A Glimpse of Switzerland

I wanted to see the Swiss Alps. Our itinerary allowed just one hour and seven minutes in Zurich, and I looked forward to that brief stopover. Still, I worried. Zurich Hauptbahnhof—the city’s main station—is massive. Would we have enough time to transfer trains? Maybe even take a quick look around?

On a February Wednesday morning, I woke before the alarm. By 6:20 a.m., my friend and fellow pilgrim, Rose, and I were downstairs with our bags. A taxi was waiting in the cold darkness.

Ten minutes later, the driver dropped us at Milano Centrale. We knew the drill: find the platform, board the train. While scanning the monitors, we met Christian, a traveler from Geneva headed for Basel. He spoke English in a deep, melodious voice. His warm smile and easy charm made us hope he might become a new friend.

“Are we on the same train?” I asked.

“I’m on EC 60,” he said.

We were on EC 10, departing at the same time. I checked the SBB app—our platform was No. 7. The train was already waiting, silent and steady. As we climbed aboard, I felt my shoulders drop. Swiss efficiency had arrived early.

The train pulled out on time, gliding north through Como San Giovanni, Chiasso, Bellinzona, and Zug. Outside the window, mountains rose sharply, lakes shimmered, and quiet villages dotted the valleys. I tried to capture the views with my camera, but no photo could match the fleeting drama of the Alps.

For Rose, the pilgrimage itself was the heart of this trip. For me, the journey mattered just as much as the destination. Trip planning was demanding, but when it worked, the payoff was sweet: scenery, conversations, and the calming rhythm of a train ride.

Zurich Hauptbahnhof carried that same aura of quiet efficiency. Even with its size, the station felt orderly. Café workers greeted us warmly, and we had just enough time for tea and a delicate dessert with fruit in cream or mousse for Rose before boarding our next train—the TGV Lyria to Paris Gare de Lyon, the true start of our pilgrimage in France.

Rose found our seats on the upper deck and we left our suitcases on the rack below. A man behind us leaned forward with a warning.

“Better to keep your bags close and locked,” he said. 

“Pickpockets look for easy luggage. I can help you bring them upstairs.”

We thanked him and asked where he was from.

“I’m German, but I work here,” he said with a smile before disappearing into the crowd.

Once settled, I noticed uniformed men and women walking the aisles, “Douane” stitched onto their sleeves.

“Customs,” I whispered to Rose.

The agents never checked our passports, but they inspected tickets more than once.

In the end, Zurich was less intimidating than I had imagined. We didn’t need to master the vast station—just find the right train. And along the way, strangers were quick to help, offering directions, advice, even reassurance.

From a fleeting glimpse of Switzerland, I carried this lesson: travel reminds us that the world is full of people willing to help, to welcome, and to make us feel seen.

~ Nida Spalding