Switzerland

Our Swiss adventure officially began on the 14th of May, 2026 — the day we landed at Zürich Airport. The crisp Alpine air, the efficient transport, the spotless surroundings: all of it conspired immediately to suggest we had arrived somewhere quietly extraordinary.

We landed around midday and moved through immigration with the brisk ease that Zürich Airport is known for. The Radisson Hotel Zürich Airport in Rümlang would be our shelter for the night.

A short journey brought us to Zürich Hauptbahnhof — the grand central station and one of the busiest transport hubs in all of Europe. From there, we walked towards Bürkliplatz, where the turquoise waters of Lake Zürich stretched into the distance.

The afternoon’s highlight was a leisurely ferry ride across Lake Zürich. With snow-capped peaks faintly visible on the far horizon, it felt like the perfect introduction to the country.

Following our time on the water, we returned through the city and boarded a train towards Uetliberg — Zürich’s own mountain. From the summit, the city appeared like a miniature, surrounded by sparkling lakes and the Alps forming a dramatic backdrop behind. We walked the long way back down through the woods, took a tram into town and finished the evening with dinner in Oberglatt before retiring to Rümlang.

We left the Radisson Hotel Zürich Airport shortly before 9 a.m., pointing south towards the Bernese Oberland. As Zürich slipped behind us, the landscape did what Switzerland does best — urban edges giving way to rolling meadows, traditional chalets, clear rivers, and ever taller peaks on the horizon.

Arriving at Grindelwald Grund, we understood at once why this village is counted among Switzerland’s crown jewels. Set beneath the imposing north face of the Eiger, Grindelwald offered a breathtaking arrangement — alpine meadows, wooden chalets, dramatic cliffs, and snow-covered summits, all assembled as if by a careful hand.

Later in the afternoon we boarded a short but memorable funicular railway — one of Switzerland’s most charming forms of mountain transportation. Even a brief mountain railway becomes unforgettable when the scenery is at this scale.

As the day wore on we took the bus to Interlaken — Switzerland’s adventure capital — set between Lake Thun and Lake Brienz. One of our key stops was the Yash Chopra Statue at Höhematte, a landmark that holds particular significance for Indian travellers. Standing beside it felt like revisiting countless beloved scenes at once. By evening we were back on the road to Rümlang.

We left Rümlang shortly after breakfast and drove the eighty-odd kilometres south to Engelberg, the base village for Mount Titlis. The road climbed gently the whole way, and by the time the village came into view the air had thinned and sharpened, the way it does only at altitude.

From the base station, we boarded the cable car for the long ride up. The final stretch — on the rotating Titlis Rotair — broke through cloud into a world of blinding white. At 3,020 metres, the country finally stopped translating itself: there was just glacier, sky, and the slow, deliberate turn of the cabin. We walked the Cliff Walk, the highest suspension bridge in Europe, equal parts exhilarating and absurd.

On the way down we paused at Trübsee, the turquoise alpine lake that sits between Engelberg and the glacier. From the right angle the water looked weightless, as if the world had briefly forgotten about gravity.

By mid-afternoon we were on the bus to Lucerne, a city that arrived gently — first as a glimpse of the Reuss river, then as a row of painted facades and finally as the Kapellbrücke, Europe’s oldest covered wooden bridge, stretched over the water like a long sentence. We walked the old town, paused beside the painted houses of Weinmarkt, and made our way to the Lion Monument: carved into a quiet cliff face, the dying lion is at once tender and unbearable. By dusk we were back on the road to Rümlang.

Our last Swiss morning belonged to the Rhine Falls. We left the hotel by mid-morning and drove forty-odd kilometres north to Neuhausen am Rheinfall, where the river makes its loudest argument for itself. From the platforms below Schloss Laufen, the water arrives in a continuous, low thunder; up close you can feel the spray before you hear it.

By late morning we were back in the car, heading for the German border. The road climbed gently into the Black Forest, dense and quiet — a different kind of green from the meadows we had been used to. We stopped in the Schluchsee area for lunch and a long walk by the water, then settled in for the long northbound drive.

The light was going by the time Frankfurt’s skyline appeared. We crossed the Main, checked into our hotel in Sachsenhausen, and walked out for a late dinner along the river. Switzerland felt very close still; Germany, distinctly its own country, had begun.

