Worst city: Munich, Germany
Worst hotel: Hotel de L’Orse, Paris, France
Worst train ride: Rome to Florence, Italy
Worst food: Cafe Hugo, Paris, France (George) Franziskanner, Munich, Germany (Kaz)
Worst coffee: Hotel Alpha, Luzern, Switzerland
Worst service: Cafe Hugo, Paris, France
Won’t visit again: Paris, France

It’s a chilly morning and we’re glad to reach the warmth of the station or “bahnhoff” after a long walk through Luzern. We’ll ride several trains today, first to Basel and then switch to a TGV high speed onto Paris.

Our ride to Basel is a comfortable one on the regional rail. Owen plays cars and does puzzles on the small table. In Basel we pick up some coffee and sandwiches with our remaining Francs, then board the train to Paris.

We’re disappointed to once again find a crowded, uncomfortable train. The seats in second class don’t recline and we’re in the section right before the bathroom or “WC,” which means that the automated doors on both ends of our small cabin are constantly opening and closing as people pass through. Owen naps, his feet in my lap, while I doze fitfully and George reads.

When we arrive, it takes a minute for us to get our bearings again with the metro. Owen loves riding the metro though and it’s much easier this time around now that we actually know what we are doing. Except for the whole several flights of stairs thing. That’s still as annoying as before.

At check in we discover that luck is on our side and instead of being assigned to a room on the 5th floor, we’re on the fourth floor. You’ll recall this is the same hotel we stayed in earlier with the narrow, curved stairs and no lift. It’s grueling hauling the bags up but out room is a bit nicer this time and Owen has his own bed instead of a crib.

We head out immediately to catch a few sites that we missed the first time around. Plaza de Concorde is the first stop, where the gold tipped monument marks the spot where the guillotine formerly resided during the revolution. This is actually a beautiful square with intricate street lamps and gardens on either end. It takes some persistence to cross several knots of traffic past the Plaza and on down Champs-Elyss avenue and the Arc de Triumph.

We snap several photos of that famous view down the avenue, bordered by trees with the Arc standing sentry at the end. George remarks that it must be an optical illusion that it seems so close because it takes another 20 minutes of brisk walking before we finally reach it.

This arc was built hundreds of years ago to memorialize France’s fallen soldiers, but today it has a more practical use and serves as the roundabout where all the major avenues of Paris converge. The scale of the Arc is impressive, especially given its age. We opt not to go under the monument, but instead journey on to the Eiffel Tower. The sky has been threatening rain all day and we don’t want to miss our last chance to ascend the tower.

We reach it by a back street and the view is lovely, prefaced by a grassy square with fountains and a series of marble balconies and stairs. There is a small rabble of street vendors hawking their tourist trinkets on these steps. They have them laying out on blankets or hanging on a big ring that they shake to attract attention to their wares. We’re there for only a few minutes when it seems someone has sounded the alarm. In a matter of seconds, the group has folded up their blankets and taken flight, with the police hot on their heels.

Down at the tower, we brave the line to ascend. After a 20 minute wait for tickets, we’re crammed like cattle into a car and hoisted up to the Eiffel’s 3rd level. Once out at the platform, you have to fight your way past the cold, wind and rude crowds to the rail for views of Paris unfolding below. George and I both agree we’re not particularly impressed and make it back down quickly. We decide to buy Owen a mini Eiffel tower, which he’s thrilled with and clutches all night.

On the way back to the metro we stop at our favorite crepe stand. We’ve been craving them since our first visit to Paris weeks ago. The guy at the counter thwarts our efforts and informs us that these confections are not served until after 7pm. We head back on the metro to Bastille and dinner instead.

The receptionist at the hotel has directed us to a neighborhood just a few blocks down from our lodging. We’re famished and hurry there directly, picking out a place that looks popular.

Like our previous dining experiences in Paris, the food ranges form mediocre to decent and the service form bad to worse. Our french onion soup is good, but a bit overdone. Owen spills George’s wine all over the table and we sop it up as best we can since the waitress seems unconcerned with cleaning it up. It’s more than an hour before our meals arrive. Owen, who had requested rice, has decided it is too bland to eat and has opted instead to help me eat my fettuccine alfredo with mushrooms. George has flank steak, potatoes and shallots in a reduction sauce. Since the meals were good, we decide to risk dessert but are once again disappointed. Owen dislikes his passion fruit gelato and I’m not enthusiastic about the Gran Marnier crepe George and I decide to share, which turns out to be nothing more than pancakes soggy with liquor.

