My Most Expensive Day Trip in Switzerland

Switzerland’s trains are said to run like an atomic clock—miss a minute and you’re history. At Zürich Hauptbahnhof, I bought the coveted day pass, valid for twenty-four hours of seamless travel. It felt less like a ticket and more like a mortgage payment. More expensive than a Manila–Davao round-trip flight, but Switzerland has a way of reminding you that punctuality and precision don’t come cheap. You aren’t just paying for transportation; you’re paying tribute to a nation where even the scenery feels like it has been quality-controlled.

I left Zürich under a heavy sky, the city brooding in shades of gray that made its trams look like they were dragging the weather behind them. By the time I reached Bern, the sun had finally reported for duty, spilling warmth onto sandstone facades that glowed like they had been sunbathing for centuries. The old town was less a museum piece than a lived-in heirloom: arches worn smooth by feet, fountains gurgling as if they had private jokes to tell. At its center stood the Zytglogge, an astronomical clock so meticulous it felt like a parody of Swiss seriousness. I watched it strike the hour, tiny mechanical figures parading for the crowd. It was hard to tell whether the locals were proud or slightly embarrassed, as if they too suspected the whole city was in on an elaborate joke.

Interlaken was another story entirely. The mountains here didn’t simply rise; they loomed, as if painted in for dramatic effect. Lakes gleamed in impossible shades of turquoise, so still they could be accused of vanity. Despite the tourists—selfie sticks bobbing like antennae—the town managed to look unhurried, a little smug, as though beauty had permitted it to relax. From there, I took the bus to Iseltwald, a village thrust into global fame not by history or geography but by a Korean drama. At the pier, they charged five francs for entry, a toll for the privilege of imitation. I considered it for half a second before deciding that a cold beer would be a more honest memory. Switzerland, after all, doesn’t need extra props.

The last leg of my pass took me to Lucerne, two hours of watching the country glide by like a screensaver that never looped—glaciers dangling like ornaments in the distance, villages so immaculate they looked steam-cleaned, cows chewing grass with the meditative patience of monks. Lucerne itself was compact, immaculate, and a little too aware of its own charm, as though it had been rehearsing for tourists long before they arrived. The lake shimmered like bottled water under a marketing spotlight, and the Chapel Bridge stood there obligingly, posing for every lens. But if you squinted past the brochure version, you caught glimpses of something gentler: the smoke of bratwurst curling across the waterfront, an old man tossing breadcrumbs to ducks with a kind of timeless patience that made you feel hurried just by watching him.

By the time evening arrived, the sky still refused to surrender, clinging stubbornly to daylight as if the sun hadn’t yet settled its debts. Switzerland stretches the hours in summer the way it stretches your wallet. I didn’t see half of Lucerne, but perhaps that was the point. Not every place is meant to be consumed in one sitting. Some are better left incomplete, a bookmark in the middle of a story you’re not yet finished with. An itch waiting for your return, whenever the next ticket, mortgage, or otherwise, brings you back.