Passport to Happiness. Carrie Stone

if not now, then when? It’s time for Everly Carter to make shit happen.

      First stop, Zurich.

      *

      Why on earth, given all of the countries I could have chosen, did I choose Switzerland? It’s not that I’m regretting it, as I heave my far too heavy suitcase onto the baggage check in at Luton airport – I’m just wondering why I didn’t book say, Italy or Spain or even Portugal? Basically, anywhere cheaper and sunnier.

      But it’s famous for its luscious chocolate, I tell myself reassuringly as I try not to think about the extortionate cost of my inner-city hotel room. Besides, Switzerland is every skiers dream!

      Although therein lies the problem; I’ve never skied and I’m wondering if my end-of-holiday two-night trip to the nearest mountainous resort Laax, is going to be a total disaster. It was only after discovering that the mountain I’ll be skiing on is called Crap that I began to question the entire, insane, whimsical idea. What the hell was I thinking? The Mediterranean would have been so much easier. I haven’t even had time to plan what I’ll do for the first three days of my trip in Zurich.

      If it wasn’t for Florian and his insults prompting me into booking a random flight, would I even be here? I catch myself sharply and take the Swiss guide book I bought yesterday from my handbag. I briefly flick through and observe a beautiful looking city in the north– words jump off the page at me; vivacious, chic boutiques, Italian speaking, lakeside… What’s to stop me day-tripping there? Absolutely nothing, I think to myself as I feel my pulse quickening.

      It’s been so long since I did any solo travel, partly due to spending years in a relationship with stock trader Jay. The cheeky, charming, honey-haired banker that had once set my world on fire. We had so much fun in those years and holidays were a regular occurrence for him – he was always off with the lads but occasionally we’d have our own breaks, albeit mainly to places that Jay had chosen. Being flash with the cash was one of his downfalls, but then he had it to burn so the likes of Cannes, Dubai and Monaco became the places I grew to know. I can’t say I was overly enamoured with spending the majority of the time at swanky restaurants or champagne bars – I’d have preferred to explore a bit more of each country. Yet being in love with Jay was enough for me to forgive that side of things. He’d looked at me like I was the only woman in the world. I was his ‘Everly everything’ as he often said.

      Except I wasn’t, was I? Because now he’s married to a woman called Sarah and they have a son called Jay Junior. Asshole.

      The day he broke things off is still a blur of tears and heartache, even now. It had stung that he’d decided to offer me a sum of money to move out. It was his house after all, as he’d tactlessly put it. Never mind the fact I’d paid my share of the mortgage and bills for years, or that I’d lovingly decorated it to make it our home. The small upside was that the money served as a deposit to buy my own tiny flat and start afresh.

      Laughably, I still have my ‘get over Jay’ list of destinations I had made to give me something to focus on after our split. But not a single one is ticked off…

      Still, I guess that is what being single with a hefty mortgage, demanding work schedule and lacklustre lifestyle does for you – especially when you’ve been doing private tutoring throughout the holidays to help pay the bills. I’ve been working to live which wouldn’t be so bad if I still loved my job and life. But let’s be honest, I’d quite happily trade my lot right now for a more vivacious existence. I desperately need some kind of change. And I really want to feel like I’m contributing more to the world than I currently am. You know, making a profound difference in some way. Sure, I’m no Mother Teresa, but I can’t help feeling that I could be doing something more with my time and energy. But where do I start? It’s not exactly easy to go off on a carefree charitable venture when you’re already overworked and teetering on the breadline.

      Sighing, I concentrate on my guidebook and get lost in option after option of Switzerland must-sees. By the time the tannoy announces that my flight is ready to board, I’ve made an action-packed list as long as my notebook on things I’d like to do. I figure that, as my impulsive decision to choose a last-minute holiday has already cost me an arm and a leg, there’s no point holding back on entertainment whilst there, even if it is going to be courtesy of Mastercard. Sometimes, it’s important to speculate to accumulate. Especially if I want to feel inspired by life again and find a new way forward.

      Thanks to a bit of Googling, I manage to fire off a quick email booking myself lessons with a ski-instructor called Elena. She looks rather normal and friendly from her website profile and by the time I take my window seat on the plane, I’m already forgetting my earlier reservations. Something inside me is telling me that this trip to Switzerland is exactly what I need; a week away to sort out what I really want from life. I’ve been trying to control everything for so long, from work, to money, to men and yet nothing seems to be working in my favour. Maybe it’s time to throw caution to the wind, stop holding the reins and open myself up to letting go and inviting in the unexpected.

      I rest myself happily into my unforgivingly hard budget airline seat and watch as the first droplets of rain begin to glide across the small window next to me. It’s a typical gloomy, wet and grey day in the South East and I can’t help but feel excited at the promise of slightly less depressing scenery where I’m bound for. Fine, I’ve never really been into mountains and snow … but it’s got to better than rain, right? And worst-case scenario, even if this trip doesn’t bring me answers to feel more fulfilled by life, I’ll still get to sample Sprüngli chocolate delights and authentic Gruyere cheese fondue. Yes, I tell myself with a certain smile. Switzerland is going to be the answer to my prayers.

      It doesn’t even feel like minutes later when the aircraft engine fires into action and the small splashes of rain begin to speed away into watery trails as the plane picks up pace and prepares for take-off.

      Zurich, here I come.

       Chapter 2

      Well, what can I say – I’m pleasantly surprised. It’s not at all how I’d imagined. I’ve even peeled off my jumper and replaced it with a shirt as there’s sunshine! Yes, actual sunshine and the kind of heat that I usually associate with hot countries – it’s hard to believe that I’ll be skiing in a few days just a couple of hours’ drive away. And the shops! Don’t get me started on shops – I’m back from a quick coffee trip on bahnhofstrasse and the main boulevard is every woman’s dream. Plus, who knew Switzerland would be so clean? I’m walking around my hotel room in a daze. Despite being a small hotel, my room is a lot more spacious than I was expecting and my mind flits to the waiter that smiled at me as I’d passed the hotel restaurant on the way to the reception desk. He had a bald head which usually wouldn’t be my thing, but it was in such stark constant to his piercing green eyes and thick, long dark eyelashes that I couldn’t help but stare. Frederick was the name I’d noted from his metal badge. And since my stomach is making gurgling noises from a lack of food and it being nearly lunchtime, I decide there’s no better way to plan out the rest of my afternoon than a quick pit stop with a light snack and hopefully Frederick for company.

      Grabbing my bag and room key, I pause as I pass the open bathroom door with its stark white and glass decor, quickly checking the mirror to see how dishevelled my appearance is. It’s a pleasant surprise when I notice that my smoky blue eyes, which have seemed more of a dull, moody grey of late, are sparkling bright again – so much so that they look almost sky blue. My untamed, curly hair, that I’d somehow moulded into bouncy curls, sits perfectly parallel to my cleavage and my light, natural make-up appears untouched.

      The fitted white top I’ve changed into hugs my curves in all the right places, accentuating a hint of my generous bust and small waist. My dark blue skinny jeans are beginning to feel marginally uncomfortable, yet they do a magical trick where they make my legs appear much longer than they really are – something that nearly every five-foot-two woman aspires for. So I decide not to bother