When I wrote in my journal today, I realized that this past week, my entries are peppered with words like “heavenly”, “enchanted”, “magical” and “out of a storybook”. I’m running out of trite phrases, and yet, like the mountains outside my window, these Swiss moments demand hyperbole.

I’ll tell you about some of those astonishing moments as we roll along for the next 3-4 weeks that we’re here… from sledding to mountain goats, there have been plenty. But there’s one I’m particularly eager to share with you. It may be small, but it holds an Alp-sized place in my heart.

On our second full day in Switzerland, we bundled up at set out along the river, toward the snow covered mountain we can see from our porch. We walked along the chattering river, marveling at the frosty blue color which shimmers like a jewel against the snowy banks. We crossed the river, now keeping it on our left and eventually the path turned toward the cliff face of the valley to a quiet road (quiet, I learned later, because only people living on farms along the road have access). We turned left on the road, still aiming away from Lauterbrunnen, and toward that mountain that had already been the topic of countless conversations:

“Is that a place people heli-ski?”

“It looks so close, but every part of it we can see is snow covered, is it actually far away and higher up?”

And my personal favorite, “How long would it take to roll down in a barrel?”

The weather warmed and we stopped at every waterfall to admire the sunlight through the mist and every creek to wave in greeting. Until we noticed what appeared to be a hut, siting on the side of the road, in front of a farm. A festively decorated sign indicated some farm goods that could be ordered in advance, including milk, which would have been charming enough, but my laughs of delight stalled as my brain struggled to make sense of the hut itself. It couldn’t be…could it?

It was.

A vending machine.

A vending machine along a deserted stretch of farm-strewn Switzerland, where cows literally wear bells attached by vibrant embroidered collars.

I hustled closer to see what could possibly be on display and discovered racks full of products from the farm. We laughed and pointed out features—the container of hand sanitizer on a shelf beside the machine and pretty paper bags on a wooden spool to bring home any purchases.

I leaned in close to make sense of the products within—six kinds of jams and jellies in hues from straw to red, three kinds of what I’d call salami but it looked darker, five kinds of alpine cheese from mild to strong. Plus dried apples. As we were trying to parse out fruit names to select a jam, I noticed movement from the side of the hut. I couldn’t even get the words out to alert my family, all I could was fall to my knees and hold out my hand as the sturdiest, sweetest, most cream-fed cat trotted toward me, eyes locked on mine. The kids and I collapsed on the ground as the cat moved from one of us to another, rubbing his cheek against our knuckles, knees, and the tips of our snow boots.

The whole episode was so out of time, I’m not even sure how long it lasted as we laughed and praised the good kitty and pretended to wring our hands at the agony of indecision choosing which cheese, which meat, which jam. I put my hand on Keith’s arm, the children’s giddy voices echoing all around us. “Let’s continue the surprise. We’ll get one of each and not try to know that they are. We’ll just enjoy them.” Keith grinned and started feeding change into the machine and my attention swung between kneeling again to pet our new buddy and watching a vacuum pack of salami fall into the bin.

Lunch.

The cat seemed just as reluctant as we were to say goodbye. He followed us down the road, finally sitting and watching us leave.

On the walk back we continued along the farm road past the point we entered to access our house by way of a covered bridge. On the way, we found a similar vending arrangement—what looked like an enormous birdhouse or mailbox perched on a corner, filled with honey and cheese and a dish for payment. Given that we’d already used our small bills and there wasn’t enough change in the dish for larger ones, we sadly gave it a miss. But actually we weren’t sad at all, you see. We were still high on that vending machine.

I posted about the experience, and found out that farm vending machines are, indeed, a “thing.” Which is good to know, as I’d wondered if it was a COVID safe way for farmers to sell products, but it seems to precede the pandemic (I know, it’s hard to imagine anything the pandemic didn’t alter, but it turns out Swiss farmer selling goods via vending machine isn’t one of them).

I have two spots of gratitude about that vending machine. One is that I’m glad that our tight budget forced us to stay in a less expensive area (relatively! Switzerland is expensive); more populated by working class farmers than resort workers. I love having all these farms around us.

The second spot of gratitude is—I’m so glad I didn’t know about the vending machines in advance. If I’d known, I would have been deprived of that moment of cogs turning and clicking until I felt bowled over with the universe’s audacity to delight. Instead, I would have smiled and said, “Oh yes, I read about this.”

I’ve been back to the vending machine. (Of course I have.) Once in my walk to Stechelberg when it was fairly emptied of products, thanks to the people walking by like a parade that must have cleared it out. And again just today when went on purpose to pick up supplies and found new items like apple syrup and eggs. I feel a definite thrill each time I pass it, each time I watch the products fall into the tray and listen to the clink clink of francs fall into the change repository. But nothing compares with the first time where I felt swooped off my feet into the arms of a Swiss surprise. And I’m pretty sure that’s not just because the next two times failed to produce a sturdy farm cat in need of attention.

Maybe that’s what makes Switzerland worthy of hyperbole. From the humble to the vast, there is so much to surprise.

Given how spontaneously this trip came together, I didn’t look a thing up before we left. I didn’t mind. As I learned when we lived in Spello 8 years ago when, by the end of the year, we hardly planned our getaways before boarding a plane, there are diminishing returns for knowing what you’re getting yourself into. Yes, there is a delicious anticipation in planning a trip. But I wonder if that’s offset by elbowing out surprise.

The nice thing about Switzerland, I’m learning, is that even if you enjoy planning far too much to leave room for surprises, this place will find away to make you do a double take. Case in point? Like a sky filled with Sahara sand. Or…check out what I saw on my walk to the grocery store today.

Heavenly. Enchanted. Magical.

And out of a storybook.