The Bernina Express

For more than ten years, I carried a train inside my head.

It was not just any train. It crossed snow-covered mountains, passed beside frozen lakes, and moved slowly through villages that seemed to have been built for a Christmas film. I had seen it in YouTube videos, photographs, and television documentaries. Every so often, it would appear again on social media, as though it wanted to remind me that it was still there, crossing the Alps without caring how far away I was.

It was the Bernina Express.

For many years, traveling that way belonged to the part of life where we keep the dreams we still cannot afford. I dreamed of leaving Venezuela, discovering other countries, and seeing for myself whether the world was truly as large as it looked on maps. But there was always something more urgent: the economic crisis, my health, my studies, work, and, whenever it seemed that things were finally beginning to improve, money once again.

Life kept placing one difficulty after another in my path, as though it, too, had its own itinerary.

Even so, the idea remained.

Some dreams make no noise. They do not interrupt our responsibilities or demand a date. They simply wait in some corner of our memory until, one day, circumstances change and we realize there is no longer any real reason to keep postponing them.

Switzerland was one of those destinations that seemed reserved for other people.

When people talk about traveling through Europe, they almost always mention Madrid, Paris, London, Barcelona, or Rome. These are cities that appear in films, songs, souvenirs, and conversations. By contrast, few people casually announce that they will spend their holidays in Zurich or take a few days to admire the Swiss Alps.

Some people do, of course. But they belong to that privileged group who can look at the price of a coffee in Switzerland without feeling a sharp pain in their chest.

For most of us, there are economic, logistical, and even emotional barriers. Switzerland does not seem like a place you simply visit. It feels like a country you must enter with an exact plan, a bank card with enough money, and considerable faith that nothing will go wrong.

Still, I had already created an itinerary in my head.

I had been living in Europe for a couple of months. I was only beginning to become familiar with train stations, airports, and timetables. I was also trying to establish a routine between work and university, two responsibilities that were demanding enough on their own but, together, occupied almost every day of my life.

When I finally felt that everything was somewhat under control, I bought a ticket and went to Milan.

It was the first time I had traveled alone to a country where Spanish was not spoken. Only a few months earlier, I had crossed the Atlantic for the first time, but this was different. This time, I was not moving somewhere new, nor did I have weeks to learn how everything worked.

I had less than forty-eight hours.

I did not speak Italian, and my English was basic. The plan was to fly on Thursday night, travel along the Bernina route the following day, and be back home by Sunday.

Viewed calmly, it did not seem like a particularly sensible idea.

At the time, it seemed perfect.

I arrived in Milan in the middle of the night. At the hostel reception, I carefully pronounced a few words. The receptionist took my passport, looked at my country of origin, and said in English:

“Ah, Venezuela. Trump is fighting with your country.”

I smiled, although I did not know whether it was a political observation, a welcoming joke, or simply the only thing he knew about Venezuela. After so many hours of traveling, I did not have the energy to begin a conversation in a hostel lobby.

I took the key and went up to the room.

I must confess that the accommodation was quite expensive for what it offered. I shared the room with several men who were immigrants and who, fortunately, were friendly. I barely had time to get to know them. My relationship with that hostel lasted less than many elevator conversations.

I slept for only a few hours.

Before sunrise, I was back outside, walking toward Milano Centrale to catch the first train to Tirano, the Italian town where the Bernina route would begin.

I had chosen the hostel because it was relatively close to the station. On the map, the journey looked simple. In reality, walking through an unfamiliar city before dawn, in the cold and without speaking the language, made every street corner feel like an important decision.

Milan was full of construction work. The city was preparing for the Winter Olympic Games, and many stations, tunnels, and railway lines were being repaired. This ended up affecting my journey far more than I had expected.

In online videos, the trip to Tirano had always looked direct and peaceful. You boarded a train, sat beside the window, and waited for the mountains to appear.

My journey involved trains, a bus, and several opportunities to get lost.

Part of the railway line had been closed for improvements to a tunnel, so I had to leave the train at one station, find a replacement bus, and then catch another train.

During those hours, my concentration reached a level I had never achieved, not even during university exams.

I could not properly understand the announcements in Italian. Nor could I completely trust my English. So I asked every railway employee I came across:

“Tirano?”

They replied with long sentences, pointed in one direction, and I quickly tried to make sense of every word.

Then I would walk a few meters, begin to doubt myself, and ask someone else just to make sure:

“Tirano?”

I must have confirmed my destination about fifteen times. Several employees probably thought Tirano was not a town, but a missing relative I was desperately trying to find.

