The train came to a stop with a metallic sigh. I stepped onto the platform of the bustling regional station, livelier than the one in my small mountain village, where the platforms are often empty and silent. Here, announcements echoed in multiple languages, hurried travelers crossed paths, and children’s laughter floated through the air, mingling with the aroma of coffee from the nearby café.
I see myself again, two years earlier, that day, suitcase in hand, containing my carefully folded black, green, and gold silk costume, the music box tucked under my arm. I took a deep breath—to calm the inner excitement, that thrill of the unknown dancing beneath the skin.
It was during that first festival that I discovered the world of street performance, a universe where every corner becomes a stage, every passerby an unintended spectator, every breath a beat of the drum.
My first stop was Geneva, a French-speaking, elegant, intellectual city. There, I danced within the prestigious setting of the Book Fair, among walls of words and stories. My silent act contrasted with the rustling of pages and cultured chatter. Visitors looked at me as if discovering a visual poem, a gentle anomaly in a world of letters.
Then I descended to Lausanne, where my mechanical steps followed the liquid rhythms of Lake Geneva. The water’s mirror reflected my movements like a conspiratorial partner. Children, fascinated, asked: “Is it a real doll?” and I responded with a frozen smile, eternally suspended.
In Basel, in the German-speaking region, I settled in front of the Bucherer jewelry store, where my costume caught the precious reflections from the shop windows. Passersby paused, intrigued by my moving stillness. Swiss German brushed my ears—rough but precise—and the whispered comments—so schön, zauberhaft—confirmed that magic transcends languages.
In Zurich, at a large technology exhibition, I was a walking anachronism. Surrounded by gleaming robots and touchscreens, my music box seemed to come from another world. And yet, visitors gathered around me, drawn in by the fragile nostalgia of my notes. Perhaps, amidst all the progress, we all needed a slow, poetic reminder of the past.
I then went all the way south to Chiasso, where Italian sang on every street corner. The carnival welcomed me with an explosion of colors, laughter, and dazzling masks. “Bellissima! Una vera bambola!” people exclaimed as they watched me dance. There, my movements became more fluid, as if cradled by the southern softness. I realized that language was not spoken only with the mouth, but with the entire body.
And in Graubünden, in Chur, I heard for the first time the velvety sounds of Romansh, that discreet but proud language. “Bainvegni!” said the signs, and the locals greeted me with warmth and curiosity. There, I danced at the foot of an old bell tower, my steps following the rhythm of the wind and forgotten words.
Each language opened a door, revealed a different facet of myself. I danced without speaking, but I listened with all my soul.
And then, in February, I arrived in Lucerne. Artist friends had invited me to discover Fasnacht, the mystical and unbridled carnival of this city framed by mountains and lake. They suggested I take part as a mime, to join the celebration while bringing my own silent poetry to it.
The streets were a heady tumult: grotesque masks, witches with crooked noses, fantastic beasts, roaring trumpets. I found refuge near the Chapel Bridge, beneath the swaying lanterns. There, I placed my music box and triggered the mechanism. The first notes of Pachelbel’s Canon rose—fragile yet clear, like a thread of silk amid the chaos.
I danced. A frozen face, mechanical gestures, silence thick with mystery. The crowd stopped. An old man in a Pierrot costume gave me a knowing wink. Children, dressed as dragons or elves, approached softly.
At the end, applause broke out, coins jingled into my basket. A gentle warmth passed through me. I packed up my music box and let myself be swept into the celebration. The streets sparkled: feathers, confetti, laughter, suspended stars.
Later, as night fell, I began to climb the hill leading to the Hotel Gütsch, a landmark perched above Lucerne. Though not a true ancient castle, its neo-romantic architecture, built at the end of the 19th century, evokes the Bavarian castles—like a nod to the world of fairy tales. First built as a pleasure pavilion, then transformed into a hotel, the Gütsch has, over time, become a discreet sentinel, suspended between sky and city. For generations, it has watched the metamorphoses of Lucerne, a silent witness to love affairs, reunions, and solitude. My legs were heavy, but my heart was light. At the summit, I looked out at Lucerne glowing. Lake Lucerne sparkled. And in the distance, Mount Pilatus rose dark and massive, like a guardian of legends.
As always, I took photos of those magical moments. But in one of them, I noticed a blurred shadow, almost human, appearing beside me. Was it a passerby? A reflection? Or a whisper from the other world, the realm of forest spirits and forgotten mechanisms?
A shiver ran through me—a deep, clear intuition: all of this was leading me somewhere. I whispered into the night:
“The adventure continues.”
And under the stars, with Pilatus as witness, I walked on in silence, accompanied by the voices of four languages, the dreams of the mountains, and the secrets only automata know how to keep.
