SoCal Road Trip to Switzerland — a Quest for Neutrality

By Marlise Kast-Myers

Photos by Benjamin Myers

In my mid-20’s, I backpacked around the world as a Swiss citizen, flashing that red passport in all its neutral freedom. Born in San Francisco, I was fortunate enough to gain dual citizenship through my family bloodline. Despite my Cali-birthplace, I clung to the benefits of that bright booklet including flawless health care, tax benefits, retirement incentives, and visa-free entry to 185 countries. 

Did I mention I moved there? Yep, at 23, I left my job, home, and family to find my roots and discover what I was missing besides chocolate and cheese. What I found was that Swiss life does, in fact, exist inside a postcard, and that perfection—ironically to a fault—is possible for one nation to achieve. 

In my four years of Swiss residency, I also found that many of my closest friends were rather perplexed that I  — fresh from LA — had a Swiss passport, while they were still living as foreigners in their birth country. 

Without that direct bloodline, the quest for citizenship can be brutal. It was one that I certainly took for granted. . . that is, until 2022.  

Earlier this year, my husband Benjamin brought up the possibility of becoming a Swiss citizen. Our marriage didn’t grant him automatic citizenship, nor would the process be easy or affordable. 

But I was in luck. My renaissance man is simply challenged by challenges, to the point I’ve found myself asking such questions as: “You made your own leather quiver because . . . ?  . . . So why are you getting your pilot’s license? . . . You just passed the ham-radio test for what . . . ?  . . . Tell me again why you’re feeding your sourdough starter? . . . What exactly does ‘pro-level rider’ mean?” 

Regardless of being married for over a decade, I knew his latest challenge would be no easy feat. Benjamin would have to submit endless documentation, undergo a background check, present letters from Swiss relatives, and send photos from recent travels to prove his ties to the nation.

Assuming he made it that far, Benjamin would then need to take an in-person test in German at the Swiss consulate.  . . . in San Francisco. 

And thus, our California road trip was born. Our plan was to leave on Friday and return on Tuesday, with overnight stays in Los Angeles, Carmel, San Francisco, and Ojai on the return. The irony of our destinations couldn’t be ignored. I was born in San Francisco, went to high school in Monterey, attended college near Ojai, and worked as a journalist in Los Angeles. Now, we would be trailing my past along the California coast in an effort to reach Switzerland. 

Once at the consulate, we would renew my Swiss passport, make Benjamin’s formal introduction, and schedule next steps for obtaining his citizenship.

First stop, Los Angeles. 

Straight out of college, I had lived in Santa Monica, working as an undercover journalist in Hollywood. After moving to Switzerland, I never looked back on California, until we eventually settled down in San Diego. 

Now some 20 years later, I was returning to my old stomping grounds, this time to Shutters on the Beach hotel. Generally, Benjamin and I live the simple life with low-maintenance vacations ranging from camping to Airbnb’s. But two years of pandemic pandemonium unveiled a 2022 sweet patch of revenge spending. 

Shutters certainly got our feet wet with its beach chic boutique-ness reflecting the quintessential cottages of Cape Cod. Among a string of Porches and Bentleys, we arrived in our zippy little WRX Subaru. The valet attendants bypassed the luxury vehicles to open our doors, debating if ours was the STI model. Suddenly, I had an immediate love for the place, and their endearing staff. 

That love only grew stronger once we entered our room with shuttered doors that opened onto a breezy balcony and pool terrace. Even with the shutters closed, it was clear we were on one of SoCal’s most iconic beaches. Books about Santa Monica, seashells, and roses adorned the room, decorated in creamy hues of blue and white. This 90’s hotel got a facelift in 2005 by designer Michael S Smith, famous for his refresh of The Obama White House. 

We felt the classic Hollywood charm during our dip in the pool, where white umbrellas shaded the rich and private cabanas enclosed the elite. The beach concierge offered complimentary beach equipment including cruisers that we rode from Malibu to Venice. We cycled past the Santa Monica Pier dating back to 1909, and the same lifeguard stations featured on “Baywatch.” Beyond the skatepark and drum circles was Muscle Beach where bodybuilders pumped and flexed. Flashbacks of sunset bike rides in my 20s came flooding back, to the point I found myself wondering how I went from LA’s city-and-coast to San Diego’s country-and-farm life. 

That fleeting moment faded during our dinner at 1 Pico, the hotel’s signature restaurant with a Pacific-harvest menu. Their new culinary program is based on communication with local fishermen and farmers—creating dishes from the daily catch and harvest. Clean, simple, and ingredient-focused, our menu featured beef steak tomatoes, oysters on the half shell, linguini with clams, and lamb from Elysian Fields Regenerative Farm (also serving Thomas Keller’s French Laundry). Somehow, we saved room for the salted caramel sundae. 

Thank God for yoga. The following morning, we stretched out those calories in the sand before driving nearly six hours to the Monterey Peninsula. 

Next stop, Carmel-By-The-Sea. 