But I could not afford to make a mistake. Boarding the wrong train, misunderstanding a stop, or missing a bus could destroy the entire itinerary. I had no extra days and not enough money to improvise an overnight stay in some Italian village whose name I could not pronounce.

So I followed every movement with absolute concentration.

And it worked.

At sunrise, I arrived in Tirano.

It was cold. The station was small, and the departure time of the Bernina train was drawing closer. That was when I made my first beginner’s mistake of the day.

I approached a machine to buy the ticket. I selected the destination, chose the card payment option, and held my card near the reader.

Nothing happened.

I tried again.

Nothing.

I pressed the screen, pulled the card away, brought it closer again, and repeated the process with the seriousness of a specialized technician. Behind me, other people began to gather. Some of them spoke Spanish and were having exactly the same problem.

That reassured me a little. Perhaps it was a technical issue. The machine seemed to have something personal against foreigners.

I let other passengers go ahead of me, but they could not make the payment either. Meanwhile, the train was about to leave.

Then I watched a local person using another machine. I discovered that, after selecting payment by card, you had to press a physical button to activate the reader.

It was a small, discreet button and, at that moment, more urgent than anything else in the world.

I pressed it.

The machine accepted the payment.

I grabbed the ticket and ran toward the platform as the train prepared to leave. I boarded the first carriage I found only seconds before the doors closed.

For ten years, I had imagined that moment in many different ways. In none of them was I desperately running after a train because of a button.

But I was inside.

I had not chosen the official Bernina Express tourist train. That one left later, cost considerably more, and required an advance reservation. I had chosen the regional train, which followed almost the same route but was cheaper and allowed me to make better use of the day.

The only problem was that it was full.

I spent about ten minutes searching for a seat. I walked through several carriages with my backpack, trying not to hit anyone and pretending I knew where I was going.

Eventually, I found an empty seat.

It seemed to belong to a different class from the one shown on my ticket. I was not sure. My feet were tired, I had slept very little, and the train was already moving. I decided to sit down and trust in the mercy of the Swiss railway system.

When the conductor arrived, I handed him my ticket with the innocent expression of someone who has done nothing wrong, although he is not entirely certain.

The man stamped it and continued on his way.

I understood then that I could stay.

I did not have a window seat, but I did not mind too much. The journey had only just begun, and I already felt that all the effort had been worthwhile.

The train moved slowly. That slowness, which might have been annoying on another journey, was a gift there. It allowed me to observe the mountains, villages, and forests without watching the scenery disappear immediately.

It was autumn.

Clouds covered part of the sky, and the sun appeared from time to time, illuminating the trees in different colors. As we climbed, the villages became smaller, the mountains grew taller, and the ordinary world began to fall behind us.

There were wooden houses, tiny churches, and paths disappearing among the pine trees. Every so often, a lake or a bridge suspended above a valley would appear. Everything seemed too perfect to be real.

But the true transformation happened after we passed through a tunnel.

We entered surrounded by green scenery.

We came out in winter.

On the other side, the earth was covered in snow. The lakes appeared frozen, and the mountains had disappeared beneath an immense whiteness. The train moved through that landscape as though it had passed not through a tunnel, but through an entire season.

For someone born in a tropical country, it felt like a small miracle.

I had seen snow before in photographs and videos, but seeing it that way, spread across everything, was different. There was a special silence in the landscape. The houses looked like Christmas decorations, and the snow-covered trees gave the impression that they had been waiting for our arrival for centuries.

It was like entering a fairy tale without having received an invitation.

A little later, the couple sitting beside me got off at one of the intermediate stations. They seemed to be Italian or Swiss, and when they left, the window seat became available.

I moved into it with a speed that was probably not very elegant.

Then the journey became even better.

I brought my face close to the glass and began to look at everything with the attention of a child. I did not want to miss anything. Every curve revealed another valley, another lake, or a mountain larger than the one before it.

At some point, I understood that this was not merely a train journey.

It was a victory.

Only six months earlier, I had been struggling with economic and professional challenges that seemed endless. I had lived through years in which every personal project had to wait because there was always something more urgent.

And now I was there.

I was not watching the Bernina Express on a screen. I was crossing the Alps inside it.

For years, I had saved videos, bookmarked posts, and thought: one day.

That day had arrived.

The difference between the dream and the experience had been a decision. It had also required a cheap ticket, several sleepless hours, an unexpected bus, and a race against the closing doors of a train—but above all, it had required a decision.

We often believe that dreams come true when life finally becomes easy. In reality, some dreams come true when we stop waiting for everything to be perfectly organized.

I still had fears. My English was basic. I did not speak Italian, I did not know Switzerland, and I was traveling on a limited budget. Even so, there was a direct connection between what I wanted and what I was doing.

