen: Bernadett. Now living in Germany, she immediately expressed interest when I told her about my plans. Not long afterwards, we were discussing dates. She couldn’t join for the whole ten-day extravaganza I had put together, but the first few days fit in well with her schedule. She found flights in on Tuesday evening and out on Friday morning. That left Wednesday afternoon—after my own arrival—and all-day Thursday for us to explore. As such, it was slated to be a brief get-together, but we were both determined to milk it to its full potential.  

Upon making my way from Geneva Airport to the heart of the city, I immediately found my travel companion, who had spent the previous night in a simple but fantastically located hotel near the Rhône, which made our reunion as easy as possible. She was anxious to lead me on a quick meander along the city’s iconic lake, since she had done some exploring during her alone time.

Had it been a lovely day, we likely would have found an appealing spot for a nice lunch and a few drinks. But the skies looked far from promising. Actually, ominous would be a more apt descriptor. Strolling along, under the famous Mont Blanc Bridge with a view across to the Jet d’Eau, we made an executive decision to hop straight on the train to Lausanne, our first stop in the canton of Vaud. And it was a great choice.

Having arrived in our next destination, we swiftly checked in to our historic lodging, the elegant Hotel de la Paix, and hit the town. Miraculously, the clouds began to part, and a few traces of a lovely afternoon began to manifest themselves.

It wasn’t a glorious day yet. But if Geneva had seemed wedged in the midst of a long drizzly spell far from its conclusion, Lausanne at least had the appearance of nearing the end of the gloom. I can’t pinpoint exactly why, but I just had a feeling that pretty soon, we’d see the sun come shining through.

Bernadett and I hadn’t seen each other since she was in Hong Kong last March, fifteen months ago, and with only two nights together before she had to head home, it seemed right to celebrate with a special feast. What could possibly be more appropriate for a first dinner in Switzerland than indulging in gluttonous fondue?

The fruits of my research yielded two possibilities: Frommer-recommended Pinte Besson and Lonely Planet-approved Café de Grancy—the latter only serving fondue on Wednesday evenings, which just so happened to be the day of our arrival.

What was I to do, faced with two seemingly-stellar options? I booked a table at each of them the week before, of course. I reasoned that during our day, we could stroll past both to check them out in person, perhaps even grabbing a drink or nibble, before ultimately making a final decision.

It turned out Pinte Besson was only a few minutes’ walk from our hotel’s front door, so we made a beeline for it. Boy, was it adorable: a slender sliver of an ancient building that had somehow managed to survive all the way into the twenty-first century. Painted a smokey yellow and accented by well-weathered sienna shutters, the building grabbed your attention instantly. And the small-but-inviting front patio seemed as good a place as any for a quick celebratory drink.

As Bernadett and I chatted with the friendly bartender-cum-waitress, she offered us tastings of two Swiss whites—including a local Fendant, a crisp, summer-friendly tipple—my first sips of the country’s wine. We instantly ordered two glasses and plopped down at an outdoor table. We were even provided a complimentary platter of local meats, which was most welcome. I had a feeling we’d found our dinner venue.  

After cleaning the plate and emptying our glasses, a few turns up some winding roads brought us to the foot of Lausanne’s famous cathedral, where the view from the hilltop confirmed my prediction about the weather. The sun had burnt through the cloud cover, exposing bright blue skies all around!

After a quick visit inside to check out the church’s lovely interior, we were back on the streets, our next objective to track down Café de Grancy. We took the opportunity to ride the city’s metro, which consists of only two lines. In fact, it is claimed that Lausanne is the smallest city on earth to have its own subway system.

We got a little lost negotiating the avenues of the elegant neighborhood into which we emerged, but it was an enjoyable misadventure. And before long, we found the place, a much hipper spot than the previous one, and, in an entirely different way, delightful.

It was early still, long before our reservation. Since Bernadett and I both agreed Pinte Besson seemed a better pick for dinner, why not pause for a moment at Grancy, order a cheese platter and continue sampling the glories of Swiss wine?

We told our waiter that we had originally booked a table for dinner but had arrived in Lausanne earlier—and hungrier—than expected, so we preferred to dine now, if possible. He couldn’t have been friendlier, and before long, he had brought us bread and cheese, one glass of white and another of rosé! As I downed my Fendant, I couldn’t help thinking, how could a wine I’d never even heard of before possibly be so delectable?

The day kept improving, and post-cheese, we continued our exploration of this new city, ultimately arriving at Ouchy, Lausanne’s picture-perfect waterfront port on Lake Geneva. It was such a photogenic little spot, with banks of flowers, timeworn buildings and lots of locals profiting from the unexpectedly glorious weather. The afternoon pretty much evaporated, and before long, we had to be retracing our steps—via metro again—back up towards Pinte Besson.

The darkened, discolored interior of the restaurant (which opened all the way back in 1780) made for as atmospheric a dining room as ever I’ve found. The handful of tables were mostly filled with celebratory patrons, the unmistakable smell of fondue permeating the air. In a word: heaven.

The food at Pinte Besson is prepared in an upstairs kitchen and delivered to the ground floor dining room by way of a ramshackle dumbwaiter that must be at least fifty years old. And our perfect location just beside the noisy contraption kept teasing us with aromatic morsels destined for other tables, before it clickety-clacketed in what were clearly our dishes: the restaurant’s signature fondue moitié-motié—made with equal parts Gruyère and Vacherin-Friborgeois cheeses—and a generous helping of steak tartare.

To wash them down, Bernadett selected a lovely bottle of Fendant—said to be an ideal accompaniment to fondue—from the restaurant’s extensive list. And, altogether, it was a magical dinner. The perpetually bubbling molten cheese, our raucous neighbors, the zesty wine. The atmosphere felt appropriately festive, a pitch-perfect first night of a long-anticipated holiday.

Our waitress advised us not to skip dessert. I’m sure we never had any intention of doing so, anyway, but her suggestion of homemade meringue with double Gruyère crème couldn’t have been more well-received. The meringue was exceptionally crisp on the outside but almost soft at its core, and the decadent cream into which you dipped it was simply to die for. As full as I was from all the heavy food, I know I could have easily slaughtered a second helping of that unforgettable dessert.  

It was a leisurely repast, clocking in at well over two hours by its conclusion. But such occasions are far too special to be rushed, and my culinary introduction to Switzerland was as exceptional as I have always dreamed it would be. (And I have dreamed of it for a long time.)

En route back to Hotel de la Paix, we stopped for one drink. Surreptitiously tucked beneath the vaulting of Lausanne’s Grand Point, there sits a tiny bar called Les Arches. It came highly recommended by the Lonely Planet, and we had located it during our walk towards the restaurant a few hours earlier. I’m so glad we both mustered the energy to return for a nightcap after dinner, because it provided a fitting finish to what had turned into an irrefutably stellar first day.

I had high expectations for this trip from the start, and at several points during the planning stages, I wondered whether I wasn’t putting unfair pressure on Switzerland to live up to them. But the sum total of the last twelve hours had already surpassed my wildest fantasies. I went to bed unbelievably excited for what Thursday had in store.

That next day started much, much earlier than I had anticipated. I wasn’t really able to sleep all that soundly, so when the clock struck five, I decided I might as well take advantage of the jetlag and see Lausanne in the early morning light.  

As I tiptoed out of the room and hit the streets, I could just tell that the day was going to be absolutely gorgeous. The cobblestoned boulevards—with hardly another pedestrian upon them—reflected the sun’s soft rays. An ethereal blue sky, occasionally cut by pink clouds, hovered over the city’s ancient buildings. And I had it all to myself.

I returned to meet Bernadett for breakfast in the hotel’s restaurant before we caught the train to Montreux. We snagged window seats on the lakeview side of the carriage, and I was just awe-struck by the sheer beauty of the scenery on display. The still, cerulean waters of Lake Geneva, gorgeous waterfront homes, vineyards clinging steeply to the cliffsides, the dramatic alps of France on the opposite shore, and low-slung clouds that could slice open an eye, à la Un Chien Andalou.

It was less than a twenty-minute ride, and we disembarked in one of the most strikingly beautiful villages imaginable. Famous for its annual jazz festival, Montreux is blessed with an impeccable natural setting and equally lavish architecture. I can’t even summon the words to describe the aristocratic sophistication and charm of the place. It was like an old-world picture postcard had somehow become real.

Our objective that morning was the Chateau de Chillon, probably the most famous of all Swiss castles. From Montreux, a flower-strewn waterfront path called the Promenade Fleuri extends for two miles to the renowned fortress. And we enjoyed our morning jaunt, as the views just kept getting better.

Eventually we reached the castle, with its turrets and towers and fabled history, which is thoroughly explained throughout the twenty or so rooms included on the self-guided tour.

In order to avoid the crowds, we re-arranged the order of our stops from the suggested path, but we saw it all in the end, from the antique chapel to the imposing prison where François Bonivard was kept in chains for four years, inspiring Lord Byron to write his famous poem, The Prisoner of Chillon, which has all but ensured the castle’s inclusion on every tourist’s Lake Geneva itinerary.

With our visit completed, it was now time to head to Vevey, for the Fête des Vignerons! And instead of taking a boring old train or bus, we were going in style, aboard La Suisse, a Belle Époque paddle steamer built in 1910, maintained and operated by CGN. And what a view we had as we pulled away from the dock!

In case you’re as unaware of the Fête des Vignerons as I was until the New York Times opened my eyes to it eight months ago, here’s a quick crash course. Firstly, although most of the world is largely ignorant to its existence, Switzerland’s wine is utterly fantastic. So, if you think Swiss wine sounds like a joke, you may be right. Only, the joke’s on you!

The country produces over one hundred and ten million liters of the stuff annually, of which about ninety-nine percent is consumed within its own borders. This leaves only one percent for the rest of the world, and the bulk of that winds up next door in Germany. So, it’s really only the tiniest fraction that travels further afield. 

Why, you may ask? Well, with such well-established exporters as France, Italy and the United States saturating the international market, Swiss vintners—vignerons, in French—simply opt to keep their treasures close at hand. Even with all that local wine, the country still must import a ton of foreign bottles to quench the national thirst. So why share?

Thus, upon arrival, many tourists are surprised to learn of the country’s robust local wine industry—and even more stunned at its deliciousness after their first sip!

