I was still full of nerves as I steered my Mini Cooper down the familiar oak-lined street to my parents’ house. The scent of the freshly baked scones nestled in the passenger seat was enticing—a peace offering for springing the news of my trip last-minute.
“My little world traveler,” my dad boomed as soon as he opened the front door, sweeping me into a bear hug that lifted me off my feet. His enthusiasm was as robust as his grip, nearly squeezing the air out of me.
“Hi, Dad,” I managed, my voice muffled against his flannel shirt. He set me down, beaming with pride.
“Your mother’s been baking all day,” he said, leading me inside where the comforting aroma of cinnamon and vanilla hung in the air.
“Mom?” I called out, peeking into the bustling kitchen with the scone box in hand. There she was, apron dusted with flour, her face lighting up at the sight of me.
“Switzerland, darling? So fantastic!” My mom’s voice, ever the epitome of enthusiasm, bounced off the kitchen walls as I entered their cozy abode. Her arms enveloped me in a hug that smelled like rosemary and thyme—herbs from her own garden. “Oh, we’re so excited for you!” When she pulled back, her eyes shimmered with unshed tears.
“Here, I want you to have this,” she said, pressing something small and cool into my palm as she took the scone box from my other hand. It was a silver locket, delicate and vintage, the kind of heirloom that held stories within its clasp.
“Something to keep us close to your heart,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.
“Thank you, Mom,” I murmured, the locket warming in my hand. I felt a swirl of gratitude, love, and the slightest twinge of homesickness before the adventure even began. As if I needed something to keep Marina and Charles Hawthorne close to my heart. They were there, always.
“Switzerland won’t know what hit it,” Dad joked, ruffling my hair as if I were still ten years old chasing fireflies in the backyard.
“Hopefully, neither will any international criminals,” I quipped, the corners of my mouth turning up in anticipation of the unknown. I couldn’t help it—I watched a lot of true crime, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous as a lone lady traveler.
“Ah, my daughter, the tea connoisseur and amateur sleuth,” Mom said with a chuckle as we settled down for a pre-trip celebratory dinner, the laughter and conversation flowing as easily as the home-brewed iced tea.
Surrounded by the warmth of family and the promise of tomorrow, I was ready to take a leap into the great, wide somewhere.
***
Back at my apartment, the open suitcase on my bed looked like an invitation to a world of possibilities. I neatly folded thermal layers alongside sleek snow pants, the juxtaposition reflecting the twin pulls of needed practicality and fluttery excitement. Into a side pocket went my trusty notebook, ready to document every herbal epiphany and alpine anecdote.
“Passport, tickets, courage…” I muttered, checking each item off my mental list. Booking the travel had been a whirlwind of clicking confirmations and choosing seats—each step a tiny leap toward the unknown.
I can’t believe I’m doing this! And Daniel always said I wasn’t spontaneous.
“Tea leaves,” I said aloud, selecting bags of dried herbs I’d brought from the shop. I sorted them with the precision of an alchemist. Each one held potential: to soothe sore muscles, calm pre-ski jitters, or ignite a spark of après-ski romance. I imagined guests sipping my concoctions by roaring fires, their laughter mingling with the crackle of flames.
I surveyed the array of tools spread across my bed. My tea blending equipment—tweezers, scales, and various other instruments—lay neatly aligned like soldiers ready for inspection. The whiff of dried lavender and chamomile from opened pouches danced in the air, mingling with the earthy scent of rooibos leaves.
I carefully rolled a set of measuring spoons in a soft cloth. Each tool had its rightful place in my travel kit, each vital to crafting the perfect cup of tea. As I packed, I hummed a tune, allowing the rhythm to guide my hands while plucking the finest strands of jasmine and the most robust Ceylon tips.
“Nothing like traveling with half a garden in your luggage,” I quipped, zipping up the case with a satisfying tug. It was heavy with promise and the scent of herbs, a mobile fortress of my life’s passion, all packed and ready for the Alps.
