At this point, I notice something: the sky is full of paragliders! They land in the park opposite the hotel. Most are not alone, and have an instructor behind them steering. First-timers.
How can they do such a crazy thing? Have we reached the point where risking our life is the only thing that frees us from boredom?
Another paraglider lands. And another. Friends film everything, smiling cheerfully. I wonder what the view must be like up there, because the mountains surrounding us are very, very high.
Although I envy every one of those people, I would never have the courage to jump.
The doorbell rings. The waiter enters with a silver tray, a vase with a rose, coffee (for my husband), tea (for me), croissants, hot toast, rye bread, jams of various flavors, eggs, orange juice, the local newspaper, and everything else that makes us happy.
I wake him up with a kiss. I don't remember the last time I did that. He is startled, but then smiles. We sit at the table and savor the treats in front of us. We talk a bit about our drinking spree last night.
"I think I needed that. But don't take what I said too seriously. When a balloon bursts, it startles everyone, but it's nothing more than that: a bursting balloon. Harmless."
I want to say it felt great to discover all his weaknesses, but I just smile and keep eating my croissant.
He also notices the paragliders. His eyes light up. We get dressed and go downstairs to enjoy the morning.
We go straight to the front desk. He says we'll be leaving today, asks them to bring down our suitcases, and pays the bill.
Are you sure? Can't we stay until tomorrow morning?
"I'm sure. Last night was enough for me to understand that it's impossible to go back in time."
We head to the door crossing the long, glass-ceilinged lobby. I read in one of the brochures that there used to be a street here; now they've joined the two buildings that stood on either side. Tourism is apparently thriving, even without ski slopes.
But instead of going out the door, my husband turns left and approaches the concierge.
"How can we go paragliding?"
We? I don't have the slightest intention of doing that.
The concierge hands him a brochure. It's all there.
"And how do we get up top?"
The concierge explains that we don't have to go all the way up. The road is very treacherous. All we have to do is set a time and they'll pick us up from the hotel.
Isn't it very dangerous? Jumping into the nothing between two mountain ranges without ever having done it before? Who is in charge? Are there any government controls on the instructors and their equipment?
"Madam, I've been working here for ten years. I paraglide at least once a year. I've never seen a single accident."
He is smiling. He must have repeated those words thousands of times over those ten years.
"Shall we?"
What? Why don't you go alone?
"Sure, I can go by myself. You can wait for me down here with the camera. But I need and want to have this experience in life. It's always terrified me. Just yesterday we talked about when everything gets stuck in a rut and how we no longer test our limits. It was a very sad night for me."
I know. He asks the concierge to set a time.
"Now, this morning, or in the afternoon, when you can see the sunset reflected on the surrounding snow?"
Now, I reply.
"So, will it be one person or two?"
Two, if we do it now. If I don't have a chance to think about what I'm doing. If I don't have time to open the box and let the demons out--fear of heights, of the unknown, of death, of life, of extreme feelings. Now or never.
"We have the option of twenty-minute, half-hour, and one-hour flights."
Are there ten-minute flights?
No.
"Would you like to jump from one thousand three hundred and fifty or one thousand eight hundred meters?"
I'm already starting to back down. I didn't need all this information. Of course I want the lowest possible jump.
"Darling, that makes no sense. I'm sure nothing will happen, but if it did, the danger is the same. Falling from twenty-one meters, or the equivalent of the seventh floor of a building, would have just the same consequences."
The concierge laughs. I laugh to hide my feelings. How could I have been so naive to think that a measly five hundred meters would make any difference?
The concierge picks up the phone and talks to someone.
"There is only space available for jumps at one thousand three hundred and fifty meters."
More absurd than my earlier fear is the relief I feel now. Oh, good!
The car will be at the hotel doorstep in ten minutes.
I STAND before the chasm with my husband and five or six other people, waiting for my turn. On the way up I thought about my children and the possibility of losing their parents ... Then I realized we wouldn't be jumping together.
We put on special thermal outfits and helmets. Why the helmet? So my skull will still be intact if I hit a rock and skip three thousand feet to the ground?
The helmet is mandatory.
Perfect. I put on the helmet--just like the ones worn by cyclists on the streets of Geneva. Completely stupid, but I won't argue.
I look ahead; between us and the chasm is a snow-covered slope. I can stop the flight in the first second by landing there and walking back up. I don't have to go all the way to the end.
I've never been afraid of flying. It's always been a part of my life. But the thing is, when we're in a plane, it doesn't occur to us that it's exactly the same as going paragliding. The only difference is that the metal cocoon feels like a shield and gives us the feeling that we're protected. That's it.
That's it? In my meager understanding of the laws of aerodynamics, I suppose so.
I need to convince myself. I need a better argument.
This is a better argument; the airplane is made of metal. It's extremely heavy. And it carries luggage, people, equipment, and tons of explosive fuel. The paraglider, in turn, is light, descends with the wind, and obeys the laws of nature like a leaf falling from a tree. It makes much more sense.
"Do you want to go first?"
