If there is one singular thing I miss and crave most about Europe, it is this: the air of antiquity.

There is nothing quite like the soft sound of raindrops falling on ancient cobblestone. The mighty and melodious clang of a cathedral's bells as you rub the sleep out of your eyes in the morning. The gloriously muted glint of a gilded statue, towering over a historic plaza. The feel of crumbling sandstone under your fingers.

But most of all, it's the smell that gets me every time: that deliciously musty, almost moldy, scent of ancient stone and wood - always cool, always damp, always thick. One of my favorite things on earth is to stand in a European cathedral or church, leaned against a stone pillar, eyes closed, sounds tuned out, and drawing the air, saturated with that very specific scent, deep into my lungs.

It makes me happy. I don't know why. Never mind that my religious orientation lies somewhere between Atheism and Buddhism - and miles away from anything resembling organized Christianity...

But so it was then that on a rainy Saturday afternoon, during my last visit to Switzerland in late November/early December, I gave into a sudden premonition and wandered into one of my home town's most distinct, yet quietly magnificent cathedrals - the Elisabethen Church.



As I stepped through the heavy oak doors and into the dark, gothic bowels of the structure, all city noises of traffic and hurried footsteps faded and the chilly basalt walls embraced me with their silence. Only faint light from the stained glass windows penetrated the obscure and impossible heights of its arches, aided by a few softly-glowing candelabras. A couple of hushed voices, barely audible as they whispered under their breaths, momentarily drifted over, then vanished. I sat down on a creaking wooden prayer bench, intent on just soaking up the soothing silence.

Momentarily however, the organ suddendly sprung to life, and its inspired player filled the vast medieval walls with echos of equally haunting and enchanting beauty. Sounds too sweet for words pierced my ears, paralyzed me, made me surrender to their utter divinity. I couldn't help but sit, eyes closed, and let the music permeate every fiber of my body.

And as it did, it suddenly occured to me: maybe I love these ancient cathedrals not because of their silence, or scent, or architectural beauty. Rather - because they are like deserts. Vast, quiet, subdued, blank, robbing one of every sensory distraction. They force you to look within yourself, think deeply, feel and see the truth. And like a furious storm or a flock of birds that can bring the desert to life, these cathedrals too have the ability to erupt with sound, so beautiful, so elemental, it hurts one's soul.

I walked out an hour and a half later - exhausted, but filled to the brim with content, my soul replete with an epicurian delight I've seldom known before.

And should I ever consider moving back to Switzerland, at least I have one really good reason now ...