[dude]

But no. That will not happen. There is a schedule, and this is Switzerland. We will eat lunch, and we will have a walking tour.

I sullenly tuck into some pasta with pork (Pavel does the same, and smiles for the first and only time on the trip), while outside the rainstorm rages. With the food warming my belly, and the Hawaiian shirt warming my body, and the thought that I'm through with Switzerland's perfect signage and flat roads warming my soul, I cheer up a little. I cheer up so much that when Robert informs the group that we will now each volunteer our opinions of the trip, I don't groan.

Pavel is first up. He says he loves the fellowship of the group. He actually uses the words "love" and "fellowship." I am astounded at his vocabulary. Also, maybe I have misjudged Pavel. Maybe I need to look at my life. Fred and Andreas say something not obviously nationalistic or racist, for which I'm grateful. Marcia doesn't bash the Chinese, and Shin-Jung doesn't say anything terrible about Marcia. Maybe this trip has been life-changing for more than one person. When it comes to my turn, I mention that while I have learned how nuanced the definition of flat is in this country, I had a great time. People laugh. I really need to open up more, stop keeping the world at arm's length. I tell the group that I will return to the United States sorry of only one thing--and here I lock my eyes onto the eyes of Robert for a meaningful, emotionally connecting beat--and that is that I have not found Heidi.

Robert looks at me for a meaningful, emotionally connecting beat of his own. And he smiles. I smile. He keeps smiling. I hear giggling in the group. This is getting weird. Another symptom of hypothermia? The brain is an awesome and complicated organ, I think.

"Steve," Robert says with the weirdest smile I have ever seen, "turn around." Now there is laughter from everyone, even Marcia.

When I turn, there she is, standing just two feet from me. Blonde. Blue-eyed. Very white teeth. Also, and it doesn't make me proud to say this--but while a seasoned citizen of the world might be duplicitous and conniving and selfish and self-pitying and greedy and self-serving and lazy, he is sometimes very honest--possessed of a body that we Americans might call "smokin'!" She is wearing heels and a tight cotton blouse and very tight gray pants. For a terrible, shameful second I wonder if Robert--worried about some of my complaints and how they would play out in the American press--might have hired a really beautiful hooker to cheer me up.

More laughter. A tender gaze from the possible prostitute. Tender, but ripe with promise, too. Am I hallucinating? Have the diesel-scented fumes screwed up my neurological functioning? If so, would Swiss hospitals accept my insurance plan? I look around the room wildly. I have been lost before in my life. I have been lost many, many times on the terribly marked highways and byways of this terrible and allegedly neutral country. But I have never felt as lost as I do now. I see Richard smiling, looking at me. "She is hot," I think I see him mouth.

I stand up. Around the beautiful blonde's neck is a nametag. The nametag says "Heidi."

I take her hand. Actually, I grab it. It is perfect, soft, pink, all that. Did Robert pluck her from a farm? Was she milking cows and kneading dough this very morning? How can she be so pure, and yet radiate such proud, raw carnality? I have a terrible stomachache.

"I am Heidi," says Heidi.

"Heidi, I have been looking for you for a very long time," I say. It is the most sophisticated thing I have ever said in my life. I'm pretty sure it's the most sophisticated thing I'll ever say in my life.

"Then I am very glad you have found me," Heidi says. She holds on to my hand longer than is really necessary. I'm sure of it. Questions flood my tired, survived-the-Swiss hurricane, inhaled-the-diesel-scented-fumes-of-Swiss-supertankers, generally confused mind. "Is Robert really so desperate for ink that he'd hire a prostitute for me?" I think. Also, "What's the proper etiquette with a Swiss prostitute?" And, "Just because Heidi's a prostitute, isn't she capable of love?" And, "Am I not capable--finally--of providing love?"

I have decided that I will not judge Heidi's past, that we are destined for each other. That's when Heidi says, "I am your tour guide." As she says this, she continues to hold my hand. I'm sure of it.

The next few minutes are blurry. But the next instant is very, very clear. We are standing outside. Somehow, miraculously, we have gone from inside the restaurant, from my plate of pasta and pork, to outside. I don't remember walking, but somehow, it happened. And somehow, miraculously, the storm has abated, and the air has warmed. Heidi and I face each other, and we listen as a delicate, magical pitter-patter surrounds us: falling on the white Swiss Tourism umbrellas we each hold, a gentle, cleansing drizzle. Heidi is looking deeply into my eyes, and I am looking deeply into hers.

"You are looking for Heidi?" Heidi asks.

"Yes," I croak.

"You want to know about Heidi?" Heidi asks. She has moved even closer. She is inches from me. I can see the rain glistening on her skin. I can see how her blouse clings to her. Interesting that she refers to herself in the third person, I think.

"I want to know everything about Heidi," I say. I am so unbelievably Continental. I will try to remember this moment. I will tell our children, Moshe and Mary, about this moment.

Heidi tells me a story about Heidi. I think there's a cranky grandfather in it, and a little girl in a wheelchair, and some sheep, and maybe even a wackjob named Peter, but I'm not sure. I'm busy imagining my life with this Heidi. Tour guide? Prostitute? Why are we always so quick to label what we do not understand? Is it because we fear the unknown? Is it because we are afraid of our essential, true selves? I will not be afraid anymore. I will not fear mountains called flat, nor twisty mazes called perfectly signed routes, nor grouchy, hungry Russians. I will fear no one. I will not even fear the bottomless black abyss that I can see now yawns not at all, but is merely a figment of my love-starved imagination, which, because of Heidi, is starved no longer. Henceforth, I will gorge on love, and Pavel will have plenty of meat and all countries will live in peace and even Turkey will apologize for its genocide. It is a perfect moment and I will live in the moment. I will live in the moment, filled with love.

am home now, in New York City. I've had time to wonder whether my episode in the rainstorm really qualified as a brush with a hurricane or was just a short spin in a spring squall. I have had time to ask myself some hard questions: Why did I complain to Robert so much? Why was I such a baby? The truth is, except for the 10 or 12 times I got separated from the group, I did spend much of my time on the bicycle-dedicated paths the brochures promised. I did see a few fat Swiss cows, some nice yellow fields of rapeseed. I enjoyed an excellent ice cream sundae with Robert on the shores of Lake Geneva while Marcia and the other suckers were frog-marched through the Olympic Museum. And the weather was good most of the time. And there really was some nice scenery, and Albano patted my arm when I made it up one of the mountains and said "Good, good," which almost brought me to tears. So what if my hotel-room sheets didn't smell like edelweiss? I don't know what edelweiss smells like, anyway. Why did the superhighways and the tankers get me so worked up? Why was I so unhinged? Maybe it was because I missed a couple of nap days in a row.

I e-mailed Heidi, of course. I told her I would love to get together sometime and treat her to some chocolate. I told her what a great tour guide she was. Might I have mentioned something about a deep, powerful connection that transcended religion and national boundaries and other meaningless concepts that only separated tender, yearning, not-chronologically-young-but-nevertheless-children-in-their-hearts souls who were meant to be together? I might have. She e-mailed back, and while not addressing the powerful connection part of my message directly, said sure, she would be glad to take me up on my offer, if I were ever in Nyon again. Which I plan to be. It all feels very real.

Steve Friedman, Bicycling's writer at large, has been anthologized six times in Best American Sports Writing, and his book The Agony of Victory includes a profile of Graeme Obree written for Bicycling magazine.