My train got in late to Interlaken. Disembarking at Interlaken West, I should have continued four more minutes to Interlaken East station. Had I done so, my automatic-pilot route to the hotel would have been correct. Instead, I dragged my suitcase about a quarter mile before realizing my mistake.

Still, it was an interesting walk that eventually brought me to the other side of Hohematte Park, an elegantly trimmed swath of glittering green that defines the touristy boulevard of Interlaken—a street filled with hotels, villas, and stores selling the kind of watches that appear in half-page ads in the Wall Street Journal. Hohematte Park has another function, too, one that I will tell you below.

Travelers on Smithsonian Journeys tours do stay in excellent hotels—the kind most of us scroll past on Expedia while searching for affordable places to stay. Some are architectural landmarks, centuries old and palatial in décor. In those cases, I doubly count my blessings as I imagine their terraces filled with aristocratic guests who witnessed everything from Napoleonic chaos to the bombs falling during the World War II. Architecture, after all, is a clear teacher of history.

So (getting back to my wacky walk from the train station), there I was, huffing and puffing until I found the hotel, slightly happy to have approached it from a new angle. Then a funny thing happened.

Somehow, I was assigned a room far above my pay grade. Entering it, I was startled to find a table laden with a crystal platter piled high with fruits, a silver platter filled with hand-crafted truffles nestled on grated chocolate, a glittering bucket sporting a bottle of chilled champaign surrounded by crystal flutes, and an elegantly packaged mystery gift of greeting. In the center stood a hand-written card welcoming a Mr. H. (whose name will remain my secret).

I am popular as a lecturer on Smithsonian routes, but not that popular. And I certainly am not Mr. H. As I stood dumbstruck, the thought occurred that Mr. H. might be stepping onto the next elevator!

Dropping my heavy suitcase by the door, I returned to the lobby, saying surely there had been a mistake. “Let us check, please.” Two minutes passed. Computer screens were scanned. Then, “No, no,” the flawlessly groomed, quadruply if not quintuply lingual attendant said. “Something-something-something,” and “as it turns out, something-something” and “so, you see, Mr. H. is not coming. Really, Madame, everything is correct, this is your room. Please do enjoy it!”

Okay. Fine.

However, with the infamous efficiency of the Swiss, all of the luxury offerings were swept away by the time I crossed the small lobby, ascended the elevator again, and turned the key! A few minutes later, a hotel attendant knocked and sheepishly placed a plate with three pieces of fruit and two glazed cookies on the table—the nice gift that ordinarily welcomes a guest in this hotel.

I lost the luxury chocolates, but kept the view.

And oh my, this view! Today I stare out at summery-blue skies, while smokey grey clouds play tag across glaciered peaks that rise above Hohematte Park. And now, let me tell you what happens in this park.

Hohematte Park, in addition to being a place for people to stroll, serves as the landing spot for the famous Paragliders of Interlaken. On any given day with acceptable weather, a non-stop parade of colored sails fly into this park, dangling the duo of a professional paraglider and an ostensibly thrilled tourist. That tourist ought to be thrilled: he will have glided past some of the most gorgeous scenery on God’s green earth.

Kiosks all around Interlaken beckon us to sign up for these jaunts (inevitably someone from my group does). The basic price starts around $200 and goes up, depending on whether you want to land in Hohenmatte Park or splash down in the infamously beautiful lakes in the area (not sure how that works). There’s a Paraglide with Chocolate (not sure how that works either) and paragliding that lands you in exotic parts of the forest or on the mountains. Prices rise accordingly, as well they should. It’s not a simple matter.

But if you are the regular tourist who has always wanted to do this, then the basic sail works quite nicely, or so I’ve heard. I’ve yet to do it, although I’m not afraid. Long ago, courtesy of the greatest birthday present ever, I had the chance to go skydiving. That tandem jump from 10,000 feet on a hot August afternoon in McKinney Texas changed my life. At any moment, I can still feel the exhilaration of that experience.

But for now, I’ll keep the $200 and enjoy the sport from the ground. Literally every 10 to 15 seconds (while I’m given to hyperbole, this is not an exaggeration), a glider lands. Somehow they manage not to get tangled up with one another.

No picture in a brochure could be as beautiful as this scene really is, yet that is not my point today. This scene illustrates something I often talk about: the unfathomable beauty of the real world, rather than the world of screens that mesmerizes so many people, children and adults. And you don’t have to go to Switzerland to find such beauty. The glitter of a ray of sun on a backyard creek, the puffy dandelion that is seconds away from exploding its fluff into space, the delicate cherry blossom and bold dogwood petal, and the flash of colors in an ordinary stone scooped up by a child—all of these things are vastly more vivid than their digital versions luring our eyes with intensified colors through who-knows-how many pixels.

Here is what really saddens me (you’ve observed it as often as I). A small child, out in the fresh air or a store or any public place, sits in the stroller, head bent, grasping mom’s cell phone, mesmerized by the images on screen. This little head is knitted to the phone. Its delicate eyes are fixed by the digital colors and flashing movements as tightly as if glue connected them.

Every time I see this, I want to scream. Actually, I want to race over and do a variety of things, but probably the most diplomatic would be to remove the phone from “tiny’s” grasp, and place it back in mom’s hands, saying sweetly, “Ma’am, I think you dropped your phone . . . oh look, little Susie has found it.”

I understand why moms do it. In truth, there are times when a distraction for a child is necessary. But since time immemorial, that distraction was a book or an object whereupon the child’s imagination might play—a key ring, a fluffy lovey, or best of all, another child to baby-babble to (also known as a sibling which, let’s face it, is getting fewer and farther between in today’s world).

So, gazing out my window, I can picture a digitally addicted toddler being wheeled along the edge of Hohematte Park, mom’s cell phone before its little eyes, peacock-colored parasails dropping from the sky, and the child noticing none of it. Fortunately, one sees fewer phones in the hands of little ones in Europe, so maybe there is hope. Or maybe this horror just hasn’t happened here yet.

Okay, that’s my rant. If I were more skillful, I could snap better brochure-quality photos for you. But wait, the beauty of what you will imagine far exceeds a brochure image. So, if you will, close your eyes and come glide with me now, far, far over the Alps, beneath peacock-colored sails that land only when we wish them to, and always on the softest emerald-green carpet.