The Alps. This is what they call the Alps. The Alps who has been our loyal friend for several hours now, guiding, amusing, mystifying us since we left Austria.
Up until here in Switzerland, just outside our hotel window in Lucerne, we had a full view of the icy mountain ranges. We could just stay there, just there in the hotel, maybe take a pause from this week-long road trip, and satisfy our insatiable desire for sceneries.
Just when we thought we had enough, we drove up, literally going up, to where the ice were. We found ourselves in Grindelwald, a famous winter resort — my first encounter of such a phrase and a place — where people do all these winter sports like skiing and sledding. We didn’t try any of these; we didn’t have time.
We dined in a restaurant backdropped by the Alps itself. And when you look out the window, you see nothing else but icy mountains and for a moment, you fear of an avalanche, but you really just have to get used to the fact that there is such a place on Earth as this!
A few Swiss chocolates and Swiss watches later, we played in the snow. I couldn’t describe the feeling because there was nothing in my nearly 28 years of existence to compare this to. It’s not even close to touching blocks of ice used for halo-halo during summer, as to do so is to sound pathetic. It was… hmm… how do I explain it…. er… icy. It’s not as friendly or gentle as it looks. You better not mistake it for a soft white cotton either. The ice was hard you can even sit on it like a furniture. But you don’t assume it’s steady either. You got to wear a special pair of boots so as to minimise the chances of slipping.
So that was snow.
*This is part of a 68-Day Travel Diary called Reflections of a Nearly Thirty. Read the full Reflections Series here.