Switzerland

Early on a winter’s morning, a train speeds into a mountain. At least it looks that way. Really a tunnel gutted through the mountain swallows the train and spits it out into more snow. The train circles an impossibly blue lake before dropping off travelers, many of them struggling in their ski boots, in the Interlaken Ost station.
Interlaken, Switzerland is a tiny town surrounded by mountains. It is as if the brown shops and houses are a wooden floor and the mountains are four walls surrounding it. The mountains are wallpaper samples of scratchy dark pine trees, pillow soft snow and, closer to the base, jagged tan rock. Fog hangs about them, as if they are exhaling hot breath into bitter air. Clouds cast shadows, but when they move aside the sunlight burns into the snow causing it to sparkle like the lake’s water. Houses are built into the mountains and crammed along the clear water’s edge.
…
“How do the people who live there get to their houses?” asks a young train passenger.
“They fly. They think happy thoughts that lift them to their houses,” her older companion explains. The young woman laughs.
“No, but really.”
“There must be a path, maybe it is on the other side of the mountain. We just can’t see it from here.”
“I can’t even imagine what that must be live. Everyday. Living here.”
…
The houses in the heart of the town, for those who are not lucky enough to live on a snowy mountain, are like dollhouses. They come in a variety of colors, sweet sugar pink, mint green, as if the painter had just visited one of the many confectionary shops and thought to himself “well, this seems like a good idea.” The walls of these Victorian style houses are rough to the touch, unlike the smooth brown homes toward the western side of town.
…
A toyshop is nestled between a watch and chocolate shop. “How very Swiss!” a tourist says. The toyshop is bright and gives off a feeling of magic like only toyshops can. It feels like it could make anybody a child again. Every treasure is hand carved out of light colored wood. Sleds with curlicue handlebars line the windowsill, as if they are in constant need of a mountain view. Little dolls with rosy painted cheeks hold the red Swiss flag with a white cross on it. There is a basket full of tops; many of them are also painted with the nation’s flag. There is a shelf lined with simple wooden cows, all identical and all adorned with golden bells around their necks.
Out the window, past the sleds, it starts to snow yet again. This is snow that stays cold enough to keep its individual form when it lands. You can see every crevice and every crystal. In mere moments there will be more snow on the mountains, more snow on the colorful houses, more snow on the sleds accidentally left outside by children lucky enough to live in houses you have to float to.