Peace
I am above the clouds here – I’m watching their thick white bodies lick and lift from the valley floor below.
Here in Switzerland nobody waits for the train, there is no need to because everyone knows it will arrive on time, workers, students and travellers just leave home with enough time to walk or cycle to the station and they know the train will be there. It is dictatorial but so beautifully benevolent nobody realises.
The cog-train pulls and pushes up and down the mountain between Bex and Villers from early to late and tiny students yank themselves aboard in Gryon for the ride to school in Villers. Bex is one of Switzerland’s poorest towns, dominated by Senegalese refugees and Villers – a resort town – is one of its richest. The train ride should be a struggle between classes but it just does not happen. Refugees sit side-by-side with grandmothers sit side-by-side with the conductor who knows everyone by name, even me after just three days in Heaven.
Gryon, a village of maybe 500 people, is under Europe’s flight paths so when the fog burns off to reveal so blue almost green skies the jets leave yawning vapor trails like a game of norts and crosses. Their engines resound off snow capped finger tips and pin peaks.
As I watch the sun rise over these Alps I wonder about going home, about walking to work each morning and punching in – about answering questions: “how was your trip”, “did you get Armani glasses,” “how was Paris”.
I can’t find any answers right now so I doubt I will find them once I’m removed from this place. They say travelling lets you find yourself, but I have lost myself up here – in perfect peace above the clouds.
Here in Switzerland nobody waits for the train, there is no need to because everyone knows it will arrive on time, workers, students and travellers just leave home with enough time to walk or cycle to the station and they know the train will be there. It is dictatorial but so beautifully benevolent nobody realises.
The cog-train pulls and pushes up and down the mountain between Bex and Villers from early to late and tiny students yank themselves aboard in Gryon for the ride to school in Villers. Bex is one of Switzerland’s poorest towns, dominated by Senegalese refugees and Villers – a resort town – is one of its richest. The train ride should be a struggle between classes but it just does not happen. Refugees sit side-by-side with grandmothers sit side-by-side with the conductor who knows everyone by name, even me after just three days in Heaven.
Gryon, a village of maybe 500 people, is under Europe’s flight paths so when the fog burns off to reveal so blue almost green skies the jets leave yawning vapor trails like a game of norts and crosses. Their engines resound off snow capped finger tips and pin peaks.
As I watch the sun rise over these Alps I wonder about going home, about walking to work each morning and punching in – about answering questions: “how was your trip”, “did you get Armani glasses,” “how was Paris”.
I can’t find any answers right now so I doubt I will find them once I’m removed from this place. They say travelling lets you find yourself, but I have lost myself up here – in perfect peace above the clouds.
posted by Peter Veness at 5:22 am
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