Down And Away
This morning I took “the train” (called a cog) down the mountain from Leysin to Aigle (pronounced “eeg-el.”)
“Cog” in that it rides not so much on tracks but a long ratchet laid out such that should anything slip you wan’t go far.
The cars themselves are wood and arched and ancient and the whole thing looks like a toy tram making a billy goat climb.
Last night I walked around town and found a lookout of particular beauty. Seeing From one mountain across to another, over a wide valley, it was impossible to calculate how many square meters of the earth I was viewing at once. I cannot ever remember taking in so much terra firm in one look.
And yet, given the nature of my experience in Switzerland—among those who live without any but their own soft anxieties, who never let curiosity come to a full boil, who’s smiles serve more as boundary than invitation—I nevertheless felt pinched looking over that expanse.
This morning, in the first of the two tiny cars of the cog, I felt some space. And releif.