May 28-Mirupafshim Tirana!

We are finally leaving this sunlit land of Wildean contradiction. Our next destination: the Swiss Alps. Those familiar with the work of theologian and philosopher Francis Schaeffer may drool to know that we are staying with his daughter and son-in-law in a program similar to L’Abri; for everyone else, it might be helpful to mention that L’Abri was established to bring seekers and theophiles to the mountains to discuss all kinds of ideas from the perspective of Christianity.

The Middelmanns (the couple mentioned above) open their home to guests in an endeavor they call the Francis Schaeffer Foundation, which attempts to stay as true as possible to the intents and ideas of its namesake.

Our connection once more in this trot of the globe is The King’s College. Udo Middelmann is a professor of theology who taught my modern philosophy class in the spring. Aside from what I learned, which was considerable, I was impressed to note how attentive he was to his students. In no other class have I been chastised so graciously and so faithfully for falling asleep.

In spite of this embarrassing habit of mine, the Middelmann’s welcomed my friends and me to their Alpine retreat. And now all that stood between us and Switzerland was several hundred miles, a mountain range, a few border crossings…well, actually a number of things. Thank God they invented airplanes.

This was also our chance, finally, to take the quintessential European Train Ride of Significant Length. We’d already veered off the prescribed path my renting a car early on instead of investing in a Eurorail pass, but perhaps this journey would redeem us: a ride listed in all the hardy, globe-trekking Web sites as a world-class delight, even in second class.

We’d land in Milan, shuttle in to Milan’s Centrale train station and ride the rails to Geneva and from thence to a little town called, adorably, Bex. Near there was the little villae of Gryon, where the cows were all happy, and the shepherds woke villagers in the mornings with their ethereal, melodic yodeling. I hoped.

Fast forward a few hours. We sit atop a mountain of our own luggage at the most conspicuous part of Centrale Station, a banister of the marble staircase at the entrance, looking and feeling like vagrants, and without a certain resting place for our world-weary heads.

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After bidding a reluctant farewell to Tirana, we had touched down in Milan and basked in Western Europe’s warm and quasi-familiar embrace. As we filed off the plane, Eri had thoughtlessly (and loudly) announced to the group, “we can call Kari by her real name again!”

But this particular flight was mainly elderly Albanians, who answered her exuberance with a horrified glare.

I should mentio that we were flying the Bulgarian airline BelAir, an economic but daring choice of carrier. Eri’s father told us to carry umbrellas on board just in case we had to eject quickly and float ourselves down to earth. On the landing, the plane careened wildly from one side to the other, barely leveling before its wheels plunked forcefully down upon the asphalt, us white-knuckled and breathless within the cabin.

Our breakfast was in our throats, but thankfully advanced no further. As we slowed to a halt, I wickedly employed an old trick my father taught me: give a few clear, confident claps, then settle back in your seat to watch the confused round of applause ripple forth. Soon, half the plane was applauding (one fellow uncertainly shouted “Bravo!”), an ovation foer the most unpraiseworthy landing I’ve ever experienced.

We had a tight connection, then, to our train station shuttle, and a train we had to catch or we’d be looking at a 3a.m. arrival in Switzerland. Everything was running smoothly until we arrived at the luggage carousel to find that the handlers had forwarded Matt’s bag to Narnia.

Our customer service representative swore up and down in his seductive Italian accent that the bad was in the airport, but as an hour ticked by and no bag appeared, we were forced to conclude that this was the work of the Deep Magic and leave, having given instructions for the bag to be forwarded when found.

That is how we missed our train. And that is how we came to end up on the marble stairs, eating the remainder of the German chocolate and wondering if we should spend the night in Milan or Geneva. But it turns out that there was a direct train after all that could take us into Bex by 10:30 that night after all.

And the beauty of that ride, so praised by those guidebooks and Web sites, was if anything underreported. Milan city blocks gave way to mountains on this side and grassy streams on that, and castles perched on hilltops, and sparkling lakes and still-icy creeks. We chugged through villages of stone that redefined the term “ancient” for our American minds and conjured up images of Roman garrisons and barbarian settlements just the way you’d hope they would.

Swiss customs on the train were as painless as flashing an American passport, and aside from a tight connection in which I nearly got left behind forever in some petit Swiss village, all went smoothly.

Udo, our host, greeted us at the station with warm hugs and loaded us snugly into his van. As we wound up the mountain in the dark, we had little idea of what the morning would reveal to us.