You can count Bernadett and me among them, but we are now firm fans. And I’m certainly not waiting until my next trip to Switzerland to indulge again. I have already researched how to order a private stash online.

Well, obviously, anywhere there are vineyards, there are wine festivals, running the gamut from miniature to mammoth. Most take place annually, celebrating the local harvest. The Fête des Vignerons, however, is much less frequent. It was first organized in 1797, but local unrest the next year coupled with the Napoleonic Wars that continued sporadically for the next twenty-two years, halted further iterations until 1819. Apparently, this put an idea into the heads of the Confrerie des Vignerons, the organization responsible for planning the event. Why not make this a truly once-in-a-generation celebration?

Consequently, although its history stretches back over two-hundred years, the 2019 Fête des Vignerons was only the twelfth to take place, the most recent ones having been in 1999, 1977, 1955 and 1927!

Don’t confuse yourself with needless mental math; there is no logic to the chosen years. The Confrerie is free to set the date whenever they see fit, the only restriction being a maximum of five Fêtes per century. The shortest gap was a mere fourteen years while the longest was twenty-eight!

And the next one? Well, the date hasn’t been chosen yet. Apparently, the Confrerie will announce this in about five years’ time, after which—like Brigadoon or the seventeen-year cicadas—the Fête des Vignerons will pretty much vanish from public consciousness until its next appearance.

The ephemeral nature of the event was what really convinced me to make this entire trip happen in the first place. After all, I was twelve at the time of the last Fête des Vignerons in 1999. And I don’t really feel like waiting until I’m in my early fifties to experience it.

So, as I guess you can imagine, an overwhelming feeling of anticipation spread over me as I stepped across the gangplank and La Suisse’s massive paddle wheel began turning. First class tickets from Chillon to Vevey cost a mere CHF 6, and since I had purchased a half-fare card entitling me to fifty percent discounts on all travel, my own ticket cost only CHF 3.

Sitting aboard the open-air top deck was a splendid experience as we chugged away. The sun was shining as bright as ever, but there was a balmy breeze a-blowin’. And although it was only around 11:30am, it seemed silly not to toast to a peerless morning with a glass of white from the ship’s bar. We were headed to a wine festival, after all. This wine was called Chasselas, though I later learned that it’s the same thing as Fendant, only that different cantons in Switzerland refer to the grape by different names.

We stopped briefly in Montreux to pick up some additional passengers, and before long, La Suisse’s horn let out a loud blast as Vevey came into sight. I could just tell I was going to love the place.

The first sign that something special was in the air came from the enormous stadium right on the waterfront near the ferry pier, purpose-built for this year’s Fête. Towering over quaint Vevey, this arena—with the capacity to seat twenty thousand spectators—somehow managed to seem both terribly out of place and strangely appropriate. (The knowledge that it will soon be dismantled and isn’t a permanent addition to the Vevey skyline bolstered its case.)

As soon as we were back on dry land, Bernadett and I promptly spied an information counter and approached the friendly youngster—who looked to be still in his teens—manning the booth. We had tickets for the big show in the arena, but that wasn’t until 9pm. We assumed there would be plenty of other things to keep up busy during the day, but we didn’t know any specifics. Maybe, we reasoned, this guy could steer us in the right direction.

He explained that today there was a special event within the larger Fête called Un Jour au Paradis (One Day in Paradise). It enabled visitors who bought a ticket to receive a special wine glass, which you could then have filled at eight different bars around town. Bernadett turned to me: “Well, I guess we know exactly what we’re doing with our day.”

He handed over a map showing us how to reach the first location, though I must admit we got pretty lost trying to find it. The upside was that during this wander, as we strolled down a quiet back lane, we passed a house with a sign upon it, proclaiming that this was where the world’s first milk chocolate had been created back in 1875.

A few moments later, we realized we had actually walked right by our destination ten minutes earlier without realizing. This was because the “bar” for which we had been searching was actually a bona fide railway carriage—like something out of Murder on the Orient Express—that had been reconditioned into a tiny saloon. As it would turn out, none of the eight stops for Un Jour au Paradis were bars in the usual sense of the word. They were all pop-ups in unique locations that had sprung to life for this day only!

We bought our glasses under a little tent just beside the train, and we then took our seats in the well-appointed carriage. A few moments later, our glasses were full and the sound of live jazz was wafting through the air, courtesy of the Macadam Jazz Band.

They played tunes like “I Can’t Give You Anything But Love, Baby” and “Bei Mir Bist Du Shön,” and they were truly astounding. Even after we had drunk our glasses dry, we lingered for quite a while simply listening to the superb musicianship on display.

Our feet easily carried us up a small hill to the second stop, the esplanade fronting the Church of St-Martin, overlooking the city, with a view of the arena and some of the town’s other distinctive buildings. With our glasses again filled, we opted to complement the local wine with a cheese and charcuterie platter showcasing the flavors of the region.

It was a seriously good decision that called for supplemental vin, because… well, just because. There was also a cheese-making demonstration nearby and a local ice creamery peddling their concoctions, so you can bet we indulged.

 

 

It was at this stop that I began to realize how family-friendly an event the Fête des Vignerons really is. Several of the Confrerie’s spokesmen had stressed in interviews that it’s not a wine festival per se, but rather a winegrower’s festival. The celebration encompasses the whole winemaking process, honoring the men, women and children who play a part in it.

And if you ponder this for a moment, it makes sense. Most of the region’s wines come from small, family-owned vineyards. It’s the children—by learning the craft from their parents and grandparents—who will one day inherit the land and continue the traditions. And they are also the heirs who will be responsible for planning future iterations of the Fête, so they are welcomed with open arms all throughout the celebrations.

The map led us down the hill back towards town for the third stop, the small but ever-so-elegant garden of the Musée Jenisch, a fine arts gallery dating to 1897. The action was focused around a small rectangular fountain, as costumed festival participants bisected the scene.

You see, since the Fête has its roots back in the eighteenth century, many elements—especially the fashion—feel wonderfully out-of-place in the modern world. It’s entirely normal to encounter someone who looks as if he’s just stepped out of a cabinet meeting with George Washington, or another whose come from a costume ball at Versailles, perhaps clutching a cell phone to his ear as he strolls right past you, looking confused as to why your fumbling to get your camera out quickly enough to snap a photograph! This happened over and over—and over—again throughout the course of the day.

Unlike the two earlier locations, there wasn’t much in the way of supplementary entertainment in the garden to keep us engaged after we had finished our wine. But it really was a lovely spot.

The Parc du Panorama, stop numéro quatre, was only a few minutes’ walk, and the atmosphere was palpable as we entered the leafy enclosure. Everywhere you looked there were children juggling pins and rings or perfecting their Chinese yoyo skills. While jazz had provided the soundtrack earlier, here it was the constant din of exuberant laughter. Of course, this stop was hosted by the Swiss Museum of Games!

To our surprise, as we were seated on a shaded bench taking in the scene, a spirited group of Swiss teens began a well-rehearsed routine, showing off their dexterity with displays of intense Chinese yoyoing, the art of mime, traditional juggling and, er, what I guess I would call “block juggling.” They were full of energy and star quality. It was clear they were having the time of their lives.

We stayed until the show was over, now five wines in. (Remember, we bought a supplemental one outside the church.) Our elation was steadily growing with the draining of each glass. But this stop was proof that while wine certainly augments the Fête des Vignerons, it doesn’t define it.

The next location was literally just around the corner, the Cour au Chantre, a luxurious private mansion with an opulent verandah. It was sponsored by Chaplin’s World, the museum that has taken up residence in the former home of Vevey’s most famous expatriate inhabitant, Sir Charles Chaplin. Although the international superstar technically lived in the small hamlet of Corsier-sur-Vevey, just over a mile uphill, his connection here is the town’s marketing strategy of choice. You’ll find his impish likeness everywhere—in the form of signage and statues—and references to his most indelible works in the names of hotels and restaurants.

Between the twin staircases leading up into the Cour au Chantre, a mini-carnival had been erected. Here, in addition to the expected bliss of another glass of wine, you had the chance to win further prizes if you could successfully toss a replica of the Little Tramp’s iconic bowler onto one of his canes. It was an amusing little game, though Bernadett and I both failed miserably in our endeavors. Perhaps if this had been the first stop instead of the fifth? Then again, maybe our throws would have been even less accurate. We’ll never know…   

But we were now back in the center of Vevey, near to where La Suisse had deposited us earlier. This was clearly the hopping heart of the town, its colorful streets full of visitors and teeming with activity. And it was fun to explore.

At l’Hotel de Ville, the town hall—doubling as stop number six—there was live music and a most wonderful ambiance. The wine was going down very easily. But the sun was also beaming down very steadily, and all the umbrella-covered seats were already occupied. So, although it was a dreamy spot, we took our glasses and sipped as we continued forward.

Realizing how close we now were to the lake, Bernadett and I decided a waterfront gambol on the shaded promenade would provide welcome respite from the ultraviolet rays. When we saw on the map that the crawl’s last location—Entre-Deux-Villes—was situated only a little further along the wharf, we opted to flip-flop the tour’s penultimate and ultimate stops, strolling to the delegated final booth next and then re-tracing our steps backwards later to redeem a last top-up.  

As we walked along Quai Perdonnet, the unmistakable melody of a fife and drum corps filled the hot summer air. By now, anachronistic apparel on the odd passerby seemed an ordinary occurrence in Vevey. But the abrupt appearance of an impromptu gaggle of Continental Army era-appropriate musicians provided sufficient spectacle to pause and watch the parade go by.

It was a joyful little moment indeed, but the next musical performance surpassed it in poignancy. As we continued forging ahead, we stumbled upon a waterfront stage where a brass band called l’Echo de Corjon was belting out a tune so maudlin, so plaintive, so unforgettable, that its memory is still haunting me more than a week later. I don’t think I’d ever heard the melody before, but I’ll never forget it. Nor will I forget the female trumpeter—in her dark sunglasses and plum purple vest—who carried the nostalgic strain so beautifully. 

