Postcards and Parisian Nights

“Don’t forget to carry your favourite Parle-G, you’ll miss it there,” my mother had said while stuffing biscuits into my backpack. I laughed it off, but hours later, when I bit into a cold sandwich on the train from Zurich to Lucerne, her words came back to me with startling clarity. That’s how travel works—between postcard landscapes and museum halls, it’s the smallest reminders of home that pierce the heart. Travel begins long before the plane takes off towards your destination.

Zurich welcomed me with a crisp morning. Even the air felt curated—clean, cold, tinged with coffee from the kiosks at the airport station. My first Swiss train ride was to Lucerne. I still remember fumbling with the ticket machine until a kind woman in her 70s, speaking only German, gestured me through it. I smiled, and she smiled back; just like that, the trip began with a silent kindness.

Lucerne was picture-perfect. The Kapellbrücke bridge, with flowers tumbling down its sides, looked like something from a storybook. But the real magic began when I hopped onto a boat across Lake Lucerne. The water was so still, reflecting snow-capped mountains, that it felt like sailing inside a postcard. I overheard two Indian students behind me joking about missing dosas back home. I laughed and joined their conversation—within minutes, strangers became companions, and we shared stories of Bangalore traffic and Swiss punctuality.

From Lucerne, I went to Engelberg and up to Mount Titlis. The rotating cable car carried me from lush green meadows into blinding white snow. At the top, the wind slapped my face with a force that felt both cruel and liberating. I slipped—quite unglamorously—while trying to walk across the snow bridge, and a young boy picked me up and said, “Don’t worry, even James Bond slipped here.” His family laughed, and I laughed too, realising that travel humbles you in the funniest ways.

The evening ended with a hot chocolate that tasted sweeter because my hands were numb and the cup was warm. I wrote in my notebook: “Maybe happiness is just a cup of cocoa after a fall.”

Switzerland’s trains are stories on wheels. The GoldenPass Line from Interlaken to Montreux gave me one of the most cinematic days of my life. Vineyards sloped down to Lake Geneva, and wooden chalets sat quietly, smoke curling from their chimneys. An elderly man sitting across from me told me in broken English: “Every window is a painting.” He was right—I didn’t blink for hours.

Montreux felt different—jazzy, artistic, the lakefront dotted with sculptures and music. I remembered listening to Queen as a teenager in Bangalore; now, I was standing outside Freddie Mercury’s statue, staring at the same lake he loved. Some journeys feel like déjà vu you never knew you needed.

After a week, I boarded a train to Paris. The Swiss countryside slowly gave way to French towns, graffiti on walls, and a busier rhythm. Paris felt instantly overwhelming—cars honking, people rushing, café chairs spilling onto sidewalks. But in that chaos was an energy that Switzerland never had.

I checked into a tiny room in Montmartre, the kind with a balcony so small you can barely stand—but enough to see rooftops tumbling into the distance. That first evening, I walked up to Sacré-Cœur. Street musicians played, couples kissed, tourists clicked selfies, and as the sun melted behind the city, I realised Paris doesn’t give itself to you—you have to earn it.

The next morning, I stepped into a café near the Seine, armed with my broken French. I ordered a croissant and coffee, but when the waiter brought it, I realised I had accidentally ordered a double espresso. Too strong for me, but I drank it anyway. The man at the next table, noticing my grimace, laughed and said, “First time?” He was an artist, sketching Notre-Dame on a pad. We spoke for an hour—about Bangalore’s monsoons, Parisian winters, and how both cities love chaos in their own way. He drew me a quick sketch of the cathedral and signed it: “To the traveller from India.” I folded it carefully—it’s still tucked into my diary.

Paris gave me its clichés, and I took them all gladly. A boat ride on the Seine under sparkling bridges. A Louvre visit where I found the Winged Victory more moving than the Mona Lisa. An evening in a Left Bank bookstore, where the smell of paper and the murmur of conversations felt like home. And of course, standing beneath the Eiffel Tower at night, when it bursts into lights every hour. People gasped; I just stood silent, thinking: “This is what childhood postcards prepare you for.”

One evening, I took a long walk along the Rue de Rivoli. It was raining, I had left my umbrella at the bar where I had my last beer, and I was drenched. But instead of frustration, I felt alive—like Paris had baptised me with its rain. From Bangalore’s chaos to Swiss order and Parisian spontaneity, the trip felt like travelling through three different moods of life. Switzerland taught me the stillness of mountains and the joy of small kindnesses. Paris taught me to embrace the noise, the mistakes, the unexpected encounters. And Bangalore, in hindsight, taught me why we leave home at all: not to escape it, but to carry it into every new place.

When I boarded the flight back to Bangalore, I wasn’t carrying just souvenirs. I was carrying a sketch, a laugh on Mount Titlis, a memory of Freddie Mercury by the lake, the taste of espresso too strong for me, and the feeling that the world is vast yet intimate—because strangers, in their own ways, make you feel at home.