On the edge of a broken wall I rested head in hand and stared into the black eyes of a swan. Floating only a few feet away, the huge bird swam back and fourth as if making a review of my exhausted figure crouched atop the jetty.
            The animal’s brilliance and poise spoke the words carried in his stare, “Those who fear nature die of decay. Those without fear trace the scars of life as lines of a battle hymn to human victory.”
            “Friggin’ stupid… what’s that supposed to mean? Dumb bird.”
            The sun fell over distant mountains into France and the sky became a thousand whispers of red in the withering light of day. The lake turned pink, then steel grey as night came from the east.
            The swan looked over his shoulder as he turned away. He shook his head in disappointment, then left me perched atop my broken rock. Two more days until the ride back to Paris, and it would rain both.
            What little I knew of Switzerland before that August wasn’t enough to stifle the excitement of imagination. In my mind I saw towering snow-capped mountains soaring over little villages where girls with blond braids skip down cobblestone lanes carrying buckets of goat’s milk. I saw men in felt caps blowing 20-foot Alp horns while sucking on Ricola cough drops.
            And I saw myself on a gasp-and-swoon-blue Triumph motorcycle gliding past alpine vistas eating chocolate bars and waving at cows with bells around their necks.
            That’s not what happened. In reality the trip began in freezing darkness. Lines of rain streaked through the headlight as I crawled around blind switchback turns in the Mollendruz Pass. A wrong move and I wouldn’t just slam the bike into a tree, I would tumble off the mountain into unknown chasms of night falling with the rain into oblivion.
            Misery couldn’t even be had in peace, Swiss motorists quickly gathered behind waiting impatiently to pass. Even so, a smile came as I remembered the British Triumph Sprint I rode had a French license plate. America was secure from ridicule, the Swiss behind could curse the French for this slow motorcycle.
            For days the rain continued, confused, lingering then suddenly gone only to stumble back a few hours later. Every shelter I took, every bread museum and hilltop castle in every little town was the home of kind Swiss, assuring me the summers had never been so cold or wet. I could only smile, pretend to believe, and sit my dripping self back on the sodden motorcycle.
            That bike was beautiful in the rain. Through what alchemy the British created that blue bike I cannot guess. A sapphire jewel, self lit beneath the gray of sky and wrapped in earthen musk of nature. A bike that filled me with angst as ever I knew I would likely loose control on soaked pavement, dashing bike and self under freezing, cloud hidden alps.
            Though fearful of continued soaking misery and danger I pressed on in hopes of better things, and distracted though I was, the country began to reveal itself. Country roads lead through wooded hills and into little towns where public fountains overflowed with flowers for the national holiday and huge wooden homes stood so closely huddled their balconies overhung the street.
            Fields surrounding the villages seemed to be ever guarded by house cats. By guard I mean they sit alone in the middle and look around. I watched them, as I do deer or hawks. I seemed to be the only one to notice them, I’m afraid my fascination with the field cats is a lonely passion.
            No matter the road, charm and quiet serenity waited under the soft rhythm of raindrops, as long as I avoided the big highways. Big highways in that country are moody beasts. Swiss road engineers seem to think highway maintenance on any scale requires closing the entire artery in both directions. They don’t just shut it down either, they divert drivers onto little country roads then leave them to the wolves. No police giving directions, no detour signs leading back to the functioning part of the highway, nothing.
            Little Switzerland is deceptively large with at least four main languages and enough dialects for each citizen to speak their own. Every Swiss lives in a different Switzerland and all are happy to give their formula for a good tour of that country.
           In like interest, I found myself at a little shrine erected on the spot Queen Astrid of Belgium had the misfortune to meet her end where her car met a pear tree.