Around this time, I remarked to Bernadett that, “If I ever had the chance to create my own country, it would probably look a lot like the Fête des Vignerons.” She laughed, but it was a true statement. The wine flowed like a toddler’s crocodile tears, high-caliber music of infinite variety was everywhere, and a universal aura of jollity and friendliness emanated from everybody we encountered.

That next stop we had decided to visit out of order, Entre-Deux-Villes, was but a tiny stall placed in yet another spectacular location. My Lonely Planet gushed about Vevey: “its position is perhaps the best on Lake Geneva, looking deep into the crux of the Alps across the shore.” And who I am to disagree? The view towards France was the vista of your dreams, complete with bobbing yachts in the tiny harbor, the Fête des Vignerons flag proudly hoisted on one, billowing in the wind.

We found the last stop—the only one located within a building and not in the open air—back towards the heart of town: the lobby of a local arts center called the Théâtre-Orientale. With oversized arched windows and skylights allowing the late afternoon sunshine to pour in, the bright space could just as well have been outside.  

Our “Day in Paradise” was now complete. But there was still plenty on our agenda to keep us busy. Firstly, Bernadett and I both wanted to do some souvenir shopping, so we hopped around a few boutiques, including the official Fête des Vignerons store. Before long, we had six commemorative wine glasses and two fridge magnets, plus a couple other assorted knickknacks by which we hope to remember the day.

We also popped in to Restaurant La Clef, one of Vevey’s most storied establishments. Like most local brasseries, it ceases food service between lunch and dinner but remains open for drinks. Thus, the place was empty when we plopped down at its most famous table, where Jean-Jacques Rousseau supped all the way back in July of 1730. (A gold plaque in its center attests to the timeworn slab’s significance.)

When I return to Vevey—and I will—I’ll surely find the time for a full meal at la Clef. But for this first visit, I ordered a carafe of Chasselas, while Bernadett only wanted a soda. So, lucky me, I got to savor the whole jug myself!

We had some more wine near the waterfront and even squeezed in espressos at the famous Hotel des Trois Couronnes, where Henry James set significant portions of his classic novella Daisy Miller. But before long, it was time to head to the temporary arena, where all twenty thousand seats had sold out that night, for the centerpiece of the Fête des Vignerons, le spectacle, as everybody referred to it. (You have to articulate the word as the French do: spec-TAC-leh.)  

The show itself was slated to kick off at 9pm, but—uncharacteristically for the Swiss—actually began about a quarter of an hour later than scheduled. But, boy, was it worth it!

Le spectacle aimed to illustrate a year in the life of a vineyard as seen through the eyes of a young girl, guided by her grandfather. Most people have compared the end result to a cross between an Olympics closing ceremony and le Cirque du Soleil. And since it was designed and directed by Daniele Finzi Pasca, whose previous creations include the closing ceremony of the 2006 Winter Olympics in Turin and Cirque du Soleil’s Corteo, that’s a pretty apt comparison.

It also reminded me of so many of the live shows my family caught at Disney World during our frequent trips during my childhood. Except this was on a truly gargantuan scale, with as many as six thousand players crowding the stadium at once! Costumed actors running all around, giant bugs, or falcons, or soldiers or playing cards. There was even a winged fairy hovering high above all the proceedings. Honey, I blew up the musical!

And let’s just say, it was pure enchantment. First, the floor of the stadium was entirely taken up by the world’s largest LED screen, which played a huge role in the production. Second, the music was catchy as hell. A specially-written score by Jérome Berney, Maria Bonzanigo and Valentin Villard (and libretto by Stéphane Blok and Blaise Hofmann) kept me snapping my fingers and tapping my toes throughout its entire three-hour length. Third, it wasn’t just me! The whole boisterous crowd really got into the performance, applauding and whooping wildly at its most mesmerizing moments. And lastly, it really was just a spellbinding pageant, with breathtaking climaxes that dropped twenty thousand collective jaws.

Bernadett and I made the conscious decision to stay in our seats until the very end of the show, even though we saw several of our fellow audience members sneaking out during the grand finale. Twenty thousand spectators (plus six thousand performers) all exiting the arena at the same time would likely clog the aisles for an hour as we all attempted to fight our way out. Perhaps these early departees were sensible individuals with solid advice from friends who’d been to previous performances. But we really didn’t want to miss the show’s final moments.

You can imagine our shock when, after the stage went dark and we headed off, we reached the street in about forty-five seconds! An even more delightful surprise came in the form of our transport home. We had expected to take the train back to Lausanne but saw a large CGN ferry docked at Vevey’s pier as we exited the stadium. The friendly crew told us it would depart for Lausanne in about forty-five minutes, and that we could buy tickets aboard!

Bernadett splurged on one last helping of Chasselas, a Jennie—an oddly-sized five hundred milliliter vessel, midway between a three hundred and seventy-five milliliter half bottle and a standard seven hundred and fifty milliliter bottle—which we sipped as our ship pulled away into Lake Geneva, and the Fête des Vignerons disappeared into the night. I saved the empty bottle, now standing proudly alongside my Un Jour au Paradis glass in Happy Valley, a regular reminder of one of my life’s great days.

I will return often to the Fête des Vignerons in my dreams, that indelible stretch of hours without a single hair out of place. Indeed, if I had the whole thing to do over again, I wouldn’t change a moment of it. I remember remarking to Bernadett at the time that even if each of the next eight days of my vacation turned into a complete and unmitigated disaster, I’d still be glad I took this trip. The day was that good.

Yes, it was a short reunion with Bernadett but a sweet one, for certain. After another hearty breakfast at Hotel de la Paix on Friday morning, she headed back to Germany, and I continued my exploration of Switzerland.

Of course, there was no way I was visiting this part of the country and not checking out Chaplin’s World. So, less than twelve hours after leaving Vevey, I was headed back again. I didn’t linger in the town, but rather caught a bus straight up to Corsier, promptly bought a ticket, and was soon walking through the private residence of one of the most legendary movie stars of all time.

I’ve been aware of Chaplin pretty much my whole life, but I really fell in love with his work during high school, when MK2 released his major films on high-quality, two-disc DVDs. I bought most of them: City Lights, The Gold Rush, Modern Times, The Circus, The Great Dictator and Monsieur Verdoux. And every single one of those titles has a place on my list of favorite films. So to wander from dining room to library to bathroom to bedroom in his beloved house was a sublime treat.

In case you don’t know, Chaplin was born in London but achieved his greatest success in Hollywood. A long-term expat living in California, the superstar had his re-entry permit to the United States revoked during a trip abroad in 1952. While his wife Oona, née O’Neill—daughter of the famous playwright Eugene O’Neill—closed up their house in Los Angeles, Chaplin decided to establish the family’s new home in Switzerland. He purchased a sprawling estate called Manoir de Bain, with an idyllic position overlooking the towering alps, and it was here that he and Oona raised their large family and, ultimately, lived out their days.

In addition to the house itself, a purpose-built exhibition space on the grounds—called the Studio­—provides a more interactive way to get acquainted with Chaplin. Through wax figures, original scripts, historic props and wardrobe, projected movie clips, and a slew of awards bestowed on the artist later in his life, the Studio is a thorough tribute to one of filmdom’s true geniuses.

Once done with the museum, I strolled down to the small cemetery where the Chaplins are laid to rest. The great British actor James Mason’s grave is a few paces away, as he also made his home here. I said a few prayers before I carried on walking all the way back to the town center.

My next destination was a place called Martigny (pronounced like the cocktail), in the adjoining canton of Le Valais, about forty minutes from Vevey by train. The city crept onto my itinerary for one simple reason: it’s the epicenter of the Saint Bernard dog breed. For centuries, the monks high atop the Great St-Bernard Pass—where I’d be heading the following week—sheltered the hounds at their famous hospice. Since time immemorial, the animals had provided invaluable support in seeking out and saving lost travelers.

But modern technology has rendered search-and-rescue dogs obsolete, and it was getting prohibitively expensive for the monks to house and feed the gentle giants for purely sentimental purposes. Thus, they ceded responsibility to a charity called the Barry Foundation—located at the bottom of the pass in Martigny—which is now charged with looking after the iconic Saint Bernards, proliferating the breed and teaching the world about its history.  

So, after dropping my bags at the amazing Martigny Boutique Hotel, I almost immediately set out towards Barryland. Having not eaten since breakfast, I headed directly to the museum’s charming outdoor restaurant, where I ordered a local beer and another meringue with double Gruyère crème, which I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about since that first dinner in Lausanne.

The museum is small but interesting, though the real reason to visit is to spend time with the dogs. There are hourly meet-and-greets where visitors have the opportunity to play with one of the many residents. Most friendly was a three-and-a-half-month-old pup named Zeus, who loved the affection he received from all the museum’s attendees. I was also sure to catch the nightly feeding time at 5:15pm, as the tail-wagging giants wolfed down their supper in a most memorable fashion.  

But there’s actually a lot more to Martigny than Barryland! In fact, just a few minutes’ walk from its front door is the Pierre Giannada Foundation, a widely-admired art gallery with an intriguing collection of classic cars and a stunning sculpture garden with works by some of the world’s most important artists.

There’s also a medieval castle overlooking the town, called the Château de la Bâtiaz, surrounded by more steeply-terraced vineyards. It’s a long, tough trek from the city below to the base of the imposing structure, and an even harder climb up the one hundred and twenty steps of a rickety wooden staircase to the top of the tower! But the panaorama that unfolds once you’ve stepped outside is unmatched, with endless Alps and the fast-flowing Rhône.

Below, the road leads over a picture-perfect covered bridge—augmented by ample flowers—that crosses the river and winds back into town. It’s yet another photogenic wonder in this delightful little place.

Lonely Planet steered me towards a delicious crêperie called Le Rustique for dinner, located on the town’s main drag. I splurged and ordered a bottle of Norman cider to complement my meal, which included both a savory ham, cheese and mushroom crêpe for my main course and a sweet strawberry one for dessert. It felt like a well-deserved prize after that trudge up to the castle, and I was exhausted as I melted into the bed back at the hotel.

Before making tracks on Saturday, I decided to savor an al fresco lunch in Martigny. I wound up at Steak House on the town’s main square, la Place Centrale. Recommended by the front desk staff at my hotel, it was a replacement for my first pick, À La Part des Anges—located inside the Bâtiaz Castle itself!—celebrated for serving authentic medieval fare. Unfortunately, the night before, when I was up at the castle, it was closed for a private event.

