Yesterday, they told us we would go to the mountains, to pack a lunch in case we weren't courageous enough to eat what we'd make on the fire. "We leave at 11:00," they said. "Meet us out front."

Twenty of us piled into a couple vans and cars. We left at 11:02. All incline.

On our way up and around the mountain, Volvo van chugging along, the lead car stopped. Parked. From around the bend appeared a car with flashing lights.

What follows is my translation of the French conversation that took place:
"What's up?" asked Robbi, the driver.
"The cows are coming!" answered the elderly woman driving the flashing car. "Make way for the cows!"

Robbi turned around to us. "Here in Switzerland, we pull over for the cows." He raised his eyebrows in his characteristic half-smirk, half-serious smile.

The other students and I grinned. This is the activity we thought we were missing. And we would get to see it!

Around this time each year, the cows are brought home from the mountains. They party 'cuz the cows come home.

A few minutes later, I heard the clamour of a hundred cow bells, the clomping of hooves. Finally, I saw them: the herders--men of all ages, dressed in traditional black pants, caps, white shirt and black overshirt (some with puffed sleeves and suspenders)--directing the cows down the road with decorated canes and long sticks.

"Haaaaaa. Haaaaa," they called to some of the cows. Every so often, a man chased a cow straying off the asphalt, heading toward a car or a child.

The cows were both beautiful and ridiculous. Most wore bells at least half the size of their heads and banners proclaiming the family farm and year it was established. All were adorned with flowers: blue wreaths around necks, red and white blooming crowns. But my favorite were the miniature Christmas trees perched atop their heads, boughs ornamented by bright blossoms. The trees bounced like bobble heads, especially as the cows ran to the front of the herd.

It's a village celebration, each overpass filled with grandparents and grandkids, moms, dads, toddlers.

(The most personally humorous moment was this: looking down at my American Eagle shirt with the picture of a midwestern milkmaid and the phrase "Save cows, eat cheese. Cows for a better life.")