Zen in Zürich

The Uetliberg in Zürich | Photo by Thimo Pedersen

There’s a certain romance to arriving in Zürich by train. Something about rolling into that gleaming Hauptbahnhof makes you feel like you’re walking into a city that’s been ready for you since the beginning of time. For me, Zürich wasn’t just a stop on the map—it became a touchstone, a reflection of life in all its tangled, unresolved beauty. Three visits, three different versions of myself stepping off three different EuroCity trains. And each trip left me with new questions, new revelations, and, of course, new cravings.

January Snowcaps and Soul-Searching

It started in January, that season where everything is either buried in snow or recovering from frostbite. My EuroCity ride from Milano Centrale to Zürich HB was one for the books—a postcard come to life, complete with icy lakes and mountains that looked like they were airbrushed for a Swiss tourism ad. I stared out the window, coffee lukewarm in my hand, as villages zipped by like scenes from a snow globe somebody couldn’t stop shaking. Could there be a more poetic way to contemplate life falling apart? Probably not.

Upon arrival, I hailed a cab for Hotel Greulich in the dark night, trying my best at managing speaking terrible German.

"My German is not fantastic, I apologize," I said, struggling.

"Yes," the taxi driver said flatly.

"That's fair," I laughed.

He continued to chat with me in English, and I explained that I was here for an art show to see my own work, even though I missed the vernissage a week prior. I didn't say that this was a quick trip while my husband was stable at home and this was my one chance to travel before his next round of chemo. I also didn't say that I was reaching a mental break even though it seemed like my art had been taking off lately. I didn't say a lot to this stranger, but his kindness through the ride was felt.

As he helped me with my bag as I exited the cab, he extended his hand and said, "I hope you really enjoy Zürich."

His flat affect in the taxi and now a smile with a warm handshake shook me a bit, in the best way, and I thanked him for his wonderful company and proceeded to the gate where night arrivals enter with a code.

As I arrived into my room at Hotel Greulich, I couldn't help but feel a sense of relief. After months of stress and pressure, I finally had a chance to slow down and just be. And what better place to do it than in the picturesque country of Switzerland?

The purpose of this trip was my photography exhibit. My work was being displayed at a small but respected gallery just outside the city center in Zürich's Kreis 4, Stage Gallery. Walking through the space, surrounded by abandoned structures frozen in time through my lens along with others for this wonderful group exhibition, felt like a victory on paper but a hollow one in my chest. Kate, the curator, said the exhibition had been garnering a lot more attention than anticipated, but my mind was miles away, occupied with questions I’d been too afraid to ask myself.

After the gallery, I passed one of many boutiques that caught my eye. There was a colorful scarf that captured my attention and provided a welcome contrast to the cold, gray skies. However, I walked through the door to what seemed like an employee lunch.

"Oh, no! I'm so sorry" I exclaimed feeling like I was interrupting a needed break.

"It's okay! We're just sharing food like we always do! Come in and have a seat," the owner added, warmly inviting me in out of the cold to sit with him and who I would find out was a long-time client and dear friend.

The owner, a man in his early 70s or so with the air of someone who’d seen it all, floated over with the air of a psychic disguised as a designer. We talked about fashion for a while, or at least he did, offering snacks and showing me examples of their latest fabrics and designs.

I tried on a jacket I absolutely fell in love with immediately. It turned out to be 1900 Swiss francs. My eyes widened as Phil Collins crooned over the shop’s speakers. I have never spent that amount of money for clothing in my life, not even my wedding dress.

"I don't think I could get this right now without freaking out my husband," I stated with a feeling of disappointment. I didn't want to trauma dump, but I think he picked up something else in the moment.

"Well, where is he? Bring him here and I will tell him you deserve anything you want!" the owner huffed.

I couldn't help but laugh.

"You're a great salesman with valid points, but I think I'll stick to the scarf in the window that lured me in to begin with," I smiled.

Then, without warning, the voice of the client softened, “You never forget the feeling of true love, especially at first sight." For some reason, this jolted me awake. I know we were talking about the scarf, but I'll be damned if I didn't say it triggered a flood of introspection.

"Listen to your heart,” the owner told me over a rack of high-priced garments. “You don’t get to ignore it forever.”

As I purchased the scarf and was putting my card away in my purse, he turned back to me with a photo of him and with wife celebrating 40+ years together in marriage.

"We have been married for decades and there was not one single day that felt heavy with her," he said as I almost started to tear up. I didn't want to cry, and simply smiled and congratulated him on what really was his greatest accomplishment, living a life filled with love and kindness.

It hit me harder than it should’ve. He couldn’t have known the seismic storm beneath my calm exterior, the personal crisis I was failing to outrun. But his words stayed with me long after I left the shop. Also, as a side-note, I might need to expand on this story in the future!

For the Love of Tacos

That evening, wandering through the streets of Kreis 4 on my way back to Hotel Greulich, I stumbled upon La Taquería. The vibrant sign caught my eye, and the smell of freshly pressed tortillas lured me in. This restaurant stop became more than a meal—it became a reminder that sometimes, home finds you in the most unexpected places.

There’s a cruel trick the world plays on those of us who’ve known the true glory of Mexican cuisine. It’s like remembering the echo of a long-lost melody from your past, vivid yet elusive. I grew up with tamales in California, cut my teeth on fiery salsas in Nevada, and found solace in the sun-drenched enchilada plates of Arizona. Mexican food isn't just a cuisine in those parts—it's a rhythm, a lifeline, an anthem of flavor.

And then, I moved. I wandered across Europe, that old, elegant, drunken uncle of a continent—full of charm and unparalleled in other culinary realms. Germany? A taco travesty. Czechia? Czech that off the list for Mexican food in general. The UK? God save the queen, but not their idea of guacamole. Italy? Pasta heavens, sure, but their alleged al pastor game is a crime against humanity.

I had given up. If Los Angeles was an earthquake of flavor and spice, the rest of Europe was canned refried beans slapped cold on a sawdust tortilla. Until La Taquería.

Zürich, of all places—well-heeled Zürich with its air of banks and polished calm. Kreis 4 bends the narrative just enough to allow for something wilder, something real. And here sits La Taquería, a Latin American oasis with a heartbeat. The moment I walked in, I smelled home—not a postcard of it, but home. Zest catching sparks with the scent of freshly griddled tortillas, the hum of simmering meat, and the soulful squeeze of limes spiraling over salsa.

The tacos—God, the tacos. I took the first bite and was dumbstruck. Carnitas that pull apart like they were kissed by an abuelita’s hand, al pastor coming alive with grilled pineapple’s sweet sting, and a tortilla just so, it feels like it’s apologizing for every bad taco you’ve had before. Everything—the balance of heat, the pop of acidity, the way it all coalesces into an unapologetic symphony in your mouth—was nothing short of revelatory.

I’d been chasing these flavors my entire life, not realizing they were hiding here in Switzerland. La Taquería doesn't just serve food; they give you a damn narrative, a no-frills, unapologetic reminder of what Mexican food is supposed to be—a love letter to the streets of Oaxaca, the soul of Jalisco, the sea breeze of Baja.

I don’t toss around the word “authentic” lightly. It’s a loaded word, capable of doing as much harm as good. But La Taquería is more than that—it’s visceral. You’re not just tasting the ingredients; you’re tasting the grind, the respect, the inheritance of a culture that demands its flavors be bold, alive, and unapologetically human.

Make no mistake, I’ve spent my life steeped in the cradle of Mexican cuisine. I’ve seen it done to perfection, and I’ve seen it mangled beyond recognition. La Taquería holds its own with the best of the greats, and its location makes the achievement even more stunning. Zürich, you beautiful, slow-burning rebel—you blindsided me.

If you’ve forgotten what a taco can mean—or if you’ve never truly known—go. Get to La Taquería in Kreis 4. Eat until you can’t. And then eat one more. It’s not just Mexican food—it’s a manifesto.

That night in Hotel Greulich, I slept like a baby, dreaming about all I still had to do for my next exhibition in Milan after returning. On the train back to Milan, I stared out at the same snow-covered landscapes but felt every bit of the melting that started within me.

March Magic

Two months later, I returned to Zürich, this time with my daughter in tow. We took the same train route, though the world outside the window was shaking off its wintry gloom in favor of early spring’s quieter charms. My daughter, razor-sharp and wildly curious, peppered me with questions—about the villages we passed, the mountains, the vineyards that dared to peek through the thaw. Traveling with her felt like rediscovering Zürich through younger, kinder eyes.

We stayed at the Ruby Mimi hotel near the train station, which is convenient as it gets when you arrive. But what I really wanted was to take her to explore Zürich's old town. The cobblestone streets, the charming medieval alleys, and the whispers of history around every corner felt like the perfect setting for us to slow down and simply be together. I promised her tacos at La Taquería—a small indulgence and a nod to the kind of comfort food we both craved after months of caregiving. Alex was recovering from chemotherapy and already back at work, traveling as if nothing had happened, but we needed this moment—a brief pause from the weight of it all, a chance to breathe and reconnect in the rhythms of a city that seemed to invite us to savor its quiet beauty.

The real treat, for me at least, was La Taquería and its al pastor tacos. I could’ve cried when I bit into the first one—it was that good. My daughter, skeptical at first, ended up devouring hers with all the gusto of someone discovering comfort food for the first time.

"I really do miss Los Angeles," she said, her hands scented with lime and tortillas.

As we sat there, enjoying our delicious plates in the middle of Switzerland, I couldn't help but feel a sense of familiarity. The flavors, the smells, the atmosphere - it all reminded me of home. It was like finding a little piece of the US West tucked away in this wonderful city.

Later that evening, as we made our way back to the hotel, we walked into the middle of a protest. Fireworks erupted above us, casting sharp reds and greens against the night sky. Zürich, known for punctual trains and quiet streets, suddenly felt unpredictable, raw, and alive. My daughter clung to my hand, more fascinated than afraid, while we navigated through smoke and chants. That night, as we lay awake in our hotel room, the protest chant still echoing faintly in our minds, she whispered, “This was the best day.”

The next day, we found ourselves at the aviary, Voliere Zürich, on Lake Zürich. A place filled with birds more exotic than I’d expected, their bright feathers glinting in the sunlight as they hopped in and out of view. My daughter was absolutely smitten, naming every bird she could and inventing names for those she didn’t know. It was a gentle kind of magic—the kind that surprises you with how much it fills your heart.

That evening, we retreated to the hotel’s cozy cinema, a charming space that seemed to transport us back in time. We settled in to watch The Grand Budapest Hotel, its whimsical storytelling perfectly matching the mood of our day. She cradled a steaming cup of hot chocolate, the aroma mingling with the buttery scent of popcorn, while I sipped on a glass of prosecco. It was a simple moment, yet utterly enchanting—a shared escape into cinematic nostalgia. Amid a world so engrossed in glowing phone screens, this felt special, an experience we savored together in the dim glow of the screen, as if the rest of the world had quietly slipped away.

May Moments That Last

By late May-early June, Zürich had become a habit I didn’t want to break. The third trip was quieter, slower, and more indulgent. My daughter and I returned, this time with no agenda beyond relaxation and food. We made the mistake of skipping La Taqueria but ventured into less expected culinary territory—fondue at a touristy spot that was somehow transcendent, flaky croissants at sleepy cafés, and Swiss plates that could’ve ruined me for life.

We tried a few places in the Niederdorf district just a few minutes from the Ruby Mimi, starting with a Mexican restaurant called Frida that actually disappointed us massively.

"We should have just stuck to La Taquería," my daughter sighed over the tasteless quesadilla she ordered along with a plate of sad nachos. My birria quesatacos were no better. Missing the consomme it advertised, I asked for the missing staple with the server giving me a blank stare as though I was thoroughly insane to ask for parts of the dish I paid for. We left, food unfinished, still hungry, and got snacks at the hotel bar to fill the void of high hopes met with culinary catfishing.

Next dinner was Madrid, a Spanish restaurant that had us feeling like were wandering into a hidden gem tucked away in the charming labyrinth of Niederdorf. This lovely corner of Zurich exudes a warmth that is both inviting and timeless, as though the air itself hums with the promise of culinary delight.

The meal began with a symphony of starters that transported me straight to the heart of Spain. The gambas al ajillo were a revelation—succulent prawns bathed in a garlic-infused olive oil held a flavor that is borderline addictive. The jamón pata negra, with its delicate marbling and nutty depth, was nothing short of perfection, while the pimientos de padrón offered a playful dance of smoky sweetness and just the right texture.

But it was the chuletas de cordero that truly stole the show. Tender, flavorful, and cooked to an almost ethereal perfection, it was a dish that lingered in memory long after the last bite. If I weren't a better person (and had the ability to eat more), I would have cleaned the plate with the side of bread because the sauce was that good. And just when I thought the evening couldn’t be more enchanting, the helado de café flambeado arrived—a dessert that was as much a performance as it was a treat. The rich coffee ice cream, kissed by the warmth of the flame, was a fitting crescendo to an unforgettable meal.

The last dinner of our trip wasn't as bad as Frida, but wasn't as great as Madrid. Zum Königstuhl, a Swiss restaurant also located in Zürich's Niederdorf neighborhood, was our last dinner before leaving the next day back to Milan. The weather forecast called for rain and possible thunderstorms, so we brought rain-proof jackets just in case. Upon arriving at Zum Königstuhl, the manager attempted to seat us outside in the garden area. I commented about the weather and he claimed that it wasn't going to happen and acted as though relying on a weather app was for fools, but if it did, he would extend the awning providing enough coverage to finish dinner.

Well, it did rain. And it rained on an EXCELLENT speck fondue and I was livid. The awning didn't come down over me in time and I had to stand up near my daughter on the other side of the table, already wet, screaming internally, trying to motion to the server to just bring the check. I won't wax poetic about it but the speck fondue would be worth going back for even if the manager was kind of a d*ck.

On our way out, the server ended up apologizing for the experience, and the manager stood by the door examining the lightning-charged skies. I stood by him for a moment, gave the sky a glance then a side-eye to him, and wished him a good evening. My daughter and I raced back to the hotel as thunder roared above and lightning brightened the gray skies. My hair, my new shoes, everything ended up soaked anyway. However, the Ruby Mimi made up for the loss by providing yet another great evening of treats and drinks before bed.

It's late July as I write this and I'm still pissed off about the remaining fondue being lost to the storm, but perhaps we'll find a better spot on our next trip back. However, Zürich seems to find a way to delight and make up for losses, fondue or otherwise, with its beauty and charm.

Before leaving our dear Züri, we also returned to the aviary. By now, my daughter knew the place like an old friend. She led me around, pointing out the birds she had come to adore and making up new stories to replace the ones she had forgotten from spring. The aviary, for us, became a symbol of everything Zürich had come to represent—a safe harbor in the chaos, a place to find beauty in connection, and a reminder to take life just one moment at a time.

Zürich is luxurious, but it isn’t flashy. It doesn’t try to seduce you with grandeur or scream at you for attention. Instead, it unfolds softly, layer by layer, until you’re so wrapped up in its charm that leaving feels like an act of betrayal. Every visit stitched a new patch onto the quilt of my understanding, of my life and its directions—or lack thereof.

Zürich and Me

Looking back, I see how Zürich became a mirror for the shifting seasons of my year and my soul. January’s icy introspection, March’s crackling energy, and May-June’s warm ease all added up to a city that felt like a small, steady anchor in an otherwise unpredictable season of life.

The city had a way of surprising me when I least expected it. Tucked within its cobblestone streets and soft whispers of the Limmat River, Zürich unfolded like a story I didn’t know I needed to read. I found quiet refuge in its quaint cafés, golden light streaming through old windows as I ate some of the best tacos in Europe. The stark beauty of the lake, kissing the horizon with an unflinching calm, mirrored the steadiness I so desperately sought in my own thoughts. It was as if the city knew I needed space—space to breathe, to sort through the whirlwind of my mind, and to find order amidst chaos. Zürich, in all its understated splendor, became both a sanctuary and an unexpected ally in my search for clarity.

The words of that boutique owner and client still linger, as present now as they were that cold day in January: “Listen to your heart.” Zürich helped me rediscover my courage and be brave enough to start doing exactly that.

Zürich has become more than just a city to me; it has become a source of Zen during one of the most challenging times of my life. Its tranquil streets, serene lakeside views, and quiet rhythm offered me the stillness I desperately needed. Here, I learned to slow down, to listen, and to reconnect with myself. Zürich will forever remain a place where I found clarity and peace when I needed it most.

January Snowcaps and Soul-Searching

For the Love of Tacos

March Magic

May Moments That Last

Zürich and Me

Feeling Luxembourgish