The train slipped quietly out of Rapperswil, carrying me away from one of the most beautiful places I had ever seen. If I had to describe Switzerland in two words, they would be postcard-worthy. If I had to describe it in one word, it would be picturesque.

Earlier that day, I had wandered through Rapperswil’s cobblestone streets beneath the watchful gaze of its medieval castle. Roses spilled over stone walls, sailboats drifted across the sapphire waters of Lake Zürich, and time itself seemed to slow. It was the kind of place that invited you to slow down, not because you had nowhere to be, but because every corner deserved to be remembered.

By late afternoon, I reluctantly boarded the train back to Zürich. I found a window seat, settled in with my book, and watched the countryside dissolve into shades of emerald and blue.

I expected a quiet ride. Instead, I met Sabra.

She slipped into the seat beside me with an easy smile and introduced herself before the train had even left the station.

“I’m Sabra.”

She had been born in Pakistan and was studying at a university in Ontario, Canada. We exchanged the usual traveler’s questions. Where are you from? What brings you here? But within minutes, the conversation wandered far beyond introductions.

We talked about Switzerland. About traveling alone. About the excitement and loneliness that sometimes arrive together when you’re far from home. Then, somehow, we found our way to music.

“My favorite artist is Sia,” Sabra said.

I smiled.

“She is one of mine too.”

“What’s your favorite song?”

“‘Cheap Thrills.’”

Her eyes widened.

“No way! That’s mine too!”

We laughed at the coincidence. Out of every song Sia had recorded, we had somehow landed on the very same favorite. We talked about why we loved it, the carefree rhythm, the joy woven into every note, and the reminder that sometimes the happiest moments in life don’t cost a thing.

It felt oddly appropriate. After all, there we were, two strangers from different continents, riding a train through Switzerland, discovering that one song had somehow built a bridge between our worlds. The conversation flowed so naturally that I forgot we had only just met. That’s one of the gifts of travel.

Strangers have no expectations of you. They don’t know your résumé. They don’t know your responsibilities. They don’t know who you’re supposed to be. They only know the person sitting beside them. Somewhere along the conversation, we began talking about family.

“I have two girls,” I told Sabra.

“How old are they?”

“They’re almost teenagers.”

She stopped speaking and looked at me. Then she laughed.

“No.”

I laughed too.

“No?”

“That’s impossible.”

“What’s impossible?”

“You can’t have daughters who are almost teenagers.”

“Why not?”

She studied my face as though trying to solve a mystery.

“Because,” she finally said, “you look like you’re my age.”

I couldn’t help laughing.

“I promise I’m not.”

“I thought you were another university student,” she said. “I was going to ask what you were studying.”

“I’m definitely not a student.”

“Then I need to know…”

She leaned in, smiling.

“How old are you really?”

When I told her, she stared at me for several seconds before shaking her head.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“There is absolutely no way.”

By then, we were both laughing.

Finally, I pulled my passport from my bag and covered everything except my birth year. She looked at it. Then looked back at me.

“I still don’t believe it.”

When the train arrived in Zürich, we gathered our bags and stepped onto the platform together. We wished each other safe travels, promised that perhaps our paths would cross again someday, and disappeared into different corners of the station.

As I walked toward the exit, I realized something. It wasn’t her compliment that stayed with me. It was everything that had happened before it. For nearly forty minutes, she hadn’t seen my age.

She hadn’t seen me as someone old enough to have daughters approaching their teenage years. She hadn’t seen me as someone whose life was already neatly defined. She had simply seen another traveler. Someone who loved beautiful places. Someone who could spend an afternoon wandering a medieval town.

Someone who believed “Cheap Thrills” was one of the best songs to sing at the top of your lungs.

For one train ride, age never entered the conversation. Connection did. Perhaps that’s the greatest gift travel gives us. It quietly strips away the labels we wear every day until all that’s left is curiosity, laughter, and the unexpected connections waiting just one seat away.

And somehow, that felt like enough.
Somewhere between Rapperswil and Zürich, I was simply Addie.

© 2026 Addie DeRose