“The color of truth is gray.”
Days have been cold and rainy since we arrived. Not ideal to explore a new environment, but perfect to catch up on postponed tasks and recuperate from a period that shouldn’t have been that stressful yet got to me all the same.
This morning, we went to the Saturday market in Zollikon, which was what you’d expect a market to be in a small Swiss village: a few stalls with high quality goods, such as flowers and lamb. We purchased pears, purple carrots, Swiss chard, and a pot of citron-thyme. The prices for anything non-local reminded us that we’d come to the land of bankers—and of maffia, according to some: the other day, a passing jogger stopped to point at a large office near the Tiefenbrunnen train station and vented his anger about the Italian infiltration.
I also went on a hike this afternoon, up the slope, along fairytale homes, and into the woods. There wasn’t a soul save the winter wind. Birds perched on the bare branches without a chirp. I walked with my senses wide open and absorbed every simple thing. The scent of wet earth, the murmur of running water. I felt like a romantic adventurer just by turning left and right on a whim.
I’ll let the images do most of the talking today. The gray light made Zollikon appear as though in a dream.