A Swiss Surprise

The jet smelled of decadent black currant and sandalwood, per request of Mr. Galmont. As a man who assiduously prided himself on all things sophisticated and exclusive, it was essential that his Gulfstream smell as expensive as he was. His time was valuable, especially around the holidays. I knew this because I was his personal flight attendant and assistant, taking ample notes of his phone calls and who he would bill for his insight and expertise on financial matters. He offered major business moguls financial help after selling his multi million dollar idea of AirTags, to Apple. 

The air fresheners on board were of the highest quality, naturally. Mr. Galmont specifically requested that I find a fragrance manufacturer and have them exclusively create his signature scent. Something about the tart berry pairing well with Opus One and the filet mignon served onboard. 

I frantically flitted to Mastro’s to pick up his order, medium rare with a side of steaming garlic mashed potatoes. I returned with a few minutes to spare, double checking that every name card was in place and the perfect amount of perfume was wafting through the air. 

On gold trimmed cardstock was the travel itinerary. Scanning the timeline, regret formed in the pit of my stomach. Being away from my daughter during Christmas was excruciating, but I trusted that my sister would give her a magical holiday experience as she did with her own children. 

In the tiny bathroom, a woman with purple crescent moons and wind tousled hair stared back in my reflection. I stayed up through the night to wrap presents for Sarah, my five year old who was ecstatic about Christmas. It broke my heart when she asked if Santa would still bring her presents even though I wasn’t around. 

The next twelve hours were going to be excruciating and exhausting. My boss was keen on having a white Christmas in the Swiss Alps. He wouldn’t step foot on the mountain or strap on ski boots, but he made himself right at home at the lodge. The Galmont’s would sit at the bar and watch as skiers race through the powder, quickly commentating on their form and mocking their stance. The Galmont’s practically paid rent at the Nouveau Lounge, the most high brow restaurant and lodge on the mountain. It pained me that we were traveling just for three nights, missing both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. 

My eyelids pulled down and my neck bobbed as I struggled to stay awake during the flight. The skin on my heels ached from the patent leather stilettos I donned for work. The tweed from my blazer itched my wrist. 

The next morning, we touched down in Switzerland. Crisp air filled my lungs and frost nipped at the tip of my nose. My hands searched for warmth at the bottom of my pockets as we drove through the town of Zermatt. A tiny village collected at the base of the Matterhorn, log cabins with plumes of smoke emerging from brick chimneys. 

My neck craned up at the monstrosity of a mountain that people traveled far and wide to see. Zermatt was squished into the crook of the arm of the Matterhorn, a village with history that stretched back to the 13th century. 

 The streets were littered with iridescent frozen flakes, the mountain peaks blanketed in a creamy white frosting. Lampposts were wrapped in bows and festive lights, twinkling scarlet and gold. The festive little town was desolate and it looked like the set of a movie. I searched for life among the streets, but there wasn’t a single person in sight. 

Once the jet was cleaned and the Galmont’s deplaned, we hunkered down the stairs and into the black Range Rover that was waiting at the base of the tarmac. 

“We’ll be visiting with some friends while we’re here. I believe you made reservations for dinner tomorrow at the Nouveau Lounge?” Mr. Galmont inquired. 

“Yes, I requested a table for four with a view of the mountain.” 

Mr. Galmont nodded and buttoned his coat. The corners of his lips molded into something that wanted to be a smile, but appeared as a frown. I bit my lip trying not to smile, the man looked as though flatulence had escaped him. 

“I trust your accommodations are to your liking. Do enjoy your Christmas, it really is beautiful here,” Mr. Galmont said. 

He eyeballed me, waiting for me to acknowledge his graciousness. He and his wife were staying at the Ritz Carlton in the penthouse suite, but I, their hired help, was sent off to a youth hostel. I camouflaged my grimace into a cheshire green, beaming with faux delight at his comment. 

“Yes, it really is beautiful. Thank you,” I stated. 

He couldn’t possibly expect me to be grateful to stay at a youth hostel on Christmas when he and his wife were staying at the most luxurious resort in the country. Youth hostels were built for the young, adventurous souls who didn’t mind bunking with a handful of strangers. The college dorm room experience was traumatizing enough and I didn’t need to relive it. The neverending line for the shower, endless chatter well past midnight, the smell of raspberry Smirnoff wafting through the air. If it was possible, I just wanted to get through the next three days without a hiccup so I could make it safely back to my little girl. 