Yes, I do. Because if something happens to me, you'll know and can take care of our children. And you'll feel guilty for the rest of your life for having this insane idea. I will be remembered as a companion for all seasons, one who always stood by her husband's side, in sorrow and in joy, adventure and routine.
"We're ready, madam."
Are you the instructor? Aren't you too young for this? I'd rather go with your boss. It's my first time, after all.
"I've been jumping since I reached the age minimum of sixteen. I've been jumping for five years, not just here, but many different places around the world. Don't worry, madam."
His condescending tone annoys me. Old people and their fears should be respected. Besides, he must tell everybody that.
"Remember the instructions. And when we start to run, don't stop. Let me take care of the rest."
Instructions. As if we were now familiar with all of this, when the most they had the patience to explain was that the risk lies exactly in wanting to stop in the middle. And that, when we reach the ground, we should keep walking until we feel our feet firmly fixed.
My dream: feet on the ground. I go to my husband and ask him to go last, then he'll have time to see what happens to me.
"Want to bring the camera?" asks the instructor.
The camera can be attached to an aluminum rod approximately two feet long. No, I do not. For starters, I'm not doing this to show other people. And even if I can overcome my panic, I'd be more worried about filming than admiring the scenery. I learned that with my dad when I was a teenager: we hiked the Matterhorn and I stopped every minute to take pictures until he fumed: "Do you think all this beauty and grandeur can fit in a little square of film? Record things in your heart. It's more important than trying to show people wh
at you're experiencing."
My flight partner, in all his wisdom of twenty-one years, begins attaching ropes to my body with big aluminum clips. The chair is attached to the glider; I will go in front, he in the back. I can still give up, but that's no longer me. I am completely unresponsive.
The twenty-one-year-old veteran and the ringleader trade opinions about the wind as we get into position.
He also fastens himself to the chair. I can feel his breath on the back of my head. I look behind me and I don't like what I see: a row of colored pieces of fabric stretches across the white snowy ground, each with a person tied to it. At the end of the row is my husband, also wearing a bicycle helmet. I guess he had no choice and will jump two or three minutes after me.
"We're ready. Start running."
I don't move.
"Let's go. Start running."
I explain that I don't want to keep twirling around in the sky. Let's go down gently. Five minutes of flight is good for me.
"You can let me know while we're flying. But, please, there's a line. We have to jump now."
As I no longer have free will, I follow orders. I start running toward the void.
"Faster."
I go faster, my boots kicking snow in all directions. Actually, it's not me who is running, but a robot who obeys voice commands. I start to scream--not from fear or excitement, but from instinct. I've gone back to being a cave woman, like the Cuban shaman said. We're afraid of spiders and insects, and we scream in situations like this. We've always screamed.
Suddenly my feet lift off the ground, and I hold on to the belts securing me to the chair with all my might. I stop screaming. The instructor keeps running for a few more seconds and then immediately we're no longer going in a straight line. The wind is controlling our lives.
I don't open my eyes that first minute--I don't want a concept of height, the mountains, the danger. I try to imagine that I'm at home in the kitchen, telling the kids a story about something that happened during our trip; maybe about the town, or maybe about the hotel room. I can't tell them their father drank so much he fell down when we were headed back to the hotel. I can't say I took a risk and went flying, because they'll want to do it, too. Or, worse, they might try to fly alone and throw themselves from the top floor of our house.
Then I realize I'm being stupid; why be here with my eyes closed? No one made me jump. "I've been here for ten years and have never seen a single accident," said the concierge.
I open my eyes.
And what I see, what I feel, is something I will never be able to accurately describe. Down below is the valley linking the two lakes, and the town between them. I'm flying, free in space and silence as we follow the wind, sailing in circles. The mountains surrounding us no longer seem so high or threatening, but friendly, dressed in white, with the sun glistening all around.
My hands relax, I let go of the straps, and I open my arms like a bird. The man behind me must have realized that I'm a different person. Instead of continuing down, he starts to rise, using invisible currents of warm air in what once seemed like a homogeneous atmosphere.
Ahead of us is an eagle, sailing the same ocean and effortlessly using its wings to control its mysterious flight. Where does it want to go? Is it just having fun, enjoying life and the beauty all around it?
It feels like I'm communicating with the eagle by telepathy. The flight instructor follows it, our guide. Show us where we need to go to climb increasingly skyward--to fly forever. I feel the same thing I felt that day in Nyon when I imagined running until my body couldn't run anymore.
And the eagle tells me: "Come. You are heaven and earth, the wind and the clouds, the snow and the lakes."
It seems like I am in my mother's womb, completely safe and protected and experiencing things for the first time. Soon I will be born, and I will turn back into a human being who walks with two feet on the face of the Earth. At the moment, though, all I am doing is existing in this womb, putting up no resistance and letting myself go wherever I'm taken.
I'm free.
Yes, I'm free. And the eagle is right: I am the mountains and the lakes. I have no past, present, or future. I am getting to know what people call "Eternity."
