Interlaken Finale NeoX

Here I am at breakfast, typing on my laptop over a plate of Nutella covered bread, and a large juice of orange juice. The orange juice is free at breakfast, and while they may put the tiny little cups beside it (hint hint, nudge nudge) I'll not fall for that ploy. No, not while the large pint glasses for the three frank cups of coffee are only an arms reach away.

But Mike, you may say, that juice is for everyone and in only four glasses you have emptied the entire jug! This may be true – and it's this fear of emptying the containers that I think keeps people from drinking more than they might otherwise. But I see through the tricks. Breakfast is served until ten (a three hour period) and I know for a fact that they have more juice hiding behind the desk and when – oh, there they go, refilling them. Good. Such diligence. Such work effort.

The sky s blue, and the light is hitting those western peaks with as much grace as I could hope for. I've considered hiking back out there, but no – Interlaken's time is done. And Lucerne(Luzern)'s will soon be at hand.

This has been one hell of a place. I really will come back. I have to. There's no way around it. Though I'll be aiming for the summer next time. And I'll buy a SwissPass. For rail exploring. There are caves to explore, mountains to hike, and helicopters to jump out of. I also wouldn't mind taking a tip in the glacial lakes. The autumn doesn't seem the right time for that, strangely.

As I rode the bus yesterday the immortal words of Mr. Burns played through my ears “I'm Riding the Bus.” So contented was I, just by simply looking around, (when not terrified of falling over the edge) that I realized for the first time in a long time I felt 'home.' I couldn't live here – it's too small town for me. But I could gladly spend months here, never wanting to leave. Just so long as the prospect of escape existed somewhere out there on the imaginary horizon.

In most hostels I've done everything I could to try and meet / get to know other people. And yet here, I've been covered in a slight fear that other people will start to talk to me. I very much just wanted to be left alone, and left to my own devices. The leaves would crush under my feet alone, the mountains would be my personal sentries, and the evenings? My time to relax alone.

The contentedness with being alone, by ones self, has really helped illustrate just how good this town has been to me. But like everything, the moment I leave, the more I'll want to get to meet other people, explore cities, and play urban explorer once more. And this? All this will seem nothing more than a dream.

My toast devoured; the juice cup drained.

A group of Australians discuss Barcelona not far from me. Five of the seven were mugged there. The other two felt hands in their pockets. Still they claim it was their favorite city.

That it is not a real city, I will not mention. I will stay silent, covertly listening.

To each their own. “What was your favourite place?” one asks. “That's not a fair question.” And it's not. It's not at all.