On the night flight to Geneva I get sat next to an ageing French-speaking Swisser. An attendant comes to the man before he's spoken a word to me. He has some health problem; something to do with an aching foot and circulation.
“Parlez vous Francais?” he asks.
“Non, just un peu.” I surprise myself in reply.
Soon the attendants are leading him away for a medical examination. He's got a hang-dog look that says he knows this is the end of his journey for today, despite the fact he's been waiting for six hours for this connecting flight.
A few minutes later, it's announced that we have been delayed because of his mystery illness. Sitting next to me are the man's shoes. Adidas, almost new, almost my size... I pretend to drop my phone to take a closer look. Sure he may be sick and, yeah, he might be walking around in his socks, but I do kind of need some new trainers for the gym...
“We're going to leave without your friend,” says a woman in French.
Instead of continuing my hot streak of one mumbled sentence, I resort to the good old British tactic OF SAYING THINGS SLOW-LEE AND A BIT LOU-DER.
“He is not my friend.” I say in English.
“Speak French,” she replies, also in English.
I panic and hit the alarm to get an air hostess' attention to tell her about the trainers and avoid the unique brand of Gallic smugitude that will inevitably follow as I stumble over mis-pronunciations of my long-forgotten French. Je m'appelle X, je habite en Ecosse. Ah, non, je habite en Dubai et chaque jour une autre partie de moi meurt. Il ne neige pas.
We land at 6:30 local time, 9:30 UAE. I'm so tired it looks like I've been poked in the eyes with a cigar, but I manage to get on the right train to Visp. A flamingo pink eruption of colour rises from the top of a mountain behind Lake Geneva ... OK it doesn't really. It's just a reasonably pretty sunrise, but that's the kind of hyperbolic, flowery garbage that helps thing Get Published, so forgive me for practising.
The locals largely ignore the scenery – presumably they've grown numb to the natural beauty. But not me – I'm used to seeing little more than silhouettes of cranes through a dusty haze, so while they talk in German or French or read the paper, I have my nose to the window. I want to grab their skulls and turn them towards the wonderment all around. Instead, I fall asleep again.
A change at Visp and I head up to Zermatt, the famous ski resort that lies in the shadow of the dazzling, dangerous Matterhorn. This slow climb by train provides another of those moments that I can feel my brain drinking in. Fatigued though
“Parlez vous Francais?” he asks.
“Non, just un peu.” I surprise myself in reply.
Soon the attendants are leading him away for a medical examination. He's got a hang-dog look that says he knows this is the end of his journey for today, despite the fact he's been waiting for six hours for this connecting flight.
A few minutes later, it's announced that we have been delayed because of his mystery illness. Sitting next to me are the man's shoes. Adidas, almost new, almost my size... I pretend to drop my phone to take a closer look. Sure he may be sick and, yeah, he might be walking around in his socks, but I do kind of need some new trainers for the gym...
“We're going to leave without your friend,” says a woman in French.
Instead of continuing my hot streak of one mumbled sentence, I resort to the good old British tactic OF SAYING THINGS SLOW-LEE AND A BIT LOU-DER.
“He is not my friend.” I say in English.
“Speak French,” she replies, also in English.
I panic and hit the alarm to get an air hostess' attention to tell her about the trainers and avoid the unique brand of Gallic smugitude that will inevitably follow as I stumble over mis-pronunciations of my long-forgotten French. Je m'appelle X, je habite en Ecosse. Ah, non, je habite en Dubai et chaque jour une autre partie de moi meurt. Il ne neige pas.
We land at 6:30 local time, 9:30 UAE. I'm so tired it looks like I've been poked in the eyes with a cigar, but I manage to get on the right train to Visp. A flamingo pink eruption of colour rises from the top of a mountain behind Lake Geneva ... OK it doesn't really. It's just a reasonably pretty sunrise, but that's the kind of hyperbolic, flowery garbage that helps thing Get Published, so forgive me for practising.
The locals largely ignore the scenery – presumably they've grown numb to the natural beauty. But not me – I'm used to seeing little more than silhouettes of cranes through a dusty haze, so while they talk in German or French or read the paper, I have my nose to the window. I want to grab their skulls and turn them towards the wonderment all around. Instead, I fall asleep again.
A change at Visp and I head up to Zermatt, the famous ski resort that lies in the shadow of the dazzling, dangerous Matterhorn. This slow climb by train provides another of those moments that I can feel my brain drinking in. Fatigued though I may be (save for a few minutes doze here and there, I've been up for 30 hours) the sights of this precarious voyage keep me well awake.
A house hangs limpet-like at the top of a vast cliff face fanged with icicles that look three stories long; the sun avalanches around corners, bouncing of the pine trees, illuminating a landscape that has been amazing visitors for a couple of hundred years; the tallest structure in the town of St. Nicholas is a giant eponymous statue, but at this scale Santa looks more like a Ghostbusters-inspired menace than a cuddly bearer of gifts.
In the few short hours that I've been here, I can surmise that Zermatt is almost too perfect to be true. Certainly in appearance at any rate; everything is laid out and cared for in such a meticulously dainty way, it's hard not to be impressed, especially as the train is also the only way to get here. As a result there are no cars.No cars.
A few hours ago it took a friend nearly three hours to leave a mall because of traffic problems and now there are no cars. Amazing. In their place, there are new
In the few short hours that I've been here, I can surmise that Zermatt is almost too perfect to be true. Certainly in appearance at any rate; everything is laid out and cared for in such a meticulously dainty way, it's hard not to be impressed, especially as the train is also the only way to get here. As a result there are no cars.No cars.A few hours ago it took a friend nearly three hours to leave a mall because of traffic problems and now there are no cars. Amazing. In their place, there are new
electric prototype taxis. They are like toy buses that have been blast
ed by the same magnifying ray that blew up Santa, but even then they only stand at about six feet tall. Boxy and fragile, they look like you could push them over, but with a top speed of only 20 kph, they provide a handy, green alternative to walking.
Incongruously, they are also very expensive, but then they are designed and manufactured here in Zermatt, specifically for these conditions.I learn these and other factoids that I'll take note of elsewhere from my guide. She's tall, German and has been here with her 15-year-old daughter for a bit over a year. Perhaps predictably she loves it. How could you not? She says that some Zermattians feel like they're at the end of the world living here, but at the moment, I can't think of anywhere else I'd rather be.