We left behind our blue Mediterranean, and drove north. In a few hours we'd climbed to over 6,000 feet in the Swiss Alps, and found in a different world: so near, really, yet immeasurably different from home.
Back home the cicadas droned in the trees, the grasses were turning gold in the summer heat, figs ripening sweet and fat under their shady green leaves. Here in the mountains we found a silent world of snow-capped peaks and cool, crisp air scented with pine resin, where Alpine meadows bloomed with wildflowers. The red terracotta roofs of our landscape gave way to gray slate and weather-darkened wood beams.
Thick stone walls, tiny treble-glazed windows decorated with brilliant summer flowers - each detail told of long, harsh winters.
We left behind the pungent smell of fresh garlic and herbs sizzling in olive oil, and were embraced by the heavy smell of milk, butter, cheese-making in a blackened cauldron.
For a few days, this is the different world that we explored.
