I arrive at Lucerne train station, and the scent hits me instantly: a mix of heated iron from the rails, fresh bread from nearby bakeries, and a hint of moisture from the nearby Lake Vierwaldstättersee. The station, majestic, blends past and present. Its light gray stone gateway — a remnant of the 1896 building, miraculously spared from the 1971 fire — stands like a guardian of time. Passing through it feels like entering another dimension, suspended between yesterday and today.
I look up at the glass and steel architecture rebuilt in the 1990s by Santiago Calatrava. This modern arch, though sleek, still whispers of the first steam trains of 1856, when Lucerne became an Alpine crossroads. Footsteps echo on the polished floor, Swiss German announcements float through the air. Outside, the KKL Luzern sparkles like a jewel by the water. Designed by Jean Nouvel and built between 1995 and 2000, this cultural center seems to hover above the lake. Its copper roof reaches out poetically over the water.
I cross the water channels that divide the building into three wings: the concert hall — famed for its acoustics by Russell Johnson —, the Lucerne Hall, and the conference center with its art museum. The glass facades capture the surrounding peaks, and the smell of fresh water mingles with the coffee aroma escaping from Le Piaf bar, where people sip espressos facing the lake.
On the way to my new apartment, I pass by the Jesuit Church of Saint Francis Xavier, a baroque gem built between 1666 and 1677, the very first of its kind in Switzerland. Its two white towers, topped with green domes, are mirrored in the Reuss. A scent of incense escapes from the slightly ajar door, wrapping me in sacred softness. The interior, glowing with frescoes and golden altars, leaves me speechless. These walls, like the painted facades Lukas described to me, whisper centuries of history.
I set down my suitcases in a small apartment with wooden shutters, just steps from the Reuss, its waters shimmering beneath the Kapellbrücke. My new life roots itself in simple rituals: the familiar gesture of stroking the dial of my watch, a talisman adorned with a dragon, a gift from my brother — a miniature echo of Alpine legends.
I found a job at the Old Swiss House, a legendary half-timbered restaurant nestled near the Lion Monument. Since 1859, its polished woodwork, antique engravings, and windows overlooking the park have made it a time capsule. This place tells of travelers from long ago, of great Alpine crossings. What makes it unique is the Wiener Schnitzel ritual, pan-fried and golden right at the table, before the amazed eyes of the guests. Butter sizzles, local white wine releases its aromas, crispy rösti completes the dish. Conversations float through the air, in Swiss German, French, and melodic Italian. I serve tender perch fillets and blend into this living ballet, attentive to the whispered stories of passing travelers.
After my shift, I often escape to the Glacier Garden, a place suspended between geology and poetry. Opened in 1873, it reveals the scars left by glaciers that shaped Lucerne millennia ago. I walk among polished stones, fossils frozen in time, caves where water drips slowly, filling the air with a mineral fragrance. The underground labyrinth, lined with distorting mirrors, makes me smile, but the signs bring me back to what matters: the quiet power of the Alps.
At the center of the garden sits a reconstructed Alpine chalet, its aged wood releasing the scent of mountains long past. I sit on a bench, pressing the watch to my chest. It glimmers softly. I feel a strange sensation that the earth is whispering, that Pilatus, in the distance, is watching me.
A little further on, the Lion Monument draws me in. Sculpted in 1821 by Lukas Ahorn from a design by Bertel Thorvaldsen, it honors the Swiss Guards who fell at the Tuileries in 1792. The dying lion, pierced by a spear, moves me every time. Mark Twain called it “the most moving stone in the world.” All around, the air smells of humus, damp grass, the gravity of silence. Legend has it that Thorvaldsen, unhappy with his payment, designed the niche in the shape of a pig. I scan its contours: no matter. This place is a sanctuary.
I continue my walk to the Bourbaki Panorama, a circular building housing a vast canvas painted in 1881 by Édouard Castres. Ten meters high, one hundred and twelve meters long, it depicts the surrender of the Army of the East in 1871, those freezing French soldiers fleeing the Prussians, finding refuge… in the Jura of Vaud, my native land. Les Verrières, Vallorbe, Sainte-Croix — I know these names by heart.
I gaze at the scenes — weary soldiers, huddled children, Jura peasants offering bread and absinthe — and I can smell the frost-covered fir trees, feel the icy winter wind in my throat. The building’s dusty scent fades away. My grandmother’s stories return to me, smoky chimneys in the snow, solidarity beyond borders. Even here, in Lucerne, this panorama brings me home.
I walk back on foot. The cobblestones gleam under the streetlights, the Reuss glimmers like a mirror of stars. Mount Pilatus stands watch. And I, between the timeless soul of the Old Swiss House, the solemnity of the Lion Monument, the secrets of the Glacier Garden, and the echo of my Jura in the Bourbaki Panorama, finally feel… at home.
Lucerne embraces me. This city, with its bridges, frescoes, stones, and waters, has become my home. But it also whispers my roots, the ancient breath of the valleys I come from.