The dream was no longer written in a notebook or saved in an online post.

It was happening outside the window.

The journey was more beautiful than I had imagined. I was not surprised to learn why it is considered one of the most impressive railway routes in the world. At every moment, something appeared that seemed to surpass what had come before.

However, while the landscape became more perfect, my technological situation became more complicated.

When we crossed the Swiss border, my phone lost its signal.

My mobile plan was Spanish and had worked without any problems in Italy, but in Switzerland the signal disappeared completely. I had no internet, and my phone was my map, my translator, my means of payment, and my main source of information.

Suddenly, the device in my hand was useful only for taking photographs and telling me the time.

That made me even more attentive.

I could not check routes, review schedules, or translate signs. I could not easily make payments in some places either. A single mistake could leave me stranded in one of the most expensive countries in the world.

Switzerland is not the ideal place to miss a train and say:

“Well, we’ll figure it out tomorrow.”

In other European destinations, you can find an inexpensive hostel, buy something simple to eat, and reorganize your plans. In Switzerland, improvisation can quickly become a high-risk financial activity.

Even so, I tried not to worry too much.

When we arrived in the Swiss town, I got off the train feeling hungry and carrying a strange mixture of happiness and nervousness. I bought a few things to eat, found a free Wi-Fi network, and tried to discover why my phone had no signal.

I also took photographs and recorded videos. I wanted to preserve something from the experience, although I knew no image could fully explain what I had felt during the journey.

Everything I bought was expensive, as expected, but not expensive enough to ruin the trip. I ate slowly and spent nearly an hour observing the place.

I would have liked to stay longer.

But the clock was still moving.

I still had to return to Tirano, reach Milan, and then travel to the airport. If I missed the next connection, I might arrive too late or be left without transportation.

So I returned to the train.

The journey back was different.

The carriages were almost empty, and I was able to choose a seat beside the window without having to negotiate with fate. The afternoon was fading quickly, and the same landscape now appeared completely different.

The mountains grew darker, the snow took on shades of blue, and the lights in the houses began to glow. It was as though the day had prepared two versions of the same performance: one for the journey there and another for the return.

I watched for hours.

I no longer felt anxious about arriving. I knew the route, recognized the stations, and had proven that I could find my way even without a phone signal. I allowed myself to rest and enjoy the strange feeling of being very far from everything familiar.

At some point during the journey, I thought about all the people I had been before arriving there.

The child who watched other countries on television. The young man who calculated every expense. The professional trying to build a future in the middle of an endless crisis. The student who crossed the Atlantic carrying more uncertainty than certainty.

They were all sitting with me on that train.

Perhaps travel is like that. We believe we are leaving alone, but we carry all our previous selves with us. Some look silently through the window. Others cannot believe they have finally arrived.

When I returned to Tirano, it was already beginning to grow dark. From there, I continued to Milano Centrale, and then I had to take another train to the airport.

My flight was leaving early in the morning, so it made no sense to pay for another night of accommodation. I decided to wait until the station opened and then travel directly to the airport.

I spent several hours in the cold Milan night.

By then, the romance of the Alps had been replaced by exhaustion, sleepiness, and the need to find somewhere to sit without freezing.

Travel also has those scenes that nobody posts online.

On social media, we see lakes, mountains, and panoramic trains. We rarely see the half-asleep traveler hugging a backpack outside a closed station and wondering why he did not choose a simpler plan.

When I was finally able to go inside, I bought the ticket to the airport and boarded the train. I checked in, passed through security, and reached the boarding gate with the satisfaction of someone who had completed a secret mission.

By Sunday at noon, I was back home.

The return flight was turbulent and took away the little sleepiness I still had left. Yet while the plane shook, I kept thinking about the mountains.

In less than forty-eight hours, I had traveled more than two thousand kilometers and passed through three countries. I had taken planes, trains, and buses. I had slept very little, asked how to reach Tirano fifteen times, and discovered the most important button on a ticket machine.

I had also fulfilled a dream that was more than ten years old.

My European adventure had only just begun, but it had already given me one of those experiences that divide life into two parts: the time when we imagine something and the moment when we finally live it.

For years, the Bernina Express had been a distant landscape on a screen.

Now it was part of my memories.

And when I think about that journey, the first things I remember are not the cold, the exhaustion, or the fear of missing a connection. I remember the moment when the train emerged from the tunnel and the world appeared covered in snow.

I remember the window.

I remember the mountains.

And above all, I remember the feeling that life, after making me wait for so long, was finally saying to me:

“Look. All of this was meant for you, too.”