he sun turns the pages of my book golden as the plane veers and draws my gaze thousands of miles below. Streams of towns fringe the mountains, as if they have been shirked off, like the foamy slurry at the edge of an immaculate wave. In the distance, white peaks crack the sky.
It takes a one-hour flight and three hours of weaving trains to reach the high alpine town of St. Moritz, Switzerland, but it is a rewarding pilgrimage. As Zurich falls behind, mountains rise, moated by glacier-blue lakes, coated in fir and crowned with cloud. Church steeples punctuate each village, exclaiming the marvel of their existence despite their emphatic remoteness. I am captivated for so long, the pencil-sharp tips of the pines remain in my vision when I close my eyes.