A joke my dad often makes is that if you're going to hike multiple hours for a view, there is no way you can describe the view as anything else other than "spectacular", "fantastic", or "fabulous" to other people: the effort exerted and the desire to justify said effort — to others and to yourself — would demand nothing less. In this way, Switzerland felt like cheating. I woke up to my travel companion encouraging me to get up, all the while never shifting his dead stare at something outside the window. A little annoyed he was disturbing my wake-up procedure — a lengthy process, which may or may not involve drifting in and out of additional slumber — for something we had already passed by, albeit in the nighttime that we had arrived in. I padded over to the window, and there I saw the most stunning mountain I had ever seen. And thus, I joined my companion, never shifting my eyes off the snow-dusted peaks that filled up the floor-to-ceiling window. We later took a contraption — the name escapes me, but it was best described as little train cars on an extreme incline — up another mountain a scenic train ride away, which revealed a luscious, green mountain valley and taller peaks that seemed to loom over our view. Upon seeing the snow, upon feeling the gargantuan winds, we unknowingly began to run, run off the paved trail up onto every hill we saw, an originally meaningless quest that rewarded us with the sight of a compact manmade swing behind the old chapel. There, at the apex of the swing's ascent, was the view one can only describe as spectacular; fantastic; fabulous — even if it didn't require much effort at all.