What I Learned About Switzerland: A Country of Cows, Cheese, and Eternal Order
Switzerland — a country where even the cows have passed a job interview
Switzerland always brought one word to mind: neutrality. As a kid I was convinced it was some special kind of weapon, like a missile, but a very well-mannered one. The kind that never flies anywhere, never bombs anyone, just lies there gazing at the Alps, radiating a single message: I can't be bothered, but if push comes to shove — I could.
"Switzerland doesn't fight wars."
I'd double-check:
"With no one? Not even the Germans?"
"Not even the Germans."
After that, Switzerland was automatically filed under mythical creatures — somewhere between a yeti and a housing office that actually fixes things. "Grimdark medieval suffering" hadn't been invented as a meme yet.
When you arrive in Switzerland, it looks like someone drew it
When I finally got there, I couldn't quite believe my eyes. The mountains stand as if arranged by an engineer with a mild case of OCD. The lakes sit perfectly still, like plastic candy. Even the cows walk with such dignity you'd think they'd just aced an interview for chief accountant.
And the silence is real — thick, like an expensive blanket. In some village I sneezed loudly at a gas station and immediately apologized. To the houses, to the mountains, and to some inner Swiss person that had suddenly sprung to life inside me.
Trains run like clockwork. Or like cows
Trains run exactly on schedule. You check your Swiss watch (the most precise in the world), and the train is already exactly where it should be. Not early, not late. In Russia, a train is a philosopher, pondering its fate. In Italy, it's a flighty, unpredictable diva. In Switzerland — an accountant. Or maybe still a cow?
Cleanliness, sorting, and universal politeness
This time I stayed in a small town where the streets were so clean you felt the urge to wash your shoes first, then your head, and only then go for a walk. Garbage gets sorted as if the afterlife depended on it. A bag with the wrong kind of plastic in it is practically a confession of espionage. I hereby ask forgiveness in advance for all my sins.
The Swiss speak quietly. Even the children. Dogs bark with restraint, as if every extra decibel came with a fee. If a Swiss person raises their voice, something truly terrible has happened — say, someone crossed the street outside the crosswalk. The world can still be saved, but time is short.
Cheese as philosophy
The food is simple and straightforward. Fondue, potatoes with cheese, cheese with potatoes, cheese with cheese. At some point you start suspecting the potato is just a serving plate for the cheese. As a kid I thought the Swiss made the cheese first and then drilled the holes into it. How else would they come out so even?
Banks that inspire more trust than people
The banks look more reliable than some marriages. You want to walk in and say:
"Please take my anxiety into safekeeping."
They'd probably accept it. For a fee.
Why nobody invades Switzerland
They say that during the war Switzerland was surrounded by enemies. Now I understand why nobody bothered attacking. Picture it: you invade, and out comes a man who calmly looks at you and says:
"Sorry, it's lunchtime according to schedule. Care to join?"
And somehow you lose your nerve. Next thing you know, you're having fondue and discussing the weather — and shooting suddenly feels awkward.
If paradise exists, it looks like order
If paradise exists, it doesn't look like a celebration — it looks like order. You wake up, and you know where your things are, where your job is, where the mountains are and where the lake is. Where your cow is and where your cheese is. Nothing pinches, nothing shouts. And even eternity here will most likely arrive right on schedule.