Nearly two hours later than when we sat down, we’re ready to leave. In my haste to leave the table, I forget a rose George had bought me, one of the few bright spots of our meal and a memento of the last dinner of our trip. We’re back at our hotel, packed, showered and exhausted but reluctant to return home.

Preparing another breakfast with our remaining supplies, we sit down to egg sandwiches with cheese, sausage and steaming cups of coffee. Owen is excited to have scrambled eggs again and eats quite a bit on his own.

We shower, finish packing, and then head out. We’re early to catch the cable car and when it arrives, it’s nearly empty. The ride down is breathtaking as it slides towards the mountain’s edge and the drops over into the valley. It’s raining in the valley but the bus arrives soon and delivers us to Lauderbrunnen.

We’ve arrived early on purpose to make arrangements for the rest of our rail travel in Switzerland and buy tickets back to Paris. Because our Eurail pass has now expired, we learn the full cost of the rides we’ve been taking and the sum is staggering.

The train pulls in just a few seconds after we’ve departed the rail ticket office, leaving a small fortune behind. We board for the short ride to Interlaken.

In Interlaken we’ve got some extra time and take Owen across the street to a “Coop” grocery store. It’s very large, modern, and offers everything you could imagine. We’re on board to our last train to Lucerne or “Luzern” before you know it.

This is a pretty journey through the foothills of the Alps, passing villages clustered at the edges of blue green bejeweled lakes. The color of some of the water here is so startling- a deep greenish aqua that I’ve never seen before. Much of this country reminds me of the lake country in Austria, outside Salzburg. I pass the time writing posts while George reads “Sophie’s World” and Owen watches “101 Dalmations” on my iPhone.

We arrive in Luzern feeling fairly relaxed but I can tell Owen is tired. When it’s mid to late afternoon, traditionally nap time, he gets really loud, very unreasonable, and has sudden bursts of frantic energy. We use the momentum from one of these bursts to propel him to the hotel, which is a good distance off from the station or bahnhoff.

It’s in a lovely, residential area of Luzern where the houses have balconies full of flowers and are painted friendly colors. The roofs have turrets and all sorts of white marbled and gingerbread details, along with the traditional red-orange tiled roofs we’ve seen all over Europe.

Check in is easy and this hotel seems fairly large but simple. The walls are all painted white, the floors bare, the side tables glass and every linen white. The only spots of color in this cleanly designed landscape are the throw rugs and lamps, which are a coordinated shade of sky blue, and the quaint, retro Swiss tourism posters. I like these and think they provide charm to an otherwise stark style.

We head out to the city almost immediately, eager to see and experience Luzern. Our initial plan is to investigate a short cruise down the mountain lake upon the tip of which the city sits. But one look at the fares pushes us on to stroll through “old town”instead.

There are several bridges that span the lazy river inlet that runs through town. One of them is incredibly famous and very old. It’s a wooden, covered bridge used only for foot traffic now. Red flowering and trailing plants cling to its aged sides and a turreted tower juts off of it halfway across the river, making it seem like something out of a fairytale. Legions of swans float regally past in the waters below, completing the picture. We stroll across this bridge and into “old town.”

This area is a few cobblestone streets filled with trendy shops and cafes. Many of the buildings are beautiful and have intricate murals painted on them from bygone times. There are several pretty churches including one picturesque clock tower and a pair of glass onion domes that fill the skyline of Luzern. They also have their own white castle on the hill and an ancient fortress wall with turreted towers that marks the end of the historic area. We climb up a small hill to visit a monument to Swiss independence, an exhausted warrior lion carved out of a stone cliff. It’s actually It;s actually hollowed out of the cliff side and is very dramatic, with a circular pool of water at its feet.

Owen has fallen asleep in his stroller and we take some time to stroll through the “old town” shops. They have a delightful confectioner’s shop where a dazzling array of sugared perfection lies behind glass. We pick a selection of some of the most delectable chocolates- dulce de leche, pistachio and nougat truffles.