Although the opening hours posted on its website indicated it should be serving lunch that day, my phone calls went unanswered and the blue flag that’s hoisted to alert the town to the restaurant’s opening remained unraised. And I wasn’t about to repeat the arduous climb I had barely survived the day before unless I confirmed with certainty that I could dine there.

And, in a way, it’s nice to leave some things undone, justifying a perfect excuse for a stop in Martigny on a return visit to Switzerland. Besides, Steak House was a lovely spot indeed, and my Pur Burger Valaisan—made from the prized beef of local Hérens cattle topped with bacon and artisanal cheese from a nearby dairy farm—was a real winner. Of course, I had a glass of Fendant to accompany it.

It was only a fifteen-minute train ride from Martigny to Sion, a place I was incredibly excited to explore. The city—the capital of the Valais—was highly recommended by both of my guide books. Lonely Planet described it as “bewitching,” while Frommer’s awarded it two stars and singled it out as one of Switzerland’s six “best small towns and villages.”

I had booked an AirBnB for the night, the only time on this trip I strayed from more traditional lodging. And, in addition to the magic of the town itself, the local perspective I gained through fascinating conversations with my ever-helpful host, Sabrina, made my short stay here exceptionally special.

Yes, as beautiful a town as Sion was—and, to be honest, it must rank up there with the prettiest—my memories are equally of gracious Sabrina and the time we spent together. Even though her apartment was very easy to locate, she sent a friend to find me as I made my way from the train station. Upon arriving, she welcomed me with plentiful fresh fruit and cold drinks, even offering me a local mobile phone to use during my stay.

After I settled in, she then voluntarily took me on an introductory saunter around Sion, pointing out her favorite streets and buildings and advising me on how to maximize my day of exploration.

And maximize it, I did.

The conclusion I reached is that Sion is simply—excuse me, but I must purloin Lonely Planet’s descriptor here because there is no adjective more apt—bewitching. It was probably the most photogenic city I discovered on this trip, one of those places that, in spite of its small geographical size, proved endlessly captivating.

As the sun sashayed across the Swiss sky that afternoon, its constantly evolving light cast spells over the cobblestones, fountains, staircases, balconies and façades of this one-of-a-kind little town. I kept turning up and down the same crooked streets over and over again, because every hour of the day felt completely new and different.

Sion is most famous for a pair of age-old castles capping two of its hills, the Château de Tourbillon and the Château de Valère. The former is a veritable ruin, never having been rebuilt after a devastating fire destroyed the bulk of the fortress in 1788. The latter, contrarily, is marvelously well preserved. Perched across from one another—with the sprawling Rhône Valley rolling away into the distance—the duo proudly stand guard over the whole of the town.

On summer Saturdays, there are afternoon concerts in a twelfth-century basilica ensconced within the Château de Valère compound. And it wasn’t just a coincidence that my visit happened to overlap with one. You see, the church houses the world’s oldest playable organ, which was built around 1430 and is still in perfect working order. It seemed like a truly rare opportunity to hear music played on so ancient an instrument, so when I formed this trip’s itinerary, I made sure I was in Sion for my one Saturday in Switzerland.

After the concert, I hiked up to Valère’s fraternal twin on the next hilltop, where the vista was breathtaking. The sunny valley, the chalky river, the venerable châteaux, the endless vines… I’d seen lots of stunning panoramas after three days in the Alps, but this one easily takes the top prize.

There was quite a lot more wandering on my part as I pondered my dinner options. After all, it was a difficult choice. Because the weather was so perfect, part of me wanted to select somewhere with an atmospheric outdoor terrace. But the eatery whose menu most caught my fancy was set in a darkened thirteenth-century wine cellar.

So I made a compromise: I stopped for a happy hour Fendant at an airy sidewalk café before finally settling into a cozy, dim spot at the Cave de Tous Vents for my evening meal.

As a true turophile, I knew our inaugural cheese feast in Lausanne would be but the first of many. I didn’t even hesitate in narrowing my focus to the fondue section of the restaurant’s menu, of which there were a whopping thirteen options! I selected the house specialty, fondue Tous Vents, melting together four different cheeses in a caquelon all for myself. And I washed it down with another Jennie of a type of white wine I'd not yet encountered, a Johannisberg, from the local Varone Vineyard.

I ended my dinner as a silvery night descended upon Sion, and I snaked my way through town as I retraced my steps back up the steep streets towards the twin chateaux, where a thrice-weekly light-and-sound show sees floodlights projected onto their well-weathered stones while the timeless melodies of Johann Sebastian Bach are broadcasted from discreet speakers. I arrived about sixty minutes before showtime, but I found a perfect rock ledge from which to watch the free extravaganza.

And even though that might seem like a long stretch to weather, it didn’t worry me one bit. I loved drinking in the darkening view of the illuminated castles under the moonglow, as that hour just dissipated.

First presented in 1959—and now taking place on Thursday, Friday and Saturday evenings at 10:15pm—the spectacular thirty-five-minute display was a fitting ending to another faultless day. It was made even sweeter by the easy walk back to Sabrina’s apartment afterwards— along Sion’s hushed Saturday night streets—and the incredibly comfortable mattress that was waiting for me there.   

Perhaps unsurprisingly, I woke early that next morning and almost immediately returned to the cobbled streets of Sion for a Sunday wander. It was beautifully peaceful. I also had a phenomenal breakfast at Sabrina’s, which she graciously and lovingly prepared in her homey kitchen: coffee a-plenty and fresh fruit and pastries and even chocolates.

We had a wonderful chat about a whole flock of subjects, and, in hindsight, a major highlight of my entire trip was simply getting to know her that day, my first truly comprehensive, in-depth conversation with a local resident, shedding light on many interesting topics. We spoke of Switzerland and Hong Kong and America and Algeria (where Sabrina was born), we chatted about food and drinks, of the places I’d been so far on this trip and of where I would soon be heading. It was another instance of me not wanting to move on to my next destination, but knowing I’d have to make tracks.

Compounding the urgency was an e-mail from my next hotel informing me that their front desk closes at noon on Sundays, so I would need to arrive before then to check in. Luckily, there was a train departing shortly that would get me there just in time, and I caught it by the skin of my teeth.

I thought Sion had been sleepy but alighting at Salgesch, I was struck by an almost noiseless calm, an otherworldly stillness. A few other people got off the train, but apart from them, there were no signs of life. I had also crossed the frontier from francophone Switzerland to the German-speaking part of the country, and, although I couldn’t quite put my finger on exactly why, I could tell there was something different, even without hearing a word.

I easily tracked down Hotel Arkanum, and the charming receptionist, Valentina, not only checked me in and greeted me with a welcome drink (a glass of local Fendant), but also took me on a quick tour of the hotel, showing off some of their, shall we say, quirkier rooms, including one which has a massive wine barrel doubling for a bed!

Briefly exploring Salgesch, I ducked into the nearby church and enjoyed spotting the vines and grapes that enfold the town, before re-tracing my steps towards the train station to head to adjacent Sierre.

You see, Sierre was really my main destination for the day. But when I read about a hotel in the next village that used wine barrels for beds, my mind was made up. I convinced myself that a less-than-ten-minute train ride was a fair trade-off to stay in such special lodging.

The two towns are also linked by a meandering four-and-a-half-mile trail called the Sentier Viticole, or Wine Path, but I was in a bit of a rush that afternoon. So, after a mere hour or so in Salgesch, I was again seated aboard a train backtracking towards what is purported to be the sunniest town in Switzerland. And, even then, I hardly lingered. I followed a brick line in the pavement that lead to a steep funicular railway, linking Sierre with towering Crans-Montana, a resort high in the Alps.

When I first put together my game plan, I had wanted to spend the whole day Sierre. But when I learned that the summer’s only cow fight, or Combat de Reines, was taking place in Crans-Montana, I knew I couldn’t pass up the rare opportunity. I’d be back down in Sierre in a few hours, but I had to see this event! I excitedly exited the funicular and a friendly ticket lady guided me towards a free bus that was meant to take me to the alpage (or mountain pasture) where the event was being held.  

Unfortunately, for the first time this trip, nothing went right. I alighted at the purported stop but could not find my way to the supposedly free cable car meant to convey me to my final destination. Contradictory information abounded! Finally, someone told me to wait for another bus headed in the opposite direction, and that I should get off at “Arnouva.”

Asking all the passing buses if they’d be stopping there, I was met with a continuous stream of negatives. Finally, as I was just about to throw in the towel and head back down to Sierre, a bus pulled up and the driver nodded as I exasperatedly implored, “Arnouva?”

And there was another lady, equally confused, on that bus who was headed the same way, also named Valentina, just like the receptionist back at the hotel, and also exceptionally friendly. It turned out she was a local politician contesting in the next round of elections, and a stop at the cow fight was on her campaign trail.

We found our way to the cable car together, and, at long last—make that a few minutes shy of two lost, lonely hours since I had stepped off the funicular—I was at my destination with a new friend.  

I was reminded of a quote from the original screenplay of Preston Sturges’ Unfaithfully Yours, which was cut by the censors from the actual movie but survives in print form. In the passage, main character Sir Alfred de Carter outlines his track record of four failed marriages, summarizing the particulars of each’s undoing. “My third attempt nearly succeeded; it came within a fraction of an inch, which is all you need to miss a bus by.” Unlike poor Sir Alfred, I made that bus, and it turned out to be one of the luckiest breaks of my trip.

Valentina and I were just in time to catch the last two or three cow fights, which, inevitably, included the day’s most important match to crown the victor. But, more than the event itself, it was the after party—and the people I met there—who made it such a stellar stretch of hours.

There was Christian and his fiancée Danielle, plus their pals Marie-Jeanne (MJ, for short), Alex and a whole flock of other Swiss friends who showered me with good fellowship, free wine and tasty food. They were very impressed that an American living all the way in Hong Kong had made his way to their country to experience the Fête des Vignerons. And we spent most of the afternoon listening to amazing live music, dancing and partying.

It started torrentially downpouring at one point, but this crowd took it all in stride, singing along with the band as groups of revelers collectively tied the curtains to keep as much of the rain out of the tent as possible.