We left Frankfurt around midday and arrived in Cologne in time for a long, slow lunch in the shadow of the cathedral. The Kölner Dom does what photographs cannot quite manage — it sneaks up on you, ungainly and impossibly tall, then refuses to apologise for any of it.

We walked along the Rhine for a while, watched the river barges and let the afternoon stretch. By late afternoon we were back on the road, heading west through Krefeld and across the Dutch border. The landscape flattened almost in protest of the morning — green, level, an apologetic horizon.

It was evening by the time we crossed into the Netherlands and looped past Schiphol towards Noordwijk on the coast. The hotel was set among low dunes and quiet villas. We walked out to the sea after dark, took our shoes off briefly, and called it a day.

We drove inland after breakfast, leaving the coast behind, and reached Zaanse Schans before mid-morning. The working windmills along the Zaan turned with an unhurried patience that felt distinctly Dutch — large, deliberate, faintly theatrical. We watched paint and oil and mustard being made the slow way, and bought a tin of stroopwafels for the road.

By early afternoon we were in Amsterdam. We parked once and walked the rest. The canal belt unspooled in concentric arcs — Singel, Herengracht, Keizersgracht, Prinsengracht — each curve a slightly different version of the same idea. The bicycles were everywhere, and yet somehow nowhere near us; the city had a way of moving around itself without ever feeling crowded.

We crossed the river by ferry to the north bank for a coffee, came back, then spent the late afternoon in the Jordaan, where the houses lean towards the canals as if conspiring. By the time we returned to the car the city was lighting up gently, and we drove back to Noordwijk under a sky that refused to go fully dark.

We left Noordwijk early and drove south through the Netherlands and into Belgium. By late morning Brussels had announced itself with the strange, gleaming geometry of the Atomium — nine steel spheres held in mid-air, equal parts physics and ambition.

In the city centre we walked from Place Sainte-Catherine down to the Grand Place, ate moules-frites the way you’re told to, and gave the chocolate shops more time than the cathedral. Brussels has a quiet confidence; it does not perform for you.

By late afternoon we were back on the autoroute, heading south. The drive into France took the rest of the day — flat, fast, and uneventful in the best way. We reached our hotel near Charles de Gaulle just before nightfall, dropped bags, and took the train into central Paris. The first sight of the Seine after dark is a thing you should give yourself at least once.

We took the train into central Paris and walked from the Châtelet to the Île de la Cité. Notre-Dame, even in its careful rebuilding, holds the bank of the river the way only Notre-Dame can. We stood at the parvis for a long while, then crossed back over the Seine and let the morning unfold on its own time.

Lunch was on a quiet side street near the Louvre — a small place, a long carafe of water, an unrushed waiter. From there we walked along the river to the Pont de l’Alma, then up the hill to Trocadéro for the inevitable, irresistible first sight of the Eiffel Tower.

We spent the late afternoon between the Champ de Mars and the bridges, watching the tower do what it does best — quietly attract everyone, then quietly let them go. By evening we were back on the RER, watching the city pass in window frames, on our way back to the hotel.

We woke without an alarm and let the last morning unfold on its own time. A coffee at the hotel, an unhurried breakfast, and a short train ride that took us briefly north of Paris before turning back towards the airport.

By midday we were at Charles de Gaulle, checking bags and trying — with limited success — to count the cities the past ten days had passed through.

The flight back to Mumbai was long and unremarkable, which is the best thing a long flight can be. Somewhere over the continent I opened the notebook and began the first draft of the story you are reading now. We landed in the late afternoon, drove through the familiar humid evening, and were home before dark.

The first morning back, we slept past the alarm. The light through the window was Indian light again — heavier, kinder, slower across the floor — and for a long while we just sat with it.

I opened the notebook and laid out the past ten days: Zürich, Grindelwald, Interlaken, Engelberg, Lucerne, Schaffhausen, Frankfurt, Cologne, Noordwijk, Amsterdam, Brussels, Paris. Cities like a long inventory. Then I closed it again, because there are some accounts that don’t need to be settled in a hurry.

A journey is not over when you land. It is over, perhaps, somewhere around the third or fourth morning at home, when the routine quietly takes over again — and what you brought back, if anything, settles in for the long stay.