Christmas Day, 1991

While families back home enjoyed roast lamb and trifle dessert in the summer heat, Charl stood at the Johannesburg airport gate with a ticket to Europe in his hand.

He was twenty-one, the youngest of four. No one in his family had ever flown abroad before. His parents tried to be brave, but their concern lingered in the small pauses between sentences. Europe felt far away — not just in distance, but in language, in season, in everything familiar.

A school friend signed a rugby contract with the Saint Claude Rugby Club in France for the European winter season and invited him to come and visit. It sounded almost glamorous: a car, an apartment, a stipend and one meal a day. However, beneath the excitement, there was a quieter truth — no one in that small town, except the local bank manager, spoke English. The exceptional opportunity and sense of adventure far outweighed the challenges.

Travelling Before The Internet

Travelling before the Internet was very different. There were no smartphones then. No instant updates. No comforting blue ticks to confirm someone had read your message. Charl carried a Eurail pass, traveller’s cheques, and a large, folded paper map of Europe — the kind you opened with optimism and folded with frustration.

He landed in Frankfurt, his first stop on foreign soil. Standing under the bright airport lights, he searched for a payphone. He needed Deutsche Marks and Pfennigs before he could call his friend. It was long before the Euro and long before anything felt simple.

He called. No answer, and he tried again, but still nothing. For the first time, the adventure began to feel uncertain.

A Window and a Promise

With no other option, he boarded a train to Geneva. As the train moved south, snow brushed softly across the fields. Mountains rose in the distance, steady and unbothered. Lakes lay quiet under a pale winter sky.

He pressed his forehead against the cold window and watched. Something settled inside him then. Not a plan. Not even a clear dream. Just a quiet knowing, “One day, I will come back here.”

The Longest Hour

By the time he arrived in Geneva, it was nearly five in the afternoon. Darkness had already fallen, and the cold seemed sharper than before. He found another payphone and fed it Swiss Rappen coins. The phone on the other end just kept ringing.

The station felt enormous. Announcements echoed in French. Faces moved quickly around him. He stared at the departure board. The train to Saint Claude would leave soon. If he boarded it alone and arrived in a small town where no one spoke English, what then? Where would he sleep? What would he eat? How would he even begin?

He picked up his bag, then heard something familiar, “Charl!” Across the crowd stood his friend’s girlfriend, waving both arms. They had spent the entire day at the station, unsure which train he would arrive on, scanning each carriage as it emptied.

They encountered each other just as he was about to board the train by himself. His parents, who had been awake all night, received news from Charl that he was safe. Relief brings a warmth that words are insufficient to convey.

A Town That Stayed with Him

In the days that followed, they explored the region. One outing took them to Annecy — a lakeside town framed by mountains, canals winding through pastel buildings. The beauty of it left its mark. It was not only picturesque. It felt possible. He did not know then how life would unfold. But something had already taken root.

Cultivating What Was Planted

Back home, Charl invested in technological skills that were in global demand at the time. His work opened doors to travel, and Switzerland became a familiar destination — not only for its landscapes, but also for its food.

He and his colleague ate cheese fondue at a Swiss restaurant every other night during his two-week training session. At the end of the course, the Swiss participants gifted Charl and his colleague each a beautiful red fondue set.

Years later, long before I realised I would be part of this story, Switzerland appeared on the horizon again. When we were still dating, Charl invited me to a fondue dinner with Woollies’ fondue cheese on the rug in front of a crackling fire. The red pot stood between us. I remember him enjoying the melted cheese and bread. I didn’t realise then that I was already sitting inside a dream that had begun years earlier on a winter train.

When the Door Opens

Eventually, an opportunity arose. His employer had an investment in Switzerland. His boss asked, “Switzerland is looking for someone with your skills. Are you open to it — even with the language differences and the disruption to your family?”

Some decisions require careful thought. But the ones that align with something planted deep inside you — those are made with courage. We said yes.

The Red Fondue Pot

The red fondue pot made its way back to Switzerland. Some evenings, when the cheese melts slowly and snow rests quietly beyond the window, we think about that train ride in 1991.

Dreams do not always arrive loudly. Sometimes they begin quietly — as a young man looking out of a train window, not yet knowing he is looking at his future.

Regards

Emsia