As the party continued unabated, Christian and I got to chatting a bit more. “Would you like to come up to our chalet with us for a little raclette afterwards?” he asked. There is only one answer to that question. Of course!

Sure enough, just a few meters uphill from the site of the festivities was the most charming little alpine hut imaginable, complete with a welcoming fireplace and a fresh wheel of local fromage. Christian and Danielle had a particular contraption on hand for cheese melting, and, after the rain had subsided, they provided me with the Swiss dinner of my dreams: raclette to my heart’s content.

Christian also served a special homemade alcohol which he referred to as “la sauce,” or something similar. It was delicious, but dangerous. And as the raclette kept coming, and my glass was perpetually refilled, I began to get the impression I might not make it back to Salgesch that night at all.

By the time we were done with Trivial Pursuit (en français!), my convivial hosts suggested I simply crash in their guest room, nestled beneath the triangular roof of the chalet. Since the last cable car down had already run, I didn’t have much of a choice. But even if I did, I’m sure I would have savored the rare opportunity to sleep in a local dwelling. The next morning, as clouds rolled through the mountains, I awoke with a slight hangover but permanent memories of an exceedingly spectacular evening.

I was even chauffeured all the way back to the Hotel Arkanum, sad to leave such incredible new friends but ecstatic at the once-in-a-lifetime experience into which I had so fortuitously—er, make that randomly—stumbled. Sometimes, it’s all about whether or not you catch that bus!

My plan for Monday was the least formalized of the entire trip. In fact, I didn’t even have a hotel booked, and part of me considered extending my stay at the Arkanum for one more night, to properly explore Sierre and Salgesch. Remember, I had hardly gotten to see either, owing to the unexpected opportunities that had arisen at the cow fight, which I had thought would take up two or three hours—tops—but wound up consuming an entire afternoon and evening!

So if I stuck around an extra day, I could wander the Sentier Viticole, discover each town’s wine museum, sample the local goods at various vineyards, and eat at one of the restaurants I had intended to visit for dinner the previous night.

But there was another option. My former Hong Kong roommate, Guillaume, with whom I shared an apartment in Wan Chai way back in 2010, had studied hospitality management in Switzerland and settled there after graduating. When I reached out to let him know about my upcoming trip, he informed me that he and his girlfriend Dayle had just taken over the management of a hotel in a town called Arolla, also located in the canton of le Valais. And they invited me to come up and see them.

Unfortunately, since exchanging a few messages trying to work out logistics, I hadn’t been able to get a hold of Guillaume again. But reconnecting with old friends has been a highlight of so many trips for me that I’ll bend over backwards to make it happen. He had given me the name of his hotel, and Google was sufficient in telling me how to get there from my present location. “Today’s your only chance to go, and he’ll probably be there,” I reasoned. “You might as well give it a shot.”

Thus, I decided—after an hour or so sampling the glories of the Sentier—that I should make the effort to trek up to Arolla. I was taking a chance, to be sure. But something inside me told me to go for it.
   

I caught the train from Salgesch back to Sion, from where I had to quickly transfer to a PostBus that took me high up into the Alps. And it wasn’t even a direct route: I had to switch buses in a random village called Les Haudères. To boot, it seemed as if all my fellow passengers were on organized hiking tours, complete with walking sticks and other intense mountain climbing gear. It was obvious the temperature was dropping as the bus climbed higher and higher, and I wondered whether I had taken a false step by opting to make this journey. It had been beautiful down in Salgesch, and now it looked like it might be on the cusp of freezing rain.

It was a steep walk uphill from the Arolla bus terminus: a sustained climb of about fifteen minutes, navigating elbow-shaped mountain curves. But then I set eyes on the Grand Hotel and Kurhaus, and I began to giggle. It was massive, a huge, hulking stone structure built in the 1890s, with wooden balconies and banks of colorful flowers. A fire was clearly burning inside, and the whole place exuded a kind of warmth that can only be found in very cold places. I was inexplicably excited as I crossed the threshold.

Looking around once inside, I didn’t see Guillaume. But I introduced myself to the friendly young lady at the front desk, who, of course, turned out to be Dayle.

“Guillaume,” she informed me, “is running some errands this afternoon, but he will be back a little later.” Then came a major surprise: “But you know his brother, Marco, don’t you?”

“Why, yes, actually. As a matter of fact, I do,” I replied, unsure why this was a relevant subject.

Replied Dayle, “Well, he’s having lunch downstairs!”

In a stroke of impeccable timing, it turned out that Guillaume’s whole family also happened to be visiting, including his older brother, who I had met during his own trip to Hong Kong during the five months when Guillaume and I had been roommates.  

Dayle walked me from the reception desk down to the convivial restaurant, L’Honorine, and presented me to the clan: Guillaume’s charming parents; brother Marco and his wife; and Guillaume’s sister and her husband. Marco’s eyes lit up when he recognized me, and mine did, as well. A few minutes before, I was unsure I had made the right decision to take a shot on travelling all the way up here. But now, in an instant, I knew it had been the only choice. Again, I had caught the bus… or, in this case, a train and two buses!

Guillaume’s family immediately invited me to join them for lunch, so I plopped down, ordered a glass of Fendant and some rösti (a wildly popular hash brown-like Swiss potato dish, here mixed with heaps of fresh, local ingredients), and felt like I’d joined a table of old friends.

After a few games of pool, I also took the opportunity to explore the stunning environs of the Kurhaus. I wouldn’t exactly call what I did that afternoon a hike, but I ventured up into the wooded hills that surround the hotel, where I stumbled across all sorts of flora and fauna. And I felt like I got to see a completely natural side of Switzerland.

Later, Dayle asked me what my plans were for the evening. “Can you stay over? The last bus down will be leaving not too long after Guillaume’s return, so it won’t allow much time for you two to catch up. But if you are happy to sleep here, we’ll gladly put you up for the night and drive you back down wherever it is you want tomorrow morning.”

I’ve never been so overjoyed not to have a firm itinerary. “I just need to be at the train station in Sion by a quarter to eight tomorrow morning to head up to the Great St-Bernard Pass. So as long as we can manage that, I’m all yours!”

“Parfait! We’ll make sure you get there,” she replied, as she handed me a key. Delighted, I went up to the second floor and dropped my bags in the room.

A gentle rain was falling as I breathed in the cool mountain air from my balcony. Rain is usually an unwelcome addition to any summer vacation. Yet here, high in the mountains of Arolla, it instead offered a sublime afternoon enhancement, underscoring the coziness of the wood paneled, old-world hotel and the inherent beauty of the Alps.

I was back down in the restaurant playing cards with the family when Guillaume made his long-awaited appearance, in a dreamlike moment I’ll remember for a long while. We hadn’t seen each other in nearly a decade. And yet, here he came, waltzing into L’Honorine, the homey restaurant of the Alpine hotel he now manages—an hour from nowhere in the middle of the Swiss mountains—where we embraced in one massive bear hug.

Our now sizeable group spent the rest of the evening together. Of course, Dayle and Guillaume had to pop away from time to time to attend to the needs of their paying guests. But the company was exquisite. By the time we sat down to dinner, I felt like a member of the family myself. And I didn’t think twice about celebrating with yet another caquelon of fondue, which the waiter enhanced by adding in a shot of local kirsch.

I went to sleep in my mountain paradise, a little sad at how short the visit had to be, yet ineffably warmed straight through to my soul at the almost impossible perfection of the day.  

Guillaume met me in the lobby of the Kurhaus early the next morning, and I greeted him with a hushed but content “bonjour,” its two syllables encapsulating all my pleasure in his having managed to find a way to get me from Arolla to Sion in time to catch the trains and bus that would whisk me to what promised to be yet another amazing highlight of a trip that now seemed to be composed exclusively of highlights.

Yes, Tuesday was my day to venture way up to the Great St-Bernard Pass, where I had a bed booked at the legendary hospice. As promised, Guillaume drove me back towards Sion, as he pointed out villages and interesting sites during our descent.

One of Guillaume and Dayle’s friends, Genevieve, lives midway between Arolla and Sion, where she also works. So I hopped out of one car—bidding a fond farewell to Guillaume—and switched into another—with a quick hello to Genevieve—that shuttled me the rest of the way.

It's a long, windy road, with stunning views, a picture perfect summation of Swiss highways. And to add one last sublime moment to my Arolla adventure, a picture-perfect rainbow was lolling over the valley as we made our last turns down into town. 

My anticipation was bubbling over. Truth be told, after only the Fête des Vignerons itself—the catalyst for this entire trip—the second feature of my journey to which I was most looking forward was my brief furlough with the monks and hounds of the Great St-Bernard Hospice. As soon as I read about it in my two guide books, I instantly knew there was no way I’d be leaving it off the itinerary.

But short of driving yourself, it’s not the easiest place to reach. I’d be taking three trains and a bus, assuming all went according to plan. Still, I can scarcely recall ever being so excited.

I caught the train from Sion to Martigny, where I then found a waiting St-Bernard Express about ready to depart. But since the line splits, I’d have to change trains a second time, in a small station called Sembrancher, a town of a mere eight hundred citizens. There, a third train would take me onward to the village of Orsières, where I’d catch the final bus that would deliver me up, up, up to the very summit of one of Europe’s most storied mountaintop passes.

My connecting train was duly waiting when we pulled in to diminutive Sembrancher. I crossed the platform, boarded a carriage and plopped down, dropping my bags on the seat. But my eyes were instantly drawn out the window to the towering mountains just beyond. I enthusiastically returned to my feet, stepping out of the train to take in the scene and snap a quick photograph, when, all of a sudden, the doors promptly shut, leaving me helpless on the platform as the Express departed.

I could do little but watch as my belongings—backpack, passport, laptop… everything, really, but the clothes on my back and the wallet and phone mercifully still in my pocket—chugged off to Orsières without me!

Thrown into a panic, I ran to the small, bright pink station office adjacent to the tracks, where I found one woman seated behind a desk. In broken French—suddenly unable to express myself in this one essential moment, although I’d been impressed with my abilities over the past week—I described my predicament. She called ahead to the next station, La Douay, to explain to them what had happened.

Try though she did, all my friendly champion could secure from whomever it was on the other end of that phone was a vague sort of agreement that, should an employee be available when the train called at their station, he would try to locate my bags and remove them for safekeeping. Then, when my subsequent train called at La Douay, that same person might be waiting for me on the platform with my belongings.

I returned to my isolation on the cold platform, my mind racing with visions of impending doom. Was this the moment the trip was going to go from perfection to disaster? Would I ever see those bags again? But then, an instant later, another thought went through my head. This is civilized Switzerland, not some Godforsaken third-world hellhole.

Studying the map more closely, I realized that Sembrancher is the start of a mini-leg of the St-Bernard Express, with a mere three stops. Looking down, there didn’t even appear to be parallel tracks for two trains to travel in opposite directions. Instead, it looked like one train shuttled back and forth on the same track all day. If my observations proved correct, in all likelihood, the very same locomotive would almost certainly return to Sembrancher with my stuff still on the same seat. So if I just stood at the spot on the platform where I had inopportunely exited, the bags might be there in a few moments.

Of course, this is exactly what happened. The next scheduled train pulled in, and I was relieved, overjoyed and thankful to see my bags right were I’d left them. I stayed firmly in my seat for the whole two minutes between the train’s arrival and its scheduled departure. And then we were off.

As fiascos go, this one couldn’t have ended up much better. Heck, I’d still be catching the same bus up to the hospice; I just swapped in a twenty-minute wait in Sembrancher for the one I would have had to endure in Orsières had things gone as originally planned. And before I knew it, I was seated on the bus.

It was yet another long and windy ride—longer and windier, in fact, than the one from Arolla to Sion—up the steep, steep mountain roads that lead to the top of the pass. And it was far from a lovely day, with low hanging clouds hovering just above the pine trees, obscuring the summits of the towering peaks.

When, at last, we arrived at the famous hospice, I couldn’t see twenty feet ahead of me. You’ve heard of the proverbial fog as thick as pea soup, but this had the consistency of the gooey fondue I ate the night before at Guillaume and Dayle’s hotel. All of a sudden, a building would suddenly appear out of the mist and, just as soon, vanish. It was as otherworldly a landscape as I’ve seen on this earth.

Saint Bernard of Menthon founded a hospice atop the vertiginous pass in 1049, but the current complex consists of a seventeenth-century sanctuary and a nineteenth-century auberge, built in a similar style and connected to the main building by a second-floor covered walkway.

Once inside, I quickly found Brother Frédéric, with whom I had corresponded via e-mail to reserve my bunk in the sixteen-bed dorm in the original building, and he showed me how to find my room. Of course, being the day’s first arrival, I snagged the best spot of the lot, right up against the window, where I hoped I would have a view when—if—the clouds cleared. 

And I quickly made my way to the complex’s small but grand church, with its incredible painted ceiling. I also ducked into the fascinating museum a few feet away, where the treasures of the hospice are proudly displayed, from a fragment of the true cross to a thorn said to come from the crown of thorns worn by Jesus at the crucifixion.

Just next door is a more comprehensive museum run by the Barry Foundation, covering the history of the pass from its earliest days, and, of course, encompassing the historic kennels the famous dogs called home for centuries. And just like Barryland down in Martigny, there are scheduled feeding times and meet-and-greets with the stars, since a handful of dogs are temporarily relocated to the pass during the summer months, for sentimental, tourist-oriented purposes.

Twice a day in summer, the Barry Foundation even organize hikes—randonnées, in French—into the hills around the hospice with two or three of their dogs. I had excitedly booked myself a spot on the afternoon outing long ago, and it’s not an exaggeration to say that it was the single item on my day’s schedule for which I was most excited. I probably would have made my way up here regardless, but it was learning about these hikes that really induced me to include the Great Saint Bernard Pass on my itinerary.

So my heart sank a little when I approached the Barryland information booth, where I was told the morning hike had been cancelled due to the bad weather and the afternoon hike was still tentative. I was advised to come back in a few hours to confirm whether it would go ahead or not.

I consoled myself with a wander, as the clouds slowly—but surely—did begin to disperse. The fog was still low, make no mistake, but it had lifted enough to reveal bits of blue sky and some of the features of the pass. It was my first chance to explore an area I had oh-so thoroughly researched, and I was elated when I finally set eyes on the picture-perfect lake that had been completely obscured until this point.

Then I walked to Italy. Yes, you read that right! You see, the hospice is located only a few hundred feet from the unmanned border between Switzerland and one of its European neighbors, so I meandered down the gently sloping road that leads away from the museum, and suddenly found myself in another country.

In addition to the hospice, one of the most iconic attractions of the pass is a statue of Saint Bernard of Menthon himself, cloaked in his monk’s habit, holding a staff in his right hand and perpetually pointing with his left towards the refuge that has borne his name for over a thousand years. Located on the Italian side of the border, the statue was surrounded by visitors as I approached, and while I climbed up to the base of the pedestal, two thoughts entered my mind.

First, I was reassured that my hike would go forward as planned—as long as the weather held—because it was now an unmistakably beautiful day. I looked out across the lake towards the hospice and auberge, the green hills and rocky crests further revealed by an ever-lifting fog. But, second, I realized in an instant that, even if it had to be cancelled, I was still one lucky son of a gun for having the opportunity to lay eyes on this ethereal, far-flung locale. It was already another highlight of my trip.

Back in Switzerland, I spent some more time exploring the hushed, stone-floored corridors and common spaces in the venerable hospice and auberge, before scaling a small hillock which afforded yet another sensational view over the religious complex. And, before long, I returned to the Barryland booth, where they confirmed to me that the afternoon hike would proceed as scheduled!

Now, I’ve noted before that I tend to freely throw around superlatives when I write or speak about my travel experiences. Friends often joke that tales of my exploits can lose their meaning amid so many “best evers” or “greatest experience of my lifes.” But that afternoon, just after 2pm, we set off on our walk. And it was, quite simply, one of the best ever, greatest experiences of my life!

I know what you’re thinking. How can that be? I paid money to take some dogs on a walk. Fifty francs, as a matter of fact. Does that really make the cut of top travel moments? I mean, I take Fredric on a walk multiple times per day back in Hong Kong. It just doesn’t add up.

But there was something so special about this. We started and ended at the museum, where our guides from the Barry Foundation introduced me—and the charming Spanish family of five (mother, father and three sons) who had also signed up for the hike—to our trio of Saint Bernards: Kia, Patsch and Syrah—possibly the most beautiful pooch I’ve ever seen in my life, sorry Fred. An they were clearly itching to get some exercise!

We headed out behind the hospice, down into a valley on the far side of the pass. There were gurgling streams, small waterfalls, wildflowers, craggy summits and pockets of lingering August snow. Even without the dogs, the views alone would have assured a memorable afternoon. Add them in and the result is perfection.

In fact, just like had happened in almost every other location I’d visited in Switzerland up to this point, I began to wish I could stay longer. There must be a million trails out in every direction, so I was a wee bit dejected that this would likely be the only one I’d get to properly experience—at least on this first visit!

After we had journeyed ten minutes or so downhill, one of the guides handed Kia’s leash to me. “Would you like to walk her?”

“Would I ever!” was my immediate reply, as I took control of the massive hound. I’m not quite sure whether I took Kia for a walk, or she took me for one, but I’ll never forget those first moments, as the natural splendors of the pass, combined with the history of the hospice and the novelty of bonding with the iconic Saint Bernards swept over me all at once.

The afternoon sun was shining down, and it was hard to believe that just a few hours earlier, our hike had come close to being cancelled due to treacherous weather. But it also highlighted the fearsome nature of the pass—and underscored the whole reason why the original Saint Bernard had established his hospice in the first place. And why the monks, some centuries later, had bred the noble dogs to assist in their mountaintop rescues.

When we reached a particularly picturesque vantage point, our guides gave a few simple commands to the dogs, who promptly posed in a most majestic fashion, allowing us to snap some great photos. Picture a cool wind blowing, flowers swaying to and fro, clouds swiftly piercing blue skies. Although I speak no Spanish, and the other family spoke little English or French, we shared so many little moments like this, and I’ll always remember the laughter of those boys as they played with the dogs in this impossibly beautiful locale.

The clean air, the grandeur of mother nature, the larger-than-life personalities of the Saint Bernards. It was two hours of sheer bliss, augmented on the way back up by several romps in the brooks, as Kia, Syrah and Patsch, who had clearly worked up a thirst, quenched it with icy mountain spring water while we all looked on.

This is pure, unadulterated life goal material, folks. Now I can always live on the memory of that afternoon when I hiked with the Saint Bernards atop one of Europe’s most famous mountain passes. If you ever find yourself in Switzerland in the summer months, take my word for it: put visiting the Great St-Bernard Pass at the top of your list and make it a point to sign up for this hike.

I walked back to Italy after we had returned to the museum. (I love that sentence.) I enjoyed browsing the souvenir shops on the other side of the border and taking in the sublime views, so much so that I wound up encircling the entire lake before arriving back at the hospice from the other side. There were bright purple wildflowers in bloom and a soft breeze causing them to dance in the wind. I was entirely alone, and I felt exceptionally lucky as the sole audience member who got to witness their dazzling recital. I could have spent the rest of the day outside.

But part of me felt that I owed some more time to exploring the museum itself, which I had rushed through on my morning visit. Encompassing everything from the ancient founding of the hospice by the original Saint Bernard of Menthon to a well-documented visit from Napoleon Bonaparte in 1800 and the origins of the now iconic dog breed to first hand chronicles of what it’s like to struggle through a bleak winter in the desolate locale, it’s a wonderful place to brush up on your history. I spent a fascinating chunk of time there and learned a lot about the Pass that afternoon.

The summer kennels are ensconced within the museum building, so, of course, I also couldn’t pass up the opportunity to witness another doggie mealtime, as around ten of them furiously chowed down in their various indoor pens. Again, I watch Fredric eat breakfast and dinner pretty much every day back home. Why I found it so entertaining to observe this activity is a mystery. But I loved it.

I was among the last visitors to leave the museum just as its doors were closing for the day, with a few patches of blue remaining in the sky but an increase in the cloud cover that had started to encroach upon the scene.