Next we head up the hill to the fortress walls to check out the views from the towers. Walking up the steep incline is unpleasant but we do get the pleasure of watching several cows, strange beasts with long hair and crooked horns, frolic and graze with their fluffy cows. I would swear that the farm animals that I’ve seen here in Europe, grazing freely in large pasture areas and grass fed, seem happier and more aware of their surroundings. The views of the city and the lake below from the fortress wall are very pretty and we climb back down hungry.

On the way through the old city to find a restaurant, we happen upon a vintage second hand store. I fall in love with a few items I know I’ll never find again and spend entirely too much money acquiring them. We wander a bit, growing tired, before finally settling on a little Thai place off one of the squares.

There seem to be a lot of Thai places in Luzern for some reason, most of them small places that serve take out or in Europe “take away” food. This one is reasonably good although expensive like everything else in Switzerland. It fills up fast with local teenagers and they have a TV that broadcasts cheesy, over dramatic Thai music videos which Owen becomes enthralled with.

It’s still early when we arrive back at the hotel, so we shower and then settle in for the night. Owen is extremely excited to return home in the next few days and asks several times for clarification about exactly when we will fly the airplane back. George and I, on the other hand, try not to think about being back at work later this week and instead focus on tomorrow and Paris.

We shower, dress and head off for a country walk to the neighboring village of Murren. We’ve asked the woman at the hotel, who has indicated that while the walk to Murren is uphill at times, a child could manage it in half an hour. This turns out to be pretty unrealistic for us and George and I have to stop quite often along the way, huffing and puffing. Fortunately, the views are pretty despite the heavy clouds obscuring the upper peaks. Much to Owen’s delight, we pass lots of animals- cows, goats, cats and chickens. The cable car to Murren glides silently and mockingly right over our heads.

We arrive exhausted and stroll slowly through the village. This town is more commercial than Gimmelwald and has several stores and restaurants. The train also comes all the way up to Murren, making delivery of goods and people much more convenient.

A side trip to a charming little country playground seems in order for Owen. It has several climbing nets made of interwoven ropes. Owen quickly learns how to navigate them and also figures out how to lean back and forth and pump his legs to propel himself on the swing.

We journey on, stopping at a local cheese shop to sample some and peruse their handmade gifts. George is anxious to ride the cable car up to the top of the mountain for more alpine views, but we agree that given the heavy clouds and fog, it’s not worth the hefty cost.

Instead, we catch some lunch on the terrace of a cafe in Murren. A cat also patronizes the place, approaching diners and attempting to steal the food from their plates. Owen thinks this is very amusing and it keeps him entertained as we enjoy macaroni & cheese, tomato soup and toasted ham, cheese and pineapple sandwiches.

The walk back down to Gimmelwald is much less painful. We trip along easily, stopping often for pictures. Back in our room, we share some afternoon coffee and chocolate and read in bed. Later, George and Owen visit the playground again while I type up several posts for the website.

We’ve decided to visit the local hostel for a dinner of pizza and beer, the only items they serve besides chocolate fondue. When we head over the scene is lively with young people, just checking or or returning from hikes. Owen charms them with his engaging smile and friendliness and by dancing to music at their request. The pizza is pretty good despite the frozen, pre-made crust and we head back to the guesthouse with leftovers.

I aggressively pare down our supplies and pack tightly, with the result that we have space to spare. It’s likely that we won’t unpack again until we reach home.

Staying in Gimmelwald has been very relaxing. Although we’ve both been disappointed with the persistent clouds, which have never lifted long enough for a clear view of the entire valley, we’ve been gratefully for the chance to rest, take it slow and catch up to the realization that this whirlwind trip is nearly over. I’m stunned by, overall, how well it has gone and how much we’ve been able to do and see. As I’ve had time to reflect today, I’ve begun to see how this trip will effect our perspective and our choices in the future. It’s made the world a smaller but more intriguing and real place for us all.

It appears that the only difference between a German breakfast and a Swiss one is the soft, spreadable cheese assortment., The coffee is pretty terrible but we manage to drink quite a bit, then check out. The porter, much to Owen’s delight, zips us to the train station in a little mini electric taxi. The journey today to Gimmelwald, high in the Swiss Alps, will be a complicated one. We’ll ride four different trains, a bus and then a cable car to reach our destination. We start though riding the same train we rode yesterday, this time heading back down the valley to Visp.

