Lucerne: Turrets, a Dying Lion & the Mountain We Didn’t Plan to Climb
We arrived looking for Alpine air and a quiet Swiss city. We found both — and then accidentally ended up on top of a mountain.
By the time the train pulled into Lucerne, Italy felt like a world away. The transition wasn’t just geographical — it was atmospheric. The ornate balconies of Milan had been replaced by the sharp, clean lines of Swiss Alpine architecture, and the air — cool, thin, and smelling of mountain water — was the undeniable proof that we had found our antidote. We came looking for quiet. We found that, and considerably more.
This is Part 3 of the Second European Rail Odyssey. We arrived from Lake Como on the EuroCity 358, checked into the Renaissance Lucerne, and spent two days letting the city surprise us at every turn.
Arriving in Lucerne
The first evening — shaking off the train legs on the bridge
This time, there was no taxi. The Renaissance Lucerne sits on the Pilatusstrasse, just a block from the Reuss River and the legendary Kapellbrücke — a five-minute walk from the station, manageable even with bags. The hotel lacks the old-world grandeur of the Diana Majestic or the sprawling parkland of the Sheraton Lake Como, but what it trades in scale it makes up for in geography. Step outside and you are already in the city.
We arrived at 2:00 PM, and upon checking in the clerk asked if we needed to exchange money for Francs. It hadn’t occurred to us that we were dealing with a new currency — hotels have notoriously bad exchange rates, so we thanked her, noted the nearest ATM, and made a mental note to stop on the way. Then dropped our bags, shook off the train legs, and headed straight for the water. Our first stop was the Seebrrücke — the bridge that serves as the seam between the modern southern city and the medieval soul of the Altstadt. Standing there, we had our first panoramic view of the Chapel Bridge: a 14th-century wooden icon that looked exactly like the postcards we had pored over for months. After an hour of winding through cobblestone alleys that felt like a film set, the mountain air caught up with us. It was time to find a seat, a drink, and a view.
We crossed the river toward the Mühlenplatz and found Mill’Feuille — modern, industrial, and tucked right against the Reuss riverbank. In a city known for its heavy wood-paneled traditionalism, it felt like a breath of fresh Alpine air. We found a table on the terrace, the sound of the rushing water a constant, rhythmic backdrop to the city’s quiet afternoon hum. Sitting there, watching Lucerners cycle past and ducks navigate the current, the mountain ache we had carried from Florida finally began to subside. Lucerne isn’t a city you rush. It is a city you observe. Mill’Feuille gave us the perfect vantage point to do exactly that.
Mill’Feuille serves breakfast until 6:00 PM — a rarity in a country that takes its meal times seriously. If you’ve spent the morning crossing the Gotthard and missed the traditional lunch window, this is your sanctuary. Order the beef tartare or the namesake mille-feuille pastry and watch the river go by.
The Pharmacy, the Guildhall & the Reserved North
By 5:30 PM, the sun began its retreat behind the surrounding peaks, taking the last of the day’s warmth with it. After two years in Florida, our internal thermostats were woefully unprepared for 50°F. The glacial water of the Reuss acts like a natural heat sink, pulling the temperature down further as the light fades. We made a quick stop at the Renaissance for warmer layers — and to address a more pressing souvenir I had picked up somewhere between Como and the cobblestones: a scratchy throat.
Anyone who has come down with something on an international trip knows that specific, rising panic. Thankfully, the universal language of the European pharmacy — the glowing green cross — is easy to spot. We found a chemist near the hotel where the pharmacist spoke fluent English and dispensed proper Swiss-strength remedies with professional efficiency. I started the first dose immediately. It was a small intervention that saved the rest of the trip; the cold was gone before we hit the Austrian border.
Suitably layered and medicated, we headed for dinner. We didn’t just want cheese — we wanted history. The Zunfthausrestaurant Pfistern has been on this corner since 1578 — long enough that the painted fresco facade has watched a few empires come and go. It started life as the guildhall for the city’s bakers and millers, which feels appropriate for a place that still takes its food seriously. It sits directly on the river, and despite the cold, we asked for a table on the covered riverside terrace.
