I checked my watch, and double checked the train departure time, before pulling on my running shoes and heading out the door.
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At some point during the long train ride between Zermatt and St. Moritz, my eyes glazed over and I seemed to stop appreciating the sheer beauty of what was floating past me outside.
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The view from the top of the last cable car wasn't quite enough.
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I too couldn't help let out an audible gasp as the large gondola pulled back before the pylon.
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My train out of Zermatt the next morning was early, but not too early for the sunrise.
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Gentle mid-morning light flooded the room and church bells chimed in the distance.
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As if not to disturb or alert the people packing up at the high altitude slow food festival behind me, a small mountain goat tiptoed through the clouds and into the opening.
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Two cable cars, a sausage with sauce and a platter of bread and mixed condiments later, I found myself looking up at a loose pile of rocks a few hundred metres away.
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Somewhere in the Italian Alps.
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The plan came together in a way significantly better than I ever could have imagined.
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During a quiet walk down an off-season ski slope in the Rhone Alps, I noticed two figures: one, a young girl of three or four, the other, an older man who I assigned as her father.
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A late arrival from Paris made it tempting to hole up in my budget accommodation on the outskirts of town until the morning.
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I caught the last summer bus of the season along with half a dozen mountain bikers to the top of Le Semnoz mountain.
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The morning started with determination and optimism.
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"It's really hot in Paris this week" Geoffroy R-b, the owner of the apartment I was about to rent, told me in a Facebook message. "Just warning".
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