I’m high in the Swiss Alps in a tiny mountain hut on a perch called Ebenalp. Here, a spry grandpa in a sweater as worn as his face pulls a wide-eyed child onto his lap to teach him to drum with old wooden spoons, as the old-timer next to him pumps on his squeezebox. Tall, sloppy mugs of beer stoke the commotion. I’m immersed in the conviviality, but eventually climb upstairs to my lofty bunk.
Hours later, unable to sleep, I poke my head out of the tiny window and look wearily down on the raging party. Finally, the gang packs up their rucksacks and hikes out, disappearing over the ledge and into the moonlit forest. When their singing voices finally fade, it’s quiet and I sleep, marveling at how the Swiss make mountains fun.