There is something profoundly satisfying about being bundled in a coat while dipping bread into a bubbling cast-iron pot of traditional Swiss fondue. The gas cooker hissed quietly between us, keeping the Gruyère and Vacherin perfectly gooey as we watched the lights of the Old Town dance on the water. We paired it with Eichhof beers — cold, crisp, locally brewed just down the road — arriving in tall, heavy mugs bearing the brewery’s red-and-black crest. Cold beer, hot cheese, river at our feet. We spent a long hour there.
“There is something profoundly satisfying about being bundled in a coat while dipping bread into a bubbling pot of Swiss fondue, watching the lights of the Old Town dance on the water.”
Zunfthausrestaurant Pfistern, Lucerne — September 2019After dinner, we weren’t quite ready to retreat to the Renaissance. We set out for a nightcap — and walked straight into the most jarring cultural contrast of the entire Odyssey so far.
In Italy, the streets had been a theater. Locals spilling onto sidewalks, a constant melodic murmur of voices, 9:30 PM feeling like the height of the afternoon. In Milan we had encountered groups ten or fifteen deep crowded around single tables, all talking at once, often pulling us into a conversation that lasted for hours.
Lucerne, on a Monday night at 9:30 PM, was eerily quiet. The few pedestrians we encountered moved in small, purposeful groups of two or four, walking briskly toward a specific destination. No spilling out. It was a reminder that in just a few hours on a train, we had moved from the social, sun-drenched South of Europe to the more reserved, private North.
We ducked into BACiO della MAMMA, a warm, stylish spot just a stone’s throw from the hotel. We weren’t quite ready to give up on the Alpine night, so we took one of the wooden tables outside. The waitress arrived with our drinks — and a basket of thick, cozy woolen blankets. We tucked them around our laps and sat in the quiet of the Pilatusstrasse, watching the occasional car hum past the glow of the bakery across the road. We were only a few hours from Milan, but it felt like an entirely different chapter of the world.
The Blanket Habit
I brought this home with us. When we moved to Colorado, I ordered a set of thick outdoor blankets specifically to recreate that Swiss café experience on our own patio. Now, whenever there’s a chill in the air, I’m transported back to that quiet Monday night in Lucerne.
The Spires of St. Leodegar
Two dark spires above the lakeside trees — our compass for the morning
The next morning, after a quick coffee to inject some warmth into our bones, we crossed the Seebrrücke again. By 10:00 AM the Old Town was already beginning to swell with busloads of tourists. We decided quickly that the Altstadt was not the destination for today. Instead, we looked to our right. Two slender, dark spires rose above the lakeside trees. We turned away from the crowds and let the spires be our compass.
They belonged to the Collegiate and Parish Church of St. Leodegar — known locally as the Hofkirche. The site has a history reaching back to 735 AD, but the church itself tells a more specific story of Swiss character. The original burned to the ground in 1633 and they had a new one consecrated eleven years later. That pace of rebuilding says something about the Swiss that no tourist brochure bothers to mention. Remember, Milan’s Duomo was almost 300 years into construction at this point — with another 300 still to go.
Coming from the soaring dome of Como’s Cathedral and the imposing stone forest of Milan’s Duomo, St. Leodegar felt quaint by comparison — its two towers half the height they once were, rebuilt in a sharp Gothic style that feels grounded rather than boastful. Above the arched entryway, a single statuette of St. Michael slaying the dragon watches over the doors. Unpretentious. Sturdy. A marked departure from the ornate displays of the Catholic South.
The modesty of the exterior, however, is a clever ruse. Stepping inside, towering white pillars support high, airy vaulted ceilings that seem to lift the weight of the morning mist. The Soul Altar — a survivor of the 1633 fire — remains a hauntingly beautiful centerpiece. We spent a quiet hour wandering among the Baroque and Renaissance artistry, grateful that those two dark spires had called to us from across the water.
