She startled me, far more than could be imagined just looking at her: a retired elementary school teacher, with big thick glasses and a tuft of cropped white hair. My hand was still on the handle of the back-door as I was trying to force it open; pants wet and muddy up to the knees; hair wet and matted to my head; unshaven; eyes bloodshot; a single track of footprints in the deep snow walking through the back of the chalet. Looks could be deceiving, to be sure, but there was no denying that I was trying to break into a $1.4 million chalet in the middle of a blinding blizzard.

“Can I help you,” she had asked, and repeated, after my initial startled grunt.

“The key was supposed to be under the mat, but I can’t find it,” I mumbled. “Er … The other guest must have taken it by mistake.”

There was no truth to the story, of course. But, in my defence, I did not know that then.

Most important lesson to remember: if you’re caught trying to break in, make sure you believe your own cover story.

Françoise, the kindly neighbour, was understanding. “Come on in, have some tea, and we will sort it out.” You invited a perfect stranger in for tea? Her son later asked.

And I did. I had no choice. The chalet was expertly locked – God knows, I had tried every window and both doors, the blinds, the shutters, and no give – and it was obvious, after twenty minutes in the cold checking every possible angle short of breaking down the door, that I could not get in without a key. Well, not without an accomplice. I was wet from the snow and sweat; the blizzard that had begun that morning was not letting up; I badly needed to pee.

So I went in, dried my hair, visited the loo, had a cup of tea, and told her my tale of woe.

I had just arrived from Canada. After waiting for the shuttle from the airport for a couple of hours, I managed to locate the driver who, being Swiss, had been maddeningly on time – that is, not early. The shuttle left me in a parking lot “around the corner” from the chalet. Some “corner”: 1.5 kilometers up the mountain, down the street and up the alley. In a blistering blizzard. With a ski bag, a backpack and a suitcase.

Françoise, the kindly neighbour, remembered me from days past. Samantha and I used to rent the chalet years ago; I had been there again only last year. And here I was again: at our old chalet, and no key. There as at least an air of plausibility to the unlikely story.

“That’s OK; even if we can’t find someone to open the chalet, you can sleep upstairs,” she said. You offered him my room – my bed? The son was beside himself.

The fire was roaring. We chatted about teaching, students, retirement, Canada, and the snow. I still could not get hold of Samantha. “Your pants are wet – my son is the same size as you, if you want to change. Can I make you something to eat?” You offered him my pants? The son was incredulous.

She poured me some more tea. Her warmth and hospitality were wonderful. The fire, and her kindness, reminded me of one of Iran’s greatest modern poems: Arash.

It’s snowing

Downy whiteness covers the cliffs

The mountains are silent; the valleys pining

Rocky pathways yearning for a passing caravan

Were there no smoke rising from lonely cottages

Or if a flickering fire did not bring a message of hope

What would one do in a despairing, bitter blizzard?

They opened the door to me

They opened their hearts to me

And soon I knew that around the crackling fireplace

A story was unfolding …

The fire was roaring; the tea was hot. After an hour, Françoise found a key and opened the chalet. You let a squatter into someone else’s chalet? Are you mad? The son almost called the police at that point.

As I walked in, Samantha called to tell me that … I was at the wrong place. She had not rented the old chalet this year; the new one was across town.

Still wet, more tired and less cold, I picked up the ski bag, the suitcase and the backpack, walked down the alley, down the street and up the mountain, and hailed a cab.

I did not have the heart to tell Françoise what had happened. Ran into her in the spa a week later; she told me about her son … we had a good hearty laugh. I felt like an imbecile. She treated me like the village idiot.

The skiing the next day, and for the days afterwards, was well worth the hassle. Lots of powder, not too many people; I skied hard the first day, which meant that my legs were like wet noodles the next two days. I took a day off, and tried an “easy” day after, but ended up skiing hard in any event. On the last day, the sun came out. The sky was gloriously blue; the slopes amazingly white; the mountains clear; the air crisp … three sneezes and a few sniffles later, I realised that skiing was out of the question. Or, it could be attempted, if I were willing to spend the next two weeks in bed with a fever. I sat on the sunny balcony and read a book instead. That afternoon I returned to Geneva.

This is the third time I was in Geneva in a year. One of the most amazing things about the place is, of course, not about the place at all, but about the people, and specifically, the friends I left behind: how each of them has managed, from year to year, to find new challenges, to move in new directions, to explore new paths. The city has stayed remarkably the same; my friends continue to grow, and change – for the better. Perhaps that is why we have stayed friends in the first place; that is why I keep wanting to go back – it is not the cheese fondue …

The return was a bit of a challenge. The half-sniffles turned into a full-blown cold; on arrival, I changed suitcases at home and took the train to Kingston to meet my students, and then off to Toronto for work. Now I’m back, recovered and refreshed. Hard to believe that just over two weeks ago I was caught trying to break into a Swiss chalet; two days after that, I was standing at 3000 meters, looking over a frozen Mont Gelé, snow-covered peaks and cloudy valleys; a week after I was having dinner at my favourite restaurants with close friends.