At 6:15pm, the monks at the Hospice celebrated a beautiful Vespers service in a small chapel—called the Crypt—tucked beneath the main church and reached by yet another flight of timeworn stone steps. As I sat in the low-vaulted space, with a chance to reflect on the exceptional day, a wave of emotion ran over me, and I couldn’t help but feel so incredibly grateful that things had worked out so stupendously. But when I re-emerged into the dusk air of my high mountain locale, I felt like I was in some other world.

The clouds had not only returned but veritably invaded the Pass. The weather was even more dismal than when I had arrived in the morning. The lake had disappeared again, as had all the dramatic craggy peaks that lend such an air of individuality to the setting, unmistakably identifying it. Now, unless you were right up close, you could hardly see anything.

What’s more, the day trippers had all departed, leaving the place with a feeling of desertion. And it was freezing, to boot! The temperature had dropped precipitously, I guess through the combination of the disappearance of the sun and the arrival of the thick fog. I cannot even imagine the place during a bona fide blizzard, but I felt like it had gone from summer to winter while I was down at Vespers!

And, truth be told, it was all pretty perfect. I had done everything I intended to do by this point, and the pass is not exactly known for its happening nightlife. I had a simple plan for the evening: dinner, Compline prayers and sleep.

With the deterioration in weather came a perfect excuse to indulge in another amazing caquelon of fondue—this time mixed with incredibly aromatic mushrooms—in the small restaurant attached to the auberge across from the hospice. Yes, I had now had fondue for dinner four of the past seven evenings, including the last two consecutively. But I’m pretty sure my favorite part about being an adult is the ability to make these kinds of decisions for myself.

And I’m sure you won’t be surprised to learn that I complimented it with a Jennie of Fendant and capped off my meal with some ice cream doused in a shot of a local brand of Poire Williams called Williamine. As the waitress finished pouring the standard amount of liqueur, she looked down at the bottle, which now had slightly less than a full shot remaining. “I’ll just pour the rest,” she said with a wink. “You seem like you’d enjoy a little extra.” She figured me out fast.

Compline prayers began at 9pm, again in the Crypt, providing a fitting, suitably spiritual ending to the day. So much had happened—the day had been so full—that I could scarcely believe my near-debacle at the train station had taken place that very same morning! After a quick nightcap in the shared dining room of the hospice and a few moments in a cozy communal reading lounge down the hall from my dorm, I tiptoed past the (only two) other sleeping guests to my own mattress by the window, from which there was nothing to see but blackness.

It was a supreme joy to awake within the walls of the Great St-Bernard Hospice. And the dining room proved a simple but fitting spot for a simple but fitting breakfast, which consisted of little more than bread and butter with some coffee and tea. Still, I loved every minute of it, especially the conversations with my tablemates, including a Maltese couple I had bumped into several times the day before and my two “roommates,” American friends Amanda and Jessica, who were in the midst of a massive trek from London to Rome, a popular route known as the Via Francigena. While I had considered my night in a shared dorm to be the least luxurious accommodation of my whole trip, it was the ritziest these two ladies—who were used to sleeping in tents in the great outdoors on many other evenings—had enjoyed for weeks!

Unlike the previous day, Wednesday was superb from the get-go, the morning sun radiating down over everything without any apparent effort. And so, perhaps unsurprisingly, I decide to spend some more time basking in the outdoor wonders of the remote locale. I hiked up into the hills, looking down over it all, promising myself that I’d be back again someday.

But, before long, it was time to walk to Italy again, because I was catching the bus down to the town of Aosta, the main hub of the famous Aosta Valley, from which I’d be journeying to Chamonix that evening.

I also needed to squeeze in some souvenir shopping before leaving the Pass, and the nicest shops and stalls I had found the day before were all located just across the border, beside the Italian bus stop. And, boy, did I stock up… Fridge magnet, napkin holder, several plush doggies, and most memorably, a genuine brandy barrel complete with working spigot, so Fredric can revive me on my most desperate Hong Kong mornings.  

The ride down through the Aosta Valley was stunning. And, as a Parisi, I was determined to make the most of my brief time in Italy. I didn’t have long to linger, but I found a charming al freso restaurant  called Trattoria Aldente, where I had an amazing Valdastano lunch in the picturesque town center.

I ordered the full tasting menu, to sample as many of the region’s specialties as I possibly could in my short window. And I ordered a glass of  red wine to accompany my meal, as it hit me that I’d only been drinking white for days on end!

Of course, I took some time to wander the impossibly quaint streets of Aosta, too, stumbling on fountains, historic buildings and lively squares. Yes, the next time I’m back to this corner of the world, you can bet I’ll linger longer to soak up more of the charms of the Aosta Valley.

But on this occasion, owing to my tight schedule, I had to catch a 2:15pm bus to Courmayeur to ensure I was there in plenty of time before my Flix Bus departure later that evening. Though its name may sound French, Courmayeur is actually the last town on the Italian side of the Mont Blanc Tunnel, connecting it to famous Chamonix on the opposite end.

And I really enjoyed the short interlude there. Basking in a sunny park under the impressive gaze of Western Europe’s highest mountain, cooling off with incredible ice cream from Crème et Chocolat, snacking on delectable free canapés while quaffing full bodied Italian reds, it was a beguiling afternoon. Again, I found myself wishing I could spend a night or two.

Crossing the Mont Blanc Tunnel was an experience in itself, that two lane, seven-plus mile marvel of engineering that took more than ten minutes to traverse. But I was most excited to arrive at my destination, which did not disappoint.

You see, my mom and dad visited Chamonix back in the late 1970s, just one stop on a massive, multi-month backpacking extravaganza around Europe. They fell so impossibly in love with the place that, upon buying their first puppy as a couple years later, they named her after the town. And so I grew up knowing its name from my earliest days. It was indescribably special for me to discover the town for myself, and, just as my parents, to become instantly smitten with it.

I was not strictly hungry, but—having breakfasted in Switzerland and then lunched in Italy—there was no way I was passing up the opportunity to dine in a third country in a single day! And, once I had selected Josephine as my preferred dinner venue, I indulged in a hearty French onion soup and an order of flavor-packed escargot, plus a nice Côtes-du-Rhônes and a Perrier to wash it all down.

The utterly charming hotel where I stayed that one precious night was called the Langley Gustavia, from which I had a tranquil view out over the towering mountains. In fact, I didn’t even have to rouse from my bed in order to snap a great photo of the incredible scene the following morning.

Although I had wandered around town a bit searching for a restaurant the night before, it’s impossible to fully appreciate the beauty of Chamonix in the darkness. Its dreamlike natural setting depends on proper lighting to fully appreciate the snow-capped peaks, graceful architecture and colorful flowers that town planners have strewn all over the place. And since my bus to Geneva wasn’t leaving until 12:30pm—and I had woken up around 6:30am—I had a full morning to soak it up.

I walked and I walked and I walked. I walked past churches and cafés and statues of mountaineering notables. I walked along the gurgling Arve; I walked across a covered wooded bridge strewn with flowers; I’m pretty sure I walked down every single street in the miniature downtown. And I loved every moment of it.

Of course, when my dad found out I was hitting up Chamonix, he requested a t-shirt, so a good deal of my morning was also dedicated to scoping out the ideal specimen to bring back for the old man. And when I spotted a picture-perfect nineteenth century chocolate and macron shop, I didn’t hesitate to stock up on goodies.

It took a little less than two hours to reach Geneva that afternoon, and I was elated to finally explore the place. As you’ll remember, I pretty much landed and hightailed it over to Lausanne upon my arrival the previous week. So it was a long wait to discover one of Europe’s most quintessential cities.

After walking to my hotel—the Bel’Espérance, associated with the Salvation Army—and checking out its glorious rooftop patio, I headed straight into the atmospheric Vielle Ville, or Old Town. I only had very limited time in Geneva, and I wanted to make the most of it.

First up was the famous Saint Pierre cathedral, with spectacular views out over the city. The lesson I learned there is that Geneva really is the beauty she is purported to be. I confirmed it from on high, in the bell towers of the historic church, where—whether looking out towards the lake with its spewing Jet d’Eau or taking in the jumble of crooked streets of the quarter—an arresting view awaited in every direction.  

And, of course, the inside of the cathedral was stunning as well, from its soaring vaulted ceilings to the intricately carved choir stalls. I guess the running theme of this trip was that I wished for more time in every single location I visited. But as I inspected the interior of that church in detail, I just kept wishing I’d get an opportunity to celebrate mass inside its hallowed walls. Maybe someday!

Next up was the Jardin Anglais, with its flower clock, sputtering fountains and convivial ambiance. It was a lovely summer day indeed, and it seemed there was no better place to be than the garden. And half of Geneva’s citizenry appeared to agree with my assessment!

I found a little lakeside bar, and ordered a beer overlooking the blue waters. The Jet d’Eau unexpectedly shut off just as I sat down, ostensibly due to heavy wind, but I enjoyed my leisurely break and made friends with the people who sat down beside me.

And as I continued my walk, the famous cascade suddenly began spewing its stream again! Let me take a moment to tell you a bit about this true emblem of the city. The first Jet d’Eau was launched in 1886 in order to relieve pressure on the city’s hydraulic power system by allowing excess water to escape harmlessly into the air. In other words, it had a purely practical purpose. Of course, locals and tourists alike loved the spectacle, and so it became a sort of attraction.  

Now in its third iteration, the fountain shoots off approximately one hundred and thirty gallons of water every second! What’s more, the water is launched nearly five hundred feet into the air at a speed of one hundred and twenty miles per hour! Can you do the math? That means that, at any given second, there are almost two thousand gallons of water moving through the air! (It’s difficult to write about the Jet d’Eau without liberal use of the exclamation mark!)

You can see the Jet d’Eau from many parts of the city. In fact, by this point, I’d spotted it multiple times—from the Mont Blanc Bridge as I walked away from the bus station, from the roof of the Bel’Espérance, from the northern bell tower of the cathedral, even from the Jardin Anglais a mere half hour before—but to stand under its powerful thrust, to be dampened by the spray lingering in the air, was incredible.

And, to add to everything, a picture-perfect sliver of a rainbow appeared when I was directly beneath the fountain.

I took a long slow wander back towards the old quarter, passing many stunning century-old buildings, all the while mulling my dinner options. I only had one evening in Geneva, so I had to make it count. And I ultimately settled on Restaurant Les Armures, purported to be the oldest eatery in town.

