And the Duck Trauma We Don’t Talk About
We had left Crown Hollow that morning with the kind of confidence only fools and women in linen possess. The plan was simple: a day trip to Lucerne, carefully choreographed by Glenda herself, complete with a designated parking garage—pre-selected, star-rated, and emotionally pre-approved.
“It’s okay, Tatie,” Glenda said, with the same tone one uses before a minor surgery or a shopping cart crash. “It says there’s availability.”
It did not.
The garage was full.
And not full in a polite way—no, full in that smug Swiss way where even the exit signs look like they’re judging your life choices.
We drove. In circles. Slowly. Like a funeral procession for our expectations.
Fifteen minutes later, I—a composed construct of continental discipline—snapped.
“Sweetie. Just park at the football stadium. At least the despair will be symmetrical.”
She did.
And behold—space. Acres of it. A kingdom of parking. Enough for every regret we’ve ever had.
Unfortunately, it was two miles from Lucerne proper.
We walked. Not uphill this time, thank heaven—but long enough to question our life choices. And our shoes. Mostly the shoes.
But just as morale began to crumble, the universe—ever the chaotic romantic—threw us a surprise:
a car show.
Yes.
Just outside of the football stadium, like a reward for our navigational trauma, was a glittering lineup of vintage, exotic, and slightly smug vehicles.
It was as if Lucerne itself whispered, “I know I hurt you. Take this Porsche as an apology.”
We paused. We admired. We inhaled the polished chrome and testosterone.
For a brief, shimmering moment, all was forgiven.
We were women in linen surrounded by Italian engines and Swiss restraint—and we were happy.
Then, armed with photos and slightly better moods, we continued on foot toward Lucerne’s old town.
And there is was—like a cathedral revealing itself after confession—Lucerne appeared.
Kapellbrücke, the famous wooden bridge, pristine as a postcard.
We found a lovely restaurant by the water. The sun flirted with the lake. My mood had just begun to exhale when the shrieking began.
Not from us. From the crowd.
At first, I assumed someone had spotted a minor royal or perhaps dropped a gelato.
No.
Seagulls.
Swooping.
Screaming.
Ducks—BABY ducks—vanishing.
It was nature, yes. But nature at its most traumatic.
Glenda whispered, “Are they being… taken?”
I responded, in a rare moment of empathy, “Sweetie, finish your schnitzel. We can’t help them now.”
We sat in silence. The trauma of fowl abduction.
The swans looked vaguely complicit. The seagulls were practically airborne mafia.
And still—the bridge was lovely.
Moral of the Story:
Never trust parking.
Never trust birds.
And always trust that Glenda will walk miles in linen for the right cappuccino and chaos in quiet luxury.
All Around The World 