Our train is late and we end up having to hustle to reach the next one. We’re pros by now though, even Owen, and we sprint through the station. Down the stairs, then up the stairs. I continue to be frustrated by the frequent inconvenience of long staircases leading up to each platform, accessed by a lower level corridor. It seems to make little sense for the purposes of rail travel, especially since most people carrying heavy luggage and wheeled bags. This practice is common though in Europe, even in major rail stations. Everytime I heft a bag up 20 or 30 steps with 2 minutes left to catch the next train, you can bet I’m muttering something about ramps under my breath.

From Visp, we ride a train to Spiezl and then catch a very nice, modern IC train to Interlaken. This leg of the trip is beautiful as the route winds along the lake. We inadvertently sit in the 1st class quiet area though and Owen ends up feeling discouraged by our frequent admonishments.

The next train, our last, is a small private line that runs up to Lauderbrunnen from Interlaken. We’ve begun the journey form the lakeshore and are now moving inland to the Alps, where the low country becomes lushly green and quaint villages quickly give way to farms. The mountains rise up so abruptly in this valley that it’s difficult to see their tops without laying on the floor and craning upward.

In Lauterbrunnen we take a bus that will bring us to the cable car up to Gimmelwald. This is where the view gets fantastic. Huge waterfalls cascade down the mountain cliffs and the valley closes into a narrow wedge. Before we know it, we’ve arrived and need to purchase tickets for the cable car. We’re the last to board the huge car, perhaps 40 or more people crammed in like sardines. It;s a short ride and when we step from the platform, I quickly realize I’m in the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen or imagined.

I remember watching Rick Steves show on the Alps and Gimmelwald, where everything looked so picturesque and perfectly charming that it inspired us to come despite the cost. But I will say frankly that I had no idea it would look like this.

Gimmelwald is nothing but a hamlet, a few clustered farms, that have the luck of being situated halfway up the mountainside in the Alps or Jungfrau region. It has three or four B&Bs, one restaurant, and one hostel. Gimmelwald is traversed by hiking trails and most people prefer the nearby village of Murren for its conveniences. But for beauty it’s no contest. It’s Gimmelwald. When we scan the view, it’s initially hidden by clouds. A few minutes later I look again and am dumfounded by the enormity of the mountains. There’s not alot of sky here in Gimmelwald. It’s all green pastureland and towering, snowy peaked Alps. The tumbling glacier waterfalls are so near, they seem to touch your face with mist. The quiet of the place is disturbed only occasionally by a cow bell or helicopter flying overhead. Beyond some farm equipment, there are no cars in Gimmelwald.

We prepare for a long, uphill walk down the only street the place boasts, but find our guesthouse is actually within spitting distance of the cable car platform. While reception seems to be closed, there’s a note on the door addressed to me that says where our room is and that we can check in later, as we like. We ascend the stairs, leaving our shoes and donning slippers as instructed by signs on the second level. When we reach our assigned room, the key is in the lock.

We have the “loft” of the house and likely the largest room. Sloped, exposed beam ceilings, windows facing that tremendous mountain view edged by country curtains and three little beds in a row under the eaves, like Goldilocks and The Three Bears, thick with down comforters. This is a modern place though with wifi and a flat panel TV that has satellite. Downstairs is a large communal kitchen and dining area, and a porch filled with comfortable chairs, tables and thick blankets to ward off the chill night air.

After unpacking a bit, we take a stroll around the village. Almost every place sells Alp Cheese, or “AlpenKase” and we see several cows and goats. Owen is eager to get back to a playground he saw when he first got off the cable car, with one of those long, twisty slide like the one in Salzburg. We take him back to it and he plays vigorously, climbing up, sliding down and then doing it all over again.

He’s disappointed when we insist on leaving to go get some late lunch. We find though that the restaurant is closed and instead snack and then sit on the porch, reading and writing. Owen and George go back to the playground after awhile and soon enough, it’s dinner and check in time.