For a split second I wonder: Does everyone who jumps have this same feeling? But what does that matter? I don't want to think about others. I'm floating in Eternity. Nature speaks to me as if I were its beloved daughter. The mountain tells me: "You have my strength." The lakes tell me: "You have my peace and my calm." The sun tells me: "Shine like me, go beyond yourself. Listen."
I start to hear the voices that have been stifled inside for so long, stifled by haunting thoughts, by loneliness, by night terrors, the fear of change, and the fear that everything will stay the same. The higher we go, the further I distance myself from me.
I'm in another world where things fall perfectly into place. Far from that life full of chores to do, impossible desires, suffering, and pleasure. I have nothing and I am everything.
The eagle begins to turn toward the valley. With open arms I mimic the movement of its wings. If anyone could see me right now, they wouldn't know who I am, because I am light, space, and time. I'm in another world.
And the eagle tells me: "This is Eternity."
In Eternity, we don't exist; we are just an instrument of the Hand that created the mountains, the snow, the lakes, and the sun. I go back in time and space to the moment when everything is created and the stars walk backward. I want to serve this Hand.
Several ideas appear and disappear without changing the way I feel. My mind has left my body and blended with nature. Oh, what a pity the eagle and I must land at the park across from the hotel down below. But what does it matter what will happen in the future? I am here, in this womb made of nothing and everything.
My heart fills every corner of the universe. I try to explain this to myself in words, try to find a way to remember what I feel right now, but soon these thoughts disappear and emptiness returns to fill everything once again.
My heart!
Before I saw a gigantic universe around me; and now the universe seems like a little dot within my heart that has infinitely expanded, like space. An instrument. A blessing. My mind struggles to maintain control and explain at least something that I'm feeling, but the power is stronger.
Power. The feeling of Eternity gives me a mysterious feeling of power. I can do anything, even end world suffering. I am flying and talking with the angels, hearing voices and revelations that will soon be forgotten, but that, at this moment, are as real as the eagle before me. I will never be capable of explaining what I feel, not even to myself, but what does it matter? It's the future, and I'm not there yet. I'm in the present.
The rational mind disappears again and I am grateful. I bow to my gigantic heart filled with light and power, which can encompass everything that has already happened and what will happen from now until the end of time.
For the first time I hear something: dogs barking. We are nearing the ground and reality begins to return. In a moment I will be stepping on the planet where I live, but in my heart I have experienced all the planets and all the suns, which was greater than anything.
I want to stay in this state, but my thoughts are returning. I see our hotel to the right. The lakes are already hidden by the forests and small hills.
My God, can't I stay this way forever?
"You cannot," says the eagle, who led us to the park where we will land shortly, and who now bids us farewell because it has found a new stream of warm air. It climbs up again effortlessly, without battings its wings, and controls the wind with its feathers. "If you stayed this way forever, you couldn't live in this world," it says.
So what? I begin to argue with the eagle, but I find that I am doing it rationally, trying to reason. How will I live in this world after having gone through what I did in Eternity?
"Find a way," replies the eagle, almost inaudibly. Then it departs--forever--from my life.
The instructor whispers something--he reminds me that I have to run when my feet hit the ground.
I see the grass in front of me. The thing I had so yearned for before--reaching solid ground--has now turned into the end of something.
Of what, exactly?
My feet hit the ground. I run a little, and the instructor controls the paraglider. Then he comes up to me and loosens the chains. He looks at me. I gaze at the sky. All I can see are other colorful paragliders, approaching where I am.
I realize that I am crying.
"Are you all right?"
I nod yes. I don't know if he understands what I experienced up there.
Yes, he understands. He says that once a year he flies with someone who has the same reaction as me.
"When I ask what it is, they aren't able to explain it. The same thing happens to my friends; some people go into a state of shock and they only recover when their feet touch the ground."
It's exactly the opposite. But I don't feel like explaining anything.
I thank him for his comforting words. I would like to explain that I never wanted what I experienced up there to end. But it's over, and I have no obligation to sit here explaining anything to anyone. I walk away to sit on one of the park benches and wait for my husband.
I can't stop crying. He lands, approaches me with a big grin, and says it was a fantastic experience. I keep crying. He hugs me, says it's all over now, and that he shouldn't have made me do something I didn't want to.
It's not that at all, I say. Just leave me alone, please. I'll be fine in a little while.
Someone from the support team comes to collect our outfits and special shoes and hands us our coats. I do everything automatically, but my every move brings me back to a different world, the one we call the "real" world, the one where I don't want to be at all.
But I have no choice. The only thing I can do is ask my husband to leave me alone for a while. He asks if we should go back to the hotel because it's cold. No, I'm fine right here.
I sit there for half an hour, crying. Tears of bliss that wash my soul. Finally, I realize that it is time to return to the world for good.
I get up. We go to the hotel, get our car, and my husband drives back to Geneva. The radio is on so no one feels compelled to talk. I gradually begin to get a terrible headache, but I know what it is: my blood returning to parts that were blocked by emotions that are finally beginning to dissolve. The moment of release is accompanied by pain, but it's always been that way.