With my essentials packed, I flipped open my laptop to review my itinerary one last time. The glow of the screen illuminated the determined set of my brows as I keyed in the confirmation numbers for my flights and accommodations. “Switzerland, land of mountains, chocolate, and apparently, high-stakes tea connoisseurship,” I mused aloud, reviewing my seat selections and meal preferences.
A flutter of excitement tickled my stomach, paired with a dash of trepidation. Was I really about to jet off alone to a country where the closest I came to speaking the language was ordering from a Swiss menu at that pretentious fondue place downtown? If I didn’t take a few deep breaths, I might need a sip of my own blend—Tranquil Tidings—to steady my nerves.
I wondered if I’d get any sleep tonight.
***
“Flight 1426 to Zurich, now boarding at gate 32A.”
The flight attendant’s voice crackled through the airport speakers just as I arrived at the gate, my heart skipping in time with the announcement. This was it. The moment where my cozy little tea shop life would take flight into something grander. My fingers brushed against the locket around my neck, seeking a bit of courage from its cool metal surface.
“Boarding first-class, all passengers,” the attendant called out again, and I stepped into line, feeling the gazes of fellow travelers who were probably not hauling a cornucopia of chamomile and oolong in their bags.
“Welcome aboard,” a chirpy flight attendant greeted me as I handed over my boarding pass. I returned the smile, albeit a tad nervously, as I made my way down the jet bridge. I had never flown first-class, and I almost expected someone to call out and stop me. Each step quickened my pulse, each echo of my shoes on the metal floor rang like a drumbeat heralding new beginnings.
“Seat 14B… 14B…” I mumbled, scanning the numbers overhead until I found my place. Slipping into the window seat, I gazed out onto the tarmac. The engines hummed a low prelude to adventure, and I couldn’t help but lean closer to the window, my breath fogging up the glass.
The seatbelt clicked into place with a satisfying snap, like the lid on one of my tea canisters sealing in the freshness. Each seat had its own little pod, complete with a large screen and a privacy partition that was currently open, preflight. The lighting was soft and calming, creating an ambience that felt almost serene. It was like walking into a luxurious lounge in the sky. Settling into the leather embrace of 14B, stretching out into some impressive legroom, I couldn’t help but chuckle at the irony of it all. Here I was, Penelope “Penny” Hawthorne, tea connoisseur and accidental adventurer, about to be whisked away to Switzerland—a land famed for neutrality, precision watches, and, hopefully, an appreciation for a perfectly brewed cup of Darjeeling.
“Would you like a complimentary beverage before we take off, ma’am?” The flight attendant’s voice cut through my reverie, her smile as bright as the reading light above. “Or a warm towel? Snack?”
“Ah, just water for now, thanks,” I replied, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear. As she bustled away, I turned my gaze back to the window, watching the ground crew scurry about like ants at a picnic. They wore neon vests that screamed practicality, a sartorial choice I could respect, given my own penchant for aprons splattered with tea stains.
My heart did a little salsa beat—was it excitement? Anxiety? Too much caffeine from taste-testing this morning’s batch of Earl Grey? Whatever it was, it felt like electric peppermint swirling through my veins, tingling and invigorating all at once.
A family across the aisle bickered over who got the window seat, their squabble a comforting sort of chaos that reminded me of Sophie’s first day running the shop. Bless her, she’d mixed up the chai with the lapsang souchong and created a smoky-spicy brew that had actually sold out by noon.
She would be fine at the shop—right?
As the plane’s engines revved up, a thrilling vibration coursed through the cabin. A hush fell over the passengers, anticipation hanging in the air like the delicate aroma of jasmine on a summer’s eve. With a gentle lurch, we began our crawl toward the runway, inching closer to the moment of takeoff.
“Here goes nothing,” I whispered, pressing my forehead against the cool windowpane. The world outside accelerated into a blur, and with a powerful surge, we lifted into the sky. Below, the familiar sights of home shrank into a patchwork quilt of memories, each square a story, a moment, a cup shared.
“Goodbye for now,” I said to the shrinking cityscape, feeling the last tendrils of trepidation slip away. I leaned back, a smile playing on my lips as the clouds enveloped us in a fluffy embrace. Switzerland awaited.