The tires screeched to a halt, sleet spraying out from under the car. Under a layer of snow, straw topped the roof of the hostel. The letter Y was broken on the sign, it looked like I would be spending the night at the “outh hostel”. 

Lugging my suitcase up the stairs, my finger tinked the little metal bell at the front desk. A spindly old woman with wire framed glasses approaching me, smiling hesitantly. 

“Hello dear, merry Christmas. My name is Martha, how can I help you?” 

“Merry Christmas, I have a room booked here for the next few nights, it’s under the name Leah Carington,” I stated. 

Martha’s face lit up from behind a computer screen and she penciled something in on a notepad. Unlocking a drawer, she removed a tagged set of keys and handed them to me. 

“You’re all set dear, enjoy your stay. Please let me know if I can be of any help to you. My husband and I live just next door, so feel free to come knocking if I’m not here,” Martha said sweetly. 

“Thank you so much. Can I ask, where is everybody? I haven't seen anyone walking the streets or at all frankly,” I mumbled tiredly. 

“Well, it’s Christmas dear. Everyone is inside celebrating the holidays with their families.” 

Way to kick me when I’m down, Martha. I jangled my keys and smiled at her, ignoring how painful her statement was. I so desperately wanted to be at home with Sarah, but duty called. 

Pressing the key into the stubborn lock, I entered a small room with bunks stacked against the walls. Sheets folded nicely and tucked under the mattresses. The bathroom was spotless, no sign of potential roommates. 

The steam from the shower filled the bathroom and water washed off the jet lag from my eyes. My feet ached from standing for hours and pressure knots collected in the crevices of my shoulder blades. But my heart hurt the most. I was staying in one of the most beautiful places in the world, but I ached for the comfort of my condo with my daughter. I longed for her laughter, the warmth of her smile as she tore into her Christmas presents. 

Upon my arrival, I was grateful for the solitude my little hostel offered. But after settling in, loneliness wallowed around in my head. There was no music, no laughter, no shredding of ribbons. Deafening silence echoed throughout the room. With the edge of my sweater, I wiped the condensation from the stained glass. The tiny town of Zermatt slept peacefully as its residents cozied up next to fireplaces with their loved ones. 

Sighing loudly for an absent audience, I flopped down on the twin mattress. The springs squeaked from the weight of my fall. The walls of the hostel were coated in a beautiful powder blue. A color similar to the walls my mother had painted in her home. Another stitch tore at my heart, thinking of my late mother. Holidays were hard enough after losing her to a sickening cancer, but being away from my daughter added to the pain. 

My mother was born and raised in Italy before she moved to the States when she was a little girl. Her family lived in Lake Como, an affluent town teetering the border of Italy and Switzerland. She told me stories from her childhood, magical evenings spent on the lake in the summer and visiting her cousins in the winter. My grandparents ran a small tourist business that toted travelers around the lake, showing them hidden gems of Italy. Swans floating near the shoreline, colorful homes stacked on top of one another in no apparent order. I had seen the photos, it looked like a magical place to call home. 

With an itch to scratch, I opened my laptop. My mother had mentioned her close kinship with her cousins, but their names had slipped my memory. I invested in an Ancestry account, which compiled a detailed list of my family's ethnic background and history. Once my mother passed, I grasped at anything to feel closer to her and my lineage. I wanted to understand where my roots were. The only tab I hadn’t clicked was my existing relatives. I panned over the map, scanning the various countries where my distant relatives resided. A tiny red dot appeared next to my location and at first glance I assumed my screen was glitching. But it wasn’t. Next to my location, about an inch away on the screen, was a red dot in Zermatt, Switzerland. 

My heart dropped, eager to discover what long lost family I had in this little town. I clicked on the dot, and a profile on a woman named Maria Ficardo panned over the screen. The green blurb on her profile allowed for unsolicited messages to be sent to her, provided that they were connected in some way. I nervously typed out a message to this woman, grasping at anything that might make this Christmas feel less lonely. 

Merry Christmas Maria, 

My name is Leah Carington. My mother was Lucia Rossi and I believe she was a cousin of yours. She shared with me years ago that she had fond memories with her cousins in Switzerland before she moved to California as a child. I am here in Zermatt for work for the next few days and I would love to take you to lunch if you have time. I know Christmas is a very busy time of year and I would understand if you have plans, but I thought I would reach out regardless. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

Light spilled onto the linoleum floor and defrosted the window panes. My stomach gurgled and I wondered when my last meal was. Tossing a scarf around my neck, I would find somewhere to sit for dinner and strike up a conversation with a bartender to drown out the loneliness. There had to be a fairly priced restaurant open on Christmas. A vision of my boss and his colleagues toasting with champagne flutes over decadent hors d'oeuvres flashed across my mind. 