We discover that Esther of Esther’s guesthouse is actually away for the weekend. The check in process is very informal and is done by a woman who helps around the house. She leads us down to the shop, where we buy eggs, cheese, sausage and butter as well as some yogurt for Owen. The “shop” consists of two mini fridges and a couple of half shelves in a room the size of our bathroom.

We out our food in the communal fridge, then cross the street to the bar/ restaurant. The menu is limited but has some variety. Owen opts for french fries while George and I have more adult fare. We start with a mushroom soup in thick stock, with several types of shrooms and onions. I follow the soup with a vegetable penne & spinach regata, while George has a pork sandwich that’s juicy and layered with tomato, lettuce, pickles and sauce. Owen, during the meal, has gotten quieter and quieter and complains of being tired. Before dessert, which is plum cake and hot chocolate, he’s dropped off to sleep in my lap.

I carry Owen to bed where he sleeps fitfully until 9, then wakes up briefly. George and I make tea, post pictures and play scrabble, then hunker down under the warmth of our comforters.

After settling the bill, we’re right on time at the train station. We’ve discovered though that Owen has misplaced a gift we bought for someone yesterday at one of the stalls in the street market. I decide if I go alone, I have a chance of finding a replacement in time to make it back for the train. Grabbing a 50 Euro note, I sprint through the early morning streets of Florence and down a back alley. The market is just beginning to open at this hour and vendors are pulling open their awnings and placing their goods. I’m lucky enough to find the exact same stall and the same leather bound journal in an identical color. I make it back to the station in plenty of time, just as our platform is being assigned and the train is rolling in.

Although we’re in first class and have seats facing each other at a table, there is someone else sharing our section. It’s not long before Owen’s fidgeting and boisterousness drives him away. This high speed train from Florence to Milan is not as difficult or irregular a journey as the one we took from Rome.We relax in relative comfort and Owen works on puzzles, listens to music, and eats as many complimentary cookies as he can manage to get his hands on.

The plan was to have as much as an hour in Milano to grab lunch and then make the train to Brig, Switzerland. This doesn’t happen as the train from Florence ends up being nearly 45 minutes late. We end up sprinting to make it on board, hungry and displeased with our reservations which place us in a packed first class compartment. We quickly identify another empty one and move so Owen can stretch out.We all end up napping off and on and the train arrives just a few minutes late to Brig.

The train we board to Zermatt is startling clean and modern, with enormous windows to compliment the Alpine view. We’re alone in first class until after the first stop, when the conductor arrives to inform us that though the Swiss rail website identifies this as a regional line, it is a private one and our Eurail passes aren’t valid here. We end up paying for tickets but move to second class, where the fare is cheaper and the views just as lovely.

This is a winding journey through alpine meadows, dotted with Swiss farming chalets that seem to have stepped right out of the pages of “Heidi.” The mountains here are rugged, high and densely forested with lush green firs. There’s a river gushing through the valley that crisscrosses the tracks several times and seems the most unusual, opalescent shade of aqua.

As we approach closer, the peaks become topped in icy white and wreathed in clouds. Glacier waterfalls tumble down the mountainside. The train chugs slowly up the valley to Zermatt, which lies crouched at the feet of the fabled Matterhorn.

During the train ride we never catch a very clear glimpse of that famed peak, but later we can see it clearly from Zermatt, rising like a jagged thumb. It’s not just the shape that makes it so unusual, but the fact that it towers over every other visible peak. You can ski year round here and many do, making Zermatt one of the most expensive places we’ll visit.

We have a short walk of a block or two on the cobblestone streets to reach the hotel. The receptionist speaks perfect English, and after dropping our bags, she recommends some places to eat. We stroll through town despite the fact that we’re famished. The village is very small, but extremely cosmopolitan with shiek resorts and expensive, swanky restaurants. After several attempts, we finally find a hat and pullover for Owen that doesn’t cost several hundred dollars from a kid’s boutique sale bin. We also hit the grocery store for more travel snacks and to replenish some depleted toiletries. Everything appears to be incredibly expensive, but we’re confused by prices quoted in Swiss Francs (CHF). They take the Euro here but give change in francs as that is the official currency. This is the first country we’ve visited that isn’t based on Euros, so we’re at a loss.

