We asked which side offered the better view, and the conductor leaned in as if confiding a family recipe. “Sit left until the bridge, then swap,” he grinned. We followed, saw a glacier peel open, and learned that kindness can reroute a day more surely than any timetable.
Missing a turn, we met a woman wheeling a crate that smelled delightfully of cellars. She traced a shortcut across a lane of thyme and told us the next train waited ten good minutes beyond the chapel. We arrived early, pockets perfumed by a sliver she insisted we try.
Thunder suggested humility, so we traded summits for a museum by the station and a steaming bowl of barley soup. The downpour softened into applause upon canvas awnings. By departure time, puddles mirrored peaks, and our wet shoes felt like proud stamps proving we belonged to the weather’s story too.