A festive red scarf protected my neck and woolen mittens warmed my frigid hands. Just before I locked the door to the bunkroom, a notification pinged on my computer. The notification was from Maria and it read: 

Merry Christmas to you! I am so happy you have messaged me and I would love to meet you. Please come by my cottage this evening for dinner. I would be delighted to tell you stories about your mother, she was such a treasure in my life. The address of my home is 43 Riedweg, Zermatt. 

Joy beamed in my chest and a toothy grin spread across my face. I locked the door behind me and I pranced up the streets of the frosted town in search for a bottle of wine to bring to dinner. I felt like I was attending a blind date, meeting someone unexpectedly for dinner. The thrill of possibilities overwhelmed my senses and I was captivated by the idea of having existing relatives to hold close. 

I purchased a bottle of French wine at a local market and pulled up the address to Maria’s home. A sharp breath of air burst from my lungs when I saw that her home was within walking distance from the market. 

The rubber soles of my boots skid across the ice and my eager feet were not treading lightly. The sun was tucked behind the mountains and a dark shadow cast across the glittering town. With my newfound hope, I could appreciate the beauty of this winter wonderland without feeling the barren isolation that lingered. 

Inhaling the crisp air, my knuckles pounded Maria’s front door. A humble wooden cottage with stones arranged around the perimeter. The wood was chipped in places and a stunning stained glass window threw beams of soft yellow and green light onto the porch. 

A small woman with curly brown hair and crystal green eyes stared up at me, her smile beaming brighter than any of the festive lights that studded the street. She welcomed me warmly with an embrace, her frail arms squeezing me with all their might.

“Welcome, I’m so happy you’re here. What a wonderful Christmas miracle,” she said. 

“This is for you, thank you for having me on such short notice. I hope I’m not interrupting any of your plans,” I said. 

My scarf unraveled from my neck and I tilted my head to get a better look at the inside of her home. The smell of freshly baked bread wafted through the air and I followed the comforting scent into her kitchen, where a full feast was laid out. 

“This looks incredible, are your other family members joining us?” I asked. 

Maria’s eyes trailed to a litter of photographs that collected on a shelf housing fine china and crystal glasses. My heart sank, realizing that I had just poured salt in an open wound. 

“No, dear. It will just be you and I tonight. My husband passed away almost a year ago and I couldn’t bring myself to decorate or celebrate Christmas. The festivities were always something Antoine and I adored. Please make yourself at home,” she said. 

The dinner table was decorated with a frilly doily cloth and gold tipped forks. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a crack in a drawer attached to a china cabinet. A twinge of guilt pricked at my stomach, this sweet woman had prepared this beautiful dinner and put out her finest china just for me. 

Pouring Maria a thimble of wine, we ate our dinners and spilled stories about my mother. Listening to the tales of my mother’s youth felt like a warm blanket I desperately needed. Secrets shared and stories swapped, laughter escaping our wine stained mouths. 

“Your mother was the reason I had any fun in my life. We used to get into so much trouble. She and I would stay out dancing all night. She was such a brilliant woman, so strong and independent,” Maria shared. 

My vision blurred as tears welled up. A part of me had been defrosted and I felt whole again. Finding family, even in the most unexpected circumstances, felt incredibly serendipitous. Once my mother passed, I felt unimaginably lost and confused. I longed for connection and the desire to be seen was something innate in everyone. Sarah was the most important person in my life, but I couldn't help the need to feel connected to a bigger picture. 

Maria’s face brightened when I showed her pictures of Sarah on my phone. She was quick to commentate on what a beautiful young lady she was. A frail hand covered a gasp when she saw a picture of Sarah and my mother, Lucia, on the screen. 

“Sarah and I will have to come visit you soon, I’m sure she would love to meet you. Sarah will love hearing stories about her Nona just as much as I did,” I said. 

A frail hand escaped her sweater and she reached for mine. The warmth of connection flooded my body and suddenly, this unfamiliar village in Switzerland felt like home.

“Please come and visit me anytime, you are family.”