My husband is still sleeping. I go to the bathroom, brush my teeth, and order breakfast for the two of us. I put on a robe and go to the window to pass the time while I wait for the room service to arrive.

At this point, I notice something: the sky is full of paragliders! They land in the park opposite the hotel. Most are not alone, and have an instructor behind them steering. First-timers.

How can they do such a crazy thing? Have we reached the point where risking our life is the only thing that frees us from boredom?

Another paraglider lands. And another. Friends film everything, smiling cheerfully. I wonder what the view must be like up there, because the mountains surrounding us are very, very high.

Although I envy every one of those people, I would never have the courage to jump.

The doorbell rings. The waiter enters with a silver tray, a vase with a rose, coffee (for my husband), tea (for me), croissants, hot toast, rye bread, jams of various flavors, eggs, orange juice, the local newspaper, and everything else that makes us happy.

I wake him up with a kiss. I don’t remember the last time I did that. He is startled, but then smiles. We sit at the table and savor the treats in front of us. We talk a bit about our drinking spree last night.

“I think I needed that. But don’t take what I said too seriously. When a balloon bursts, it startles everyone, but it’s nothing more than that: a bursting balloon. Harmless.”

I want to say it felt great to discover all his weaknesses, but I just smile and keep eating my croissant.

He also notices the paragliders. His eyes light up. We get dressed and go downstairs to enjoy the morning.

We go straight to the front desk. He says we’ll be leaving today, asks them to bring down our suitcases, and pays the bill.

Are you sure? Can’t we stay until tomorrow morning?

“I’m sure. Last night was enough for me to understand that it’s impossible to go back in time.”

We head to the door crossing the long, glass-ceilinged lobby. I read in one of the brochures that there used to be a street here; now they’ve joined the two buildings that stood on either side. Tourism is apparently thriving, even without ski slopes.

But instead of going out the door, my husband turns left and approaches the concierge.

“How can we go paragliding?”

We? I don’t have the slightest intention of doing that.

The concierge hands him a brochure. It’s all there.

“And how do we get up top?”

The concierge explains that we don’t have to go all the way up. The road is very treacherous. All we have to do is set a time and they’ll pick us up from the hotel.

Isn’t it very dangerous? Jumping into the nothing between two mountain ranges without ever having done it before? Who is in charge? Are there any government controls on the instructors and their equipment?

“Madam, I’ve been working here for ten years. I paraglide at least once a year. I’ve never seen a single accident.”

He is smiling. He must have repeated those words thousands of times over those ten years.

“Shall we?”

What? Why don’t you go alone?

“Sure, I can go by myself. You can wait for me down here with the camera. But I need and want to have this experience in life. It’s always terrified me. Just yesterday we talked about when everything gets stuck in a rut and how we no longer test our limits. It was a very sad night for me.”

I know. He asks the concierge to set a time.

“Now, this morning, or in the afternoon, when you can see the sunset reflected on the surrounding snow?”

Now, I reply.

“So, will it be one person or two?”

Two, if we do it now. If I don’t have a chance to think about what I’m doing. If I don’t have time to open the box and let the demons out—fear of heights, of the unknown, of death, of life, of extreme feelings. Now or never.

“We have the option of twenty-minute, half-hour, and one-hour flights.”

Are there ten-minute flights?

No.

“Would you like to jump from one thousand three hundred and fifty or one thousand eight hundred meters?”

I’m already starting to back down. I didn’t need all this information. Of course I want the lowest possible jump.

“Darling, that makes no sense. I’m sure nothing will happen, but if it did, the danger is the same. Falling from twenty-one meters, or the equivalent of the seventh floor of a building, would have just the same consequences.”

The concierge laughs. I laugh to hide my feelings. How could I have been so naïve to think that a measly five hundred meters would make any difference?

The concierge picks up the phone and talks to someone.

“There is only space available for jumps at one thousand three hundred and fifty meters.”

More absurd than my earlier fear is the relief I feel now. Oh, good!

The car will be at the hotel doorstep in ten minutes.

I STAND before the chasm with my husband and five or six other people, waiting for my turn. On the way up I thought about my children and the possibility of losing their parents … Then I realized we wouldn’t be jumping together.

We put on special thermal outfits and helmets. Why the helmet? So my skull will still be intact if I hit a rock and skip three thousand feet to the ground?

The helmet is mandatory.

Perfect. I put on the helmet—just like the ones worn by cyclists on the streets of Geneva. Completely stupid, but I won’t argue.

I look ahead; between us and the chasm is a snow-covered slope. I can stop the flight in the first second by landing there and walking back up. I don’t have to go all the way to the end.

I’ve never been afraid of flying. It’s always been a part of my life. But the thing is, when we’re in a plane, it doesn’t occur to us that it’s exactly the same as going paragliding. The only difference is that the metal cocoon feels like a shield and gives us the feeling that we’re protected. That’s it.

That’s it? In my meager understanding of the laws of aerodynamics, I suppose so.

I need to convince myself. I need a better argument.

This is a better argument; the airplane is made of metal. It’s extremely heavy. And it carries luggage, people, equipment, and tons of explosive fuel. The paraglider, in turn, is light, descends with the wind, and obeys the laws of nature like a leaf falling from a tree. It makes much more sense.

“Do you want to go first?”

Yes, I do. Because if something happens to me, you’ll know and can take care of our children. And you’ll feel guilty for the rest of your life for having this insane idea. I will be remembered as a companion for all seasons, one who always stood by her husband’s side, in sorrow and in joy, adventure and routine.

“We’re ready, madam.”

Are you the instructor? Aren’t you too young for this? I’d rather go with your boss. It’s my first time, after all.

“I’ve been jumping since I reached the age minimum of sixteen. I’ve been jumping for five years, not just here, but many different places around the world. Don’t worry, madam.”

His condescending tone annoys me. Old people and their fears should be respected. Besides, he must tell everybody that.

“Remember the instructions. And when we start to run, don’t stop. Let me take care of the rest.”

Instructions. As if we were now familiar with all of this, when the most they had the patience to explain was that the risk lies exactly in wanting to stop in the middle. And that, when we reach the ground, we should keep walking until we feel our feet firmly fixed.

My dream: feet on the ground. I go to my husband and ask him to go last, then he’ll have time to see what happens to me.

“Want to bring the camera?” asks the instructor.

The camera can be attached to an aluminum rod approximately two feet long. No, I do not. For starters, I’m not doing this to show other people. And even if I can overcome my panic, I’d be more worried about filming than admiring the scenery. I learned that with my dad when I was a teenager: we hiked the Matterhorn and I stopped every minute to take pictures until he fumed: “Do you think all this beauty and grandeur can fit in a little square of film? Record things in your heart. It’s more important than trying to show people what you’re experiencing.”