If only we had more time, we would have paused in Oxnard, Ventura, Santa Barbara, Solvang, Pismo Beach, Big Sur, and of course Monterey. It was here where I spent my youth attending high school, writing for the community newspaper, and working at the Monterey Bay Aquarium.

Instead of hitting tourist attractions, we soaked in visions of vineyards, lavender fields, almond orchards, and moon-like landscapes pecked by pumpjack oil wells. Reverting to our low-maintenance model, we ate burgers at In-n-Out and scarfed down fries before they turned cold. Unlike pre-Covid road trips, we traveled music-and-news free, communicating with one another both in sound and in silence. 

It was 3 o’clock when we arrived at Quail Lodge, just in time for complimentary wine hour. This Carmel hotel and golf club lures guests to its award-winning 18-hole championship course. As non-golfers, we were hooked by their online offers and spacious rooms with patios on the greens. Outside our room was a duck pond and a nine-hole putting course where I swung and failed. Benjamin of course, made a hole-in-one. 

At sunset, we chased the view in a golf cart with no clubs or balls or game. Deer crossed our path, as did golfers, wondering why we were cruising the course without a target in mind. That pretty much sums us up, the couple who goes full steam ahead for the journey over the destination.

That journey continued during our dinner at Covey Grill where we shared beet salad, striped bass, and wagyu steak. A morning swim in the heated pool refreshed us for the day ahead, taking us to Carmel-By-The-Sea village just 10 minutes away. 

Beyond fairytale cottages and gingerbread galleries was the Scenic Bluff Path that spilled onto white sand beaches sculptured by Monterey Cypress trees. Beneath the Dr. Seuss-esque greenery were beach bonfires and off-leash dogs kicking up sand in their wake. 

From here, we trailed the scenic 17-Mile Drive past dramatic cliffs and the Lone Cypress. Closer to San Francisco, our route bypassed artichoke fields, fruit stands, and the fishing port of Moss Landing.

Next stop, San Francisco. 

And there it was, the fog over the city that blocked the sun but not its people. The almost 850,000 residents who survived the pandemic seemed to be out that day, either on (or in) the road, causing my palms to sweat and my husband to scream at Siri. 

As we approached The Palace Hotel, a calming peace came over us. I nearly hugged the valet as he took our keys and pointed toward the uniformed staff opening the doors to grand dame luxury. Perfuming the air was the scent of roses and chocolate coming from Ghirardelli Chocolate Shop neighboring our hotel.

Opened in 1875, The Palace was San Francisco’s first premier luxury hotel and the largest in the world. As we entered this city landmark, I suddenly felt the urge for a martini and maybe pearls and sunglasses befitting of Audrey Hepburn. Natural light flooded the atrium dome where guests nibbled on savory bites, rich desserts, and breakfasts of caviar omelets with peach Bellinis. 

Overhead were Austrian crystal chandeliers, not to be overshadowed by orchid bouquets and Italian marble pillars. Our room—with tufted-leather accents and French balconies—made it challenging to leave the property. But we did, since Union Square, cable cars, Chinatown, and plenty of restaurants and cafés were just blocks away. 

Our stroll to the Italian restaurant, a Mano on Hayes Street, justified our multiple-course lunch, and my swim in The Palace pool reset me for dinner at Pied Piper. Beloved by San Francisco locals, this iconic bar boasts strong cocktails, liberal portions, and old-world charm dating back to 1906. Gracing the wall was the famous painting “The Pied Piper of Hamelin” commissioned from Maxfield Parrish. In 1906, the artist was paid $6,000 for the piece that today is worth over $5 million. 

That next morning, we powerwalked to Pier 17 for our morning appointment at the Swiss Consulate. Albeit rusty, I managed to communicate in Swiss German to renew my passport, and to inquire about the status of Benjamin’s pending application. 

With typical Swiss efficiency, we were done with our appointment in less than 30 minutes, leaving with a vague message that someone would reach out to Benjamin. 

It was like grasping at snowflakes.   

After a stroll through the nearby Ferry Building Marketplace, we drove six hours south, winding through the Los Padres National Forest. Benjamin put our little Subi to the test, hugging curves and commenting that “she” was living her best life on those hairpin turns. Hillsides teased autumn with patchworks of gold, taking us from mountain ranges to palm trees as we dropped toward Ojai Valley Inn. 

Last stop, Ojai. 

Within this luxurious enclave was a micro-village with eight dining options, four boutiques, and an award-winning spa. White roses lined pathways where cream-colored cruisers tilted curbside for guests to roam at will. 

Since this was our last night, we went out with a bang, settling into a suite with two fireplaces, neither of which we used . . .well, because there was simply too much to do in this paradise where “to do” lists were obsolete.

At our fingertips were fitness classes, a 31,000-square-foot spa, and activities including horseback riding, golf, cooking classes, bee keeping, stone painting, and aromatherapy rollerball blending. No one comes to this treasured retreat for just one night, except for us of course—the couple on a mission and a budget determined to maximize the moment. 

And we did, biking at sunset, swimming at dusk, and strolling at dark among the ancient oaks strung with lanterns. Backed by the Topatopa Mