You would expect your toddler to while away a prodigious number of hours scooting buses and cars around a plastic racetrack.
Though now his passion takes the form of a deep seated fascination with trains that work by magnets and how wind velocity pushes up airplane wings to create lift. I figured that our Swiss adventures would have wet his whistle as it were, what with all of those trains and funiculars and gondolas to experience and ponder and investigate the counter-weights.
He must have spent a good twenty minutes on one slope telling me how the ski lifts get put to bed at the end of the day, a question that would never have crossed my mind to wonder. And even after a day of skiing, he wanted to take the bus into town by himself to pick up groceries or take the train together to Wengwald so we could hike down the mountain. Plus, flying through the French countryside like an arrow shot from a bow seemed the perfect way to enter Paris, our last hurrah before our flight back to the States after a year of living-in-pandemic-Italy.
As we waited for the train to arrive, Gabe fidgeted restlessly like a kid in a candy store. Or a transportation-obsessed teen in a train station, I suppose. Throughout the two hour journey, he checked our speed, cheering when it tipped over kilometers per hour. Bullet trains are, apparently, magic.
A kind of magic that never got old. But what do I know? Before we knew it, the train rattled to a slow and we arrived in Paris. So I secretly thrilled to getting time in Paris after all. Our travel deck of cards had been tossed into the air as if by a sore-losing child, and we had to pick up what we could.
