A troop of juvenile bisons charge and bolt and scurry away together on the frozen tundra of a winter paradise, a happy foursome. I could very well be in Colorado with these tatonkas and wapiti, the row of rocky teeth behind us the Rockies.
But, no, these buffalo are in Switzerland, and that mountain there, it’s the Mont Blanc, over in France, Europe’s tallest peak.
This is why Versoix is such a pleasure, a home slice where people speak montagnes, fondues, and randonnees instead of bros, bras, and other rider lingo, and where, almost like living in Boulder, I can go for a countryside jaunt just outside the front door.
Even going so far as to run into Ralphie’s long lost cousin, the descendent of a descendent of a descendent brought over by a local man obsessed by the American West.
And, well, I’m happy for his obsession, because it’s always a pleasant surprise seeing buffalo horn and quaint chapel pierce the mountain sky of this farmhome dwelling that is my family’s place.