The Lion, the Pig & the Waiter
The walk from the quiet cloisters of St. Leodegar to the Lion Monument is a short one, but it marks a distinct shift — from the quiet, self-possessed Lucerne we had stumbled into that morning, back into the version the tour buses come for.
The Lion of Lucerne — carved directly into the sandstone cliff face
The monument itself earns every word written about it. Carved directly into the face of a former sandstone quarry, the dying lion lies with a broken spear in his side, his shield bearing the Swiss cross. I hadn’t known the story before I stood in front of it — the Swiss Guards massacred in Paris in 1792, defending the Tuileries Palace while the French Revolution consumed everything around them. That probably made it hit harder. There is no gold leaf here, no soaring dome. Just a massive, slumped figure and the specific, undecorated weight of real loss.
There is, however, a footnote. Look closely at the shape of the grotto surrounding the lion. Bertel Thorvaldsen, the sculptor, wasn’t paid the full amount he was owed — so he carved the outline of the alcove to look unmistakably like a pig. A permanent, stony thank-you to the city officials who shorted him. It has been staring back at Lucerne ever since. Switzerland may be reserved, but apparently it has a very long memory.
The café just down the path told a different story entirely. Lucerne’s Old Town is genuinely small — a medieval core that was never built for the volume of people it now absorbs daily. Coach tours, cruise passengers, day-trippers who arrive at the Chapel Bridge, photograph the Lion, and are back on the motorway before dinner. The businesses along that corridor have adapted accordingly: high turnover, fast tables, no patience for anyone who might linger without ordering. The waiter who approached me before I had even set my bag down wasn’t rude so much as shaped by economics. When your customers are gone in twenty minutes and never coming back, you run a different kind of operation. This is where the ATM stop paid off — when we asked to pay, card in hand, he pointed to a small sign: Cash Only. Francs, he added, with the patience of someone who says this many times a day.
We finished paying and moved on. The moment we climbed away from that circuit — up toward the Musegg Wall, away from the souvenir shops — Lucerne gave us itself back again.
The Musegg Wall & the Hedgehog
The Musegg Wall — nine towers, 14th century, still standing
The walk toward the Allenwindenturm is a vertical shift in every sense. As we climbed away from the tourist corridor, the city noise fell away, replaced by wind and the ancient, silent gravity of the Musegg Wall. Constructed in the 14th century, these fortifications are the skeletal remains of Lucerne’s medieval defense. Most cities tore down their walls to make room for progress. Lucerne kept nine of its towers intact.
Just behind the wall, the urban landscape dissolves into lush green pastures that feel like they belong deep in the Alps rather than five minutes from a watch shop. It was here we spotted them: a small herd of Highland Cattle, long shaggy hair and sweeping horns, placidly grazing on the steep Swiss slope as though completely unaware of the medieval fortifications behind them.
But the shaggy giants weren’t the only residents. As we walked the perimeter, I caught a rustle in the tall grass — my first ever sighting of a wild hedgehog. Seeing that tiny, prickly traveler scurrying through the clover under the shadow of a medieval tower was the kind of moment you can’t plan for. You can book the cathedrals and the monuments and the fondue. You cannot book the hedgehog.
The Zytturm — Right of First Strike
The Musegg Wall’s Zytturm holds a distinction unique in Switzerland: it is legally permitted to chime the hour one minute before all other clocks in the city — a privilege granted in 1535, still honored today. Stand near it on the hour and you’ll hear Lucerne announce the time twice.
The Accidental Ascent: Mount Pilatus
After the Musegg Wall, we decided the city bus was our best option for getting back toward the lake. We boarded the first one that arrived, expecting a lakeside tour, and watched the driver make two quick turns and head exactly back where we started. A friendly local explained the loop logic of that particular line and pointed us toward the correct transfer.
Twenty minutes later, we decided to skip the touristy lakeside stops altogether and ride to the very end of the line. We deboarded in Kriens — a quiet, residential suburb that felt worlds away from the souvenir shops. We found a small café to plot our next move. Mauricio went inside to scout the menu. He emerged with a look of determined excitement.
“Drink up,” he said. “We’ve got to go.”
