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About Lausanne

Last summer, I dragged my sorry butt up there—total shitshow. Slipped on scree, twisted my ankle, yelled “I’m too old for this crap!” at a marmot. Made me so mad I could’ve chucked my trekking pole into the abyss. But then—bam!—summit views hit me like a truck. Snowy peaks, wildflowers, air so crisp it’s like snorting freedom. I was happy as a pig in mud, giggling like an idiot. “Nothing’s hidden anymore,” I said, quoting Haneke, ‘cept I was probs just delirious from altitude.

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I spend mad time mapping out dating profiles while cruising near the Reuss river — yeah, that one flows near Lucerne, but right here it's all chill. I remember this one night, city lights on the river made everything seem like some moody film. That’s when "White Material" whispers hit me: "There is a strange purity to the white snow." I was like, seriously? Pure? Man, it was just glistening water, but you get the drift.

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