We settle on eating at a restaurant that was recommended as serving traditional “Swiss” food. I’ve got my heart set on having fondue and soup, so that’s what we do. It’s a beef and lamb fondue, served with dipping sauces and pickled vegetables. I was a bit disappointed as I had been hoping for a more traditional cheese fondue or at least some fresh vegetables. Owen, of course, seems quite content with his pizza and some small cars and coloring pencils the waiter gives him.

After our meal, we walk for a bit as twilight falls. We attempt to get crepes at a place we scouted out earlier, but it’s closed. In lieu of crepes, we decide to visit a “chocolate” bar, where we sip homemade dark and white hot chocolates by candlelight. Owen has vanilla ice cream atop chocolate cake, shiny with a thick layer of sweet, cocoa ganache.

The air here in Zermatt is chill and brisk, but sweetly laced with the smells of hickory fires and firs. We leave our windows open once again to get our fill of the mountain air.

We’re actually taking an early afternoon, high speed train to Florence so we’ve got plenty of time to spare. When we get to the station and finally board the train after a long walk to our assigned car, we find a full crowd and that our reservations are actually seats across the aisle from each other. This is not a good situation for Owen, who ends up most of the ride a squirming, difficult to manage mess in my lap. He works on his new puzzle that we bought him in Germany but is unable to sleep. We’re actually all quite uncomfortable and disappointed in the ride. The high speeds and irregularities of the track make us all nauseous, ears popping from the pressure.

We glad to reach Florence early and emerge from another noisy, crowded station into the street. Our hotel is quite close, literally around the corner, and the lift is a luxury we appreciate. It’s situated in an old building that has a different boutique hotel on each floor. The elevator is an old fashioned one with doors and a metal cage.

I find the woman at the reception desk does not speak English but we make do awkwardly. The room is large, with a high painted ceiling and very pretty. There’s an extra bed for Owen and while it’s esthetically pleasing, it lacks in creature comforts. It sports a fold up shower that floods the bathroom and uncomfortable, rickety beds.

George and I are eager to see the city and head out to the big attraction- the Duomo. It’s not a far walk and the large cathedral seems packed into the square at odd angles. It’s a byzantine affair in white marble with green and pink accents and seems less solemn than some of the other great cathedrals we’ve visited. We don’t have the time or energy to climb to to the top, but we do go inside to marvel a bit at the impressive interior. Large mosaic floors and a clean, simple open space complete the cathedral with vaulted ceilings and the unfathomably immense dome itself, intricately painted form the inside in true Renaissance style.

We walk a bit through several squares with impressive statues to reach the Uffizi, Florence’s famous art museum. The process for entry seems unreasonably complicated and there are several lines and several doors. When we finally figure it out we end up in line for nearly an hour as the crowd creeps through. Owen, fortunately, is occupied with a lollipop for most of the wait.

Once inside, we cruise through the collection, glimpsing Botticelli Venus and other great Renaissance works. The Uffizi’s collection has many portraits and is scattered through several rooms, all off a U shaped hall filled with statues.

When we finally re emerge from a series of gift shops into the sunshine, we decide to cut our losses, skip David at the Academy and head for dinner and a stroll at the Boboli, a famous garden on the outskirts of Florence. On the way we run into a street market and are lured into buying a few items. George also snaps a photo of Florence’s most famous view of the bridge, an area that is crowded with tourists and is primarily pedestrian.

We scout out a few places for dinner but it’s early yet so we go to the Boboli only to find it just closing. Disappointed, we retrace our steps back to a block or two behind the Duomo to a restaurant recommended by the guide book called Coquinoso’s. It’s small but appealing. George samples wine from the Tuscany region and Owen woofs down an entire plate of gnocchi. I’m not as fond of my dinner as George is of his pasta with white rabbit sauce and saffron.

Owen gets difficult to contain towards the end of the meal so we finish quickly and get some ice cream down the street. This place is similar to the one in Rome that we liked so much- gourmet ice cream in eclectic flavors. Owen chooses pear while I opt for coconut and nougat. George does pear, walnut and creme and we finish our bowls at a nearby square.

There’s a carousel beckoning, lit up in the dark, and we pay for Owen to have several rides. As we walk back to the hotel, cafes are beginning to fill as the markets close. George and I both comment that it’s a lovely city that we’d like to visit again, with more time and less children.