Seated at a perfect outdoor table beside the city’s historic Old Arsenal, I debated a long while over my selections. There were some mighty tempting fondues on the menu, and part of me wanted to bookend my Swiss adventures with caquelons. It seemed a fitting final dinner in the country.

Still, I had sampled fondue at four different points over this trip, in four different locations—and loved each of them, make no mistake—but I’d only indulged in raclette that single time after the cow fight. Similarly, I’d only had rösti at Guillaume’s hotel in Arolla. So, I made up my mind to branch out, so to speak, ordering raclette as an appetizer and rösti as my main course. My waitress, probably the friendliest I’d had over the past ten days, helpfully suggested serving both at the same time. “I love to drizzle the melted cheese over the fried potatoes,” she explained. I’m glad I listened.

I decided to forego dessert at Les Armures in favor of a pit stop at Mövenpick, the globally renowned Swiss ice creamery, with a flagship location a few minutes’ walk away, down by the Rhône. As I sorted through the options, I spied a Gruyère double cream and meringue concoction that the salesgirl warned “can sometimes be a bit too creamy for certain guests.”  

“I’m sure that won’t be an issue for me,” I replied, as I ordered a scoop. Initially I sat down at Mövenpick’s little riverfront patio to enjoy my treat. But before long, I decided to wander as I indulged, with the Rhône spilling into Lake Geneva as a backdrop for my dessert.

I spent the rest of the evening strolling about Geneva. Once it got dark, I had found myself back in the Old Town, where a bright full moon illuminated the cobblestones. My last full day had turned out as full and glorious as all the others. And although I was flying out the next afternoon, I was determined to tap my final half-day to all its potential.

Breakfast was included in my rate at the Bel’Espérance, and, soon after finishing, I checked out, taking my bag with me. Like that, I had arrived at the beginning of the end of my trip. A few hours more and I’d have no choice but to head to the airport or risk missing my flight home. But if I’d learned anything over the past ten days, it was that with a few hours in Switzerland, you can see a great deal.   

There was more to do in Geneva, of course, but I opted to spend my remaining hours exploring two final lakeshore villages, Céligny and Nyon. I headed down to the pier—passing through the Jardin Anglais one more time—where a 1920 paddle steamer called Le Simplon was ready to depart on its morning journey.

Sailing out of Geneva was, for lack of a better word, mesmerizing. The hum of Le Simplon’s powerful steam engine spinning its paddle wheel. The Jet d’Eau majestically spurting. The pitch-perfect weather, blue skies peppered with white clouds. And the sun shining through it all, illuminating the graceful buildings lining the lake.

I was overjoyed to be able to fit in a second steamer journey during my vacation, and that first experience—heading from Chillon to Vevey back on my second day—provided a good blueprint of how best to enjoy the cruise. Of course, I booked a first class ticket and took my place on the aft outdoor deck, soaking in the glories of the situation as best I could.

As we proceeded further, I did take the opportunity to explore a bit of the vessel, standing over her massive engine for a few moments and ducking into the elegant dining room. Yet again, I began making mental plans for a return visit to Switzerland, which will certainly entail many more excursions on these Belle Époque beauties.

Céligny is a small place. So small, in fact, that as I booked my passage that morning, the helpful ticket girl advised me that I would need to inform the crew after we had departed the first stop, Copet, otherwise the boat would not call at the pint-sized hamlet of my destination. I was pretty sure someone else had to be getting off at the same town, but, just in case, I duly approached several friendly staff members out of an abundance of caution.  

In the most surreal moment of my entire trip, the Céligny dock came in sight and our steamer berthed alongside it. The crew lowered the gangplank and I sheepishly looked around to see nobody else preparing to alight. It turned out to be true: I was the only passenger disembarking.

I crossed the walkway and began heading towards shore, when, suddenly, the boat began to depart, as quickly as it had docked. Paddle wheel turning, whistle blowing. I couldn’t help but stop and take in the scene of the massive steamer chugging away. It really had stopped here just for me!

Céligny… What a languid, relaxing place. Frommer’s described it as “one of the most enchanting of all lakeside villages” and advised setting aside some time for exploration on two wheels. Truth be told, had I not read that brief remark in my guidebook—which also highlighted that the great Richard Burton, a favorite actor of mine, called the place home for a large part of his life and is interred in the hidden village cemetery—I might not have even discovered the place. It didn’t even warrant a mention in my Lonely Planet.

But discover it, I did. And as it happens, I fell immediately and irreversibly in love. Yes, if my professional life ever takes me to Geneva on a long-term basis, I’m pretty sure I’ll try to make my home in elegant Céligny.

My first order of business was a glass of Chasselas at a waterfront shack called La Belle Célignote about fifty feet away from the end of the pier, as children swan about, yachts bobbed up and down in the small harbor and swans floated in and out of my peripheral vision. I could have easily stayed for another, or, perhaps, even for a whole bottle. But, as I’ve pointed out, my time was somewhat limited, so I summoned my inner strength and headed deeper into the village.

It was a fairly steep walk uphill from the harbor to the main square, and, complete with my chock-full backpack and the strong Swiss sun, it was a bit of an arduous climb. Oh, and I couldn’t have cared less. Even a barreling freight train bisecting the fields couldn’t begin to lessen the tranquility of the scene. In fact, in some strange way, even the locomotive seemed to enhance the peacefulness. The place was pure heaven, with vineyards and quiet country roads. Still, I must confess, that Frommer’s-endorsed bicycle certainly would have made my jaunt a tad easier.

I located the final resting place of Richard Burton in the tiny, overgrown graveyard, and said a quick prayer while I contemplated the quiet existence he must have led as he lived out his days here. It’s such a far cry from the ballyhoo of Hollywood, where the jet-set exploits of his private life—most famously his romance with two-time wife Elizabeth Taylor—kept him constantly in the gossip columns. What a peaceful respite he must have found in sleepy Céligny.

But besides seeking out the resting place of one of Hollywood’s great golden age stars, there is absolutely nothing to see or do in Céligny. There aren’t any galleries, shops or museums. There’s a little church, but its doors were locked, so I couldn’t even get a peek inside. There are a few restaurants near the town square, though I wouldn't imagine they warrant going out of your way purely to sample their culinary merits.

Paradoxically, Céligny is the joy that it is to behold precisely because of its quietude. And it won me over big time in the short two hours I spent there. Of course, I stopped for one last glass of Chasselas before moving on.

A local bus—only one every half hour—plies the road about four miles north to Nyon, the last destination of my trip. And perhaps more than any place I’ve ever visited, the town gives off the impression of truly stepping straight into a fairy tale. At any given moment, you half-expect to spy Cinderella or Belle turning the next corner, singing and dancing her way down the ancient streets.

Now nearing 2pm, I had grown appropriately peckish to savor my final meal in Switzerland, so I plopped down at an outdoor table surrounded by medieval façades at the brasserie of a local hotel, the Hostellerie du XVI^e Siècle.  

This was to be my last gastronomic impression of the country—a country, I might add, that had wowed me with practically every morsel I had consumed over the past ten days—so I felt a little pressure in making my selection. I needn’t have worried. I ordered a generous portion of baked goat cheese, served warm over greens and crisp, sliced apples. Augmented by another glass of Swiss Chasselas, it was a divine last lunch.

I squeezed what I could out of the little time I had remaining. Exploration of the remarkable whitewashed castle, a meander along the waterfront looking across to faraway Mont Blanc, an ice cream stop at renowned Gelateria Venezia—which they say people cross the lake from France to visit and which I totally believe—and strolls up and down the stone streets of this almost impossibly photogenic little stunner of a town.

I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that before I caught the train to the airport, I set aside ten minutes for one last glass of Chasselas overlooking Lake Geneva, while I almost teared up thinking back over the perfection of this vacation.

In spite of airport trouble here in recent days, I made it from Geneva to Hong Kong—via Istanbul—as smoothly as possible. There were no delays or unforeseen difficulties hampering the journey, and Turkish Airways always delivers a solid experience.

I am now lounging in my air-conditioned bedroom in Happy Valley enjoying a reunion with Fredric, who doesn’t particularly like his brandy barrel necklace but gamely poses for me while wearing it regardless. My mind is filled with amazing memories of Switzerland (and the pit stops in Italy and France), and I am already angling for a return.

Yes, it was easily one of the greatest trips of my adult life, up there with the very best of them! From cosmopolitan cities to secluded villages, from tantalizing fondue dinners to spectacular local wines, from old pals with whom I managed to reunite across years and continents to new friends who injected my vacation with vitality and generosity, from the hotly anticipated, once-in-a-generation Fête des Vignerons in Vevey to the totally unexpected, last minute surprises that were equally memorable everywhere else, this was truly that rare combination of so many perfect elements that fused together seamlessly into one rollicking holiday.

You expect your vacation to give you the best days of your month. If one or two of those days are elevated to the list of the best days of your year, it’s been a great trip. But when so many days creep onto the list of the best days of your life, you know it’s been something truly remarkable. For me, Switzerland has undoubtedly entered this unique realm. The whole experience of the Fête, breakfast with Sabrina, my night eating raclette with new friends in their chalet, the time at Guillaume’s hotel, my adventures atop the Col du Grand St-Bernard and my final hours exploring Céligny and Nyon all make my short list of favorite all-time travel memories. And there wasn’t a single location I wouldn’t revisit.

I’m sure I will be back in Switzerland, hopefully in the near future, and perhaps even with my dad and sister, who I know would just love to see firsthand many of the most memorable moments of this trip (which they’ll be hearing me talk about for a long while). If the right opportunity came up, I can even see myself living there. (I’m looking at you, Céligny.) I never thought I’d say those words a few weeks ago, but now, I totally understand why notables as varied as Ernest Hemingway, Charlie Chaplin, Audrey Hepburn, Richard Burton, James Mason, Petula Clark, Shania Twain, Phil Collins, Paulette Goddard, Coco Chanel, James Joyce, Vladimir Nabokov, Joan Sutherland and Tina Turner have all decided to call this marvelous place home. It’s a list to which I’d be happy to add my name!

See you soon, playground of Europe! And don’t eat all the cheese… I’m coming back for more!