“Why? Go where?” I asked.
“You’ll see.”
The bartender had pointed him toward a nondescript street outside the window. “Follow that road,” she had said, “and you’ll find the cable car.”
Soon we were standing at the Kriens Pilatus-Bahnen ticket office. A familiar panic set in. If the cable car over the Rhine in Cologne had made me white-knuckled, this was going to be something else entirely. It isn’t the height itself that terrifies me — it is the sensation of hanging by a single thread in thin air. Mauricio tried the Swiss engineering defense. I reluctantly boarded the Panorama Gondola with my heart already racing.
The journey up the first 7,000 feet took nearly thirty minutes. We had been told there were only “two hours left,” which we mistakenly interpreted as our window to get back down the mountain. Just as I was celebrating reaching solid ground at the transfer station, we were ushered into the Dragon Ride — floor-to-ceiling glass, soaring over jagged ravines toward the craggy limestone summit. Eye-watering, heart-stopping, and undeniably spectacular.
The full Golden Round Trip takes you up by gondola and Dragon Ride, down via the world’s steepest cogwheel railway to Alpnachstad, then back to Lucerne by lake steamer. Allow a full half-day. Book gondola tickets in advance in peak season — and do not mistake the closing time warning for a personal deadline.
With our self-imposed two-hour clock ticking, we scrambled to find the cogwheel railway and boarded with the frantic energy of people who had just made it. The world’s steepest rack railway groaned and clicked its way down the 48% gradient through rock and alpine meadows. We were certain we were beating the buzzer.
When the train deposited us at the base in Alpnachstad, we found total tranquility. The lake was still, the steamer wasn’t even in sight, and we were informed we had over an hour to wait. Mauricio asked a waiter why the schedule seemed so relaxed if the mountain was closing. The waiter explained, with a characteristic Swiss shrug, that there were still several more trips scheduled to come down. We hadn’t been racing the end of the day. We had just been racing ourselves.
Since we were marooned for an hour, we took a table outside at the Restaurant Chalet, ordered drinks, and watched other passengers slowly trickle down from the heights. The panic dissolved completely. By the time the classic lake steamer finally pulled up to the pier, the golden hour had arrived.
The shoreline from the water is something else entirely — Belle Époque villas, private boathouses, the Alps holding everything in place. We had no more deadlines. We floated over the water, like emerald glass, and just watched Switzerland go by.
A Rainy Farewell to Lucerne
By the time the steamer docked back in Lucerne, it was nearly 6:00 PM. The golden light of the afternoon had vanished, replaced by a brooding, heavy sky. We had an early start ahead — our train to Salzburg, the longest leg of the entire Odyssey at six and a half hours, was scheduled for a 7:35 AM departure.
Exhausted from our accidental mountain ascent, we opted for a simple, quiet dinner at Max Restaurant and Bar. The crisp fall weather finally broke as we were seated and the rain began to move in. We were once again presented with thick woolen blankets — confirmation, if any were needed, that this is simply how the Swiss do things.
The quiet streets of the night before were now filled with people darting through the rain, umbrellas bobbing like dark mushrooms under the glow of the streetlights. We sat there for a few hours, savoring our final Swiss drinks and watching the rain wash over the cobblestones — a peaceful contrast to the adrenaline of the afternoon.
The next morning arrived at an indecent hour for anyone on vacation. We blearily checked out of the Renaissance and hurried through the damp morning air to the Luzern Bahnhof. The short shuttle to Zurich, then the long rails east toward Austria. As we pulled away, the familiar spires of St. Leodegar faded into the mist. We were ready for the next chapter.
The Lucerne to Salzburg routing requires an early start. The 7:35 AM departure from Luzern Bahnhof connects through Zurich for the long eastbound leg into Austria. Set two alarms. The journey — including the Innsbruck transfer and the Brenner Pass — is worth being awake for every kilometer of it.
Next Stop: Salzburg
The train climbs through the Brenner Pass, the currency changes again, and a Christmas market appears two months early. Part 4 is coming soon.
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