My Parents and 10-Month-Old Baby Joined Me on Our Dream Train Journey Across Europe

After enduring two and a half years of separation during the pandemic—while our baby, my parents' first grandchild, transformed from a quiet newborn into a lively toddler—my family was eager to reunite. What better way to connect than by train? Our adventurous route, spanning from Venice to Como and crossing into Switzerland to visit Zermatt, Wengen, and Zurich, combined destinations my parents had only seen in Bollywood films and travel shows, alongside places I had only dreamed of visiting until my first trip to Switzerland a few years ago. We had anxiously awaited our visas, meticulously submitting bank statements, flight confirmations, and even personal letters from my father-in-law in Slovakia, whom we planned to see after Switzerland. Finally, with a mix of disbelief and joy, we all arrived in Europe for my parents' inaugural trip to the continent.

After a few magical days in Venice, with its green canals—despite the occasional whiff of sewage—and the bustling Rialto Market, where we admired zucchini flowers and fresh octopus, we boarded a vaporetto to the train station. Immediately, the baby's stroller proved to be a challenge, too wide for the luggage racks. We maneuvered to find a suitable spot until a kind older woman gestured for us to place it next to her. The train glided over a lengthy causeway across the water to the mainland, whisking us past fields dotted with apartment buildings that seemed oddly out of place.

Despite never having traveled together before, the three generations quickly fell into a comfortable rhythm. My parents kept the baby entertained as he clapped against the glass, giggled at our Bengali songs, and tossed his pink hippo at our neighbors' feet. When he grew drowsy, my husband and I gently rocked him with my fleece jacket as a makeshift blanket, laying him across our laps while we quietly unwrapped our tramezzini—those affordable and delightful triangular sandwiches filled with ham and egg or tuna and olives, as if he were a sleeping dragon.

Buying food for each leg of the journey became a cherished ritual. In Milan, while transferring to a train for Como, the station was bustling with familiar brands like Mac and Sephora, but I struggled to find sandwiches. They were hidden in a shop with a long queue, and as I anxiously waited, I felt the minutes slip away. I ended up buying too much—a rice and chicken bowl and a mango smoothie—stepping into the role of caregiver as I picked out what my parents would enjoy. We rarely expressed our love verbally, yet we made it clear: The journey is long. You’ll get hungry. Eat.

Como was so packed with tourists that we couldn't find a restaurant to celebrate my husband’s birthday dinner. Ultimately, we settled for takeout cacio e pepe on the steps leading down to the lake, basking in the sky's brilliant colors. My mother, having spent her life caring for others, finally kicked off her shoes and dipped her feet in the water while a duck glided by.

As a child, my travels were abundant, yet confined to India. Those train journeys were filled with vendors selling salted cucumbers, lemon tea, travel combs, pocket mirrors, and unreadable magazines. I would grasp the window bars, their metallic scent lingering on my palm, as I gazed at the landscape, a patchwork of stubbled fields occasionally interrupted by electricity poles and solitary men cycling by. Within the coach, a temporary community would emerge.

I reminisced about those transient communities during our train ride through Italy, where our baby flashed smiles at fellow passengers. Their warm gestures—retrieving his toys from beneath their seats or gently tickling his tiny toes—granted us precious moments of respite.

However, upon entering Switzerland, officials emerged in the aisle, barking “Passport!” at us. For travelers of color like my parents and me, this was a familiar routine, but this time it felt raw, directed at the few passengers of color in an otherwise white coach. My schoolteacher mother and retired father, both products of the Indian middle class, were taken aback by the officer's hostility, answering an array of questions: Were they tourists? What was their financial status? The officer insisted my mother reveal her purse's contents. Meanwhile, many white passengers remained absorbed in their phones, unbothered. My white husband, working a short distance away, faced no inquiries at all.

Long after the officers departed, the sting lingered. They were the ones profiling us, yet somehow the humiliation clung to us. We masked it with our awe of the majestic mountains framing our view—the Swiss Alps, which we had long dreamed of experiencing.

In Zermatt, where we spent the night, the Matterhorn revealed itself one day and vanished behind clouds the next (“Just imagine it’s there,” we encouraged each other). Our next destination, Wengen, captured my heart—an idyllic, traffic-free village nestled above the lush Lauterbrunnen Valley, beneath the towering Eiger, Mönch, and Jungfrau, all as white as fresh milk. On a rainy day in Wengen, we observed clouds drifting above the valley floor, discovered mysterious berries clinging to branches still glistening with raindrops, and were awestruck by the cliff face transforming into fiery shades of red at sunset, a rare spectacle that a local dog-walker mentioned occurs only once or twice a year. We felt worlds away from Venice's intricate maze of stone paths and bustling canals filled with gondolas.

One of the joys of our journey was the variety of landscapes we could explore, from the sea to towering mountains. We carefully planned each train ride to last three to four hours, ensuring our baby wouldn’t become restless. In the mountains, we sought breathtaking views that didn’t demand rigorous hikes, accommodating my mother’s knee issues. Switzerland’s extensive network of cable cars and funiculars allowed us to reach places like Glacier Paradise, the highest cable car station in Europe, which soared over a glacier resembling a human palm and shimmering like the ocean’s depths, leading us to a peak where the wind threatened to whisk my phone away. I captured a moment of my dad, marveling at the majestic mountains.

Before becoming parents, our train journeys were measured by the number of pages read and the shifting light outside the window. Now, time is marked by every minute our baby squirms and wiggles, restless in his confinement, constantly testing our focus on the scenery.

However, this perspective is narrow. The arrival of a baby highlights the finitude of our lives—how closely we brush against death, a shadow looming over our brightest days, or perhaps a filter that adds profound meaning to those moments. Experiencing the world before we depart—isn't that the essence of a vacation?—is a remarkable privilege.

In Zurich, we noticed a stage being taken down at the train station. I felt a pang of disappointment for missing the performance, whatever it may have been, but was delighted that it had occurred. It was summer, after all, and the first summer where I sensed we were emerging from the oppressive shadow of COVID, adapting to its ongoing presence. We strolled under the sunshine. Craving a change from our usual fare of sausages, shawarma, and schnitzel, we enjoyed a delectable khao soi—a Thai coconut curry noodle soup—at Tiffins Asian Kitchen, tucked away in a peaceful office district, while nearby a security guard inspected doors and locks following what appeared to be an attempted break-in.

Later, we wandered along the lakeshore, where swans squabbled over scraps of bread and tourists crouched to snap photos. We joined in—embracing our roles as tourists. Being brown faces in predominantly white towns heightened our awareness of our surroundings—the intricately carved wooden doors of ancient buildings, the tidy trains with cleverly concealed trash cans beside the seats, the affordable gyro shops nestled among upscale restaurants where elderly tourists sipped wine, and the banana tree thriving in someone's Alpine garden. This was our “someday” trip, realized despite the challenges of visas, expenses, and traveling with a 10-month-old. By the end, I felt an even stronger conviction that there is never a perfect moment; waiting is not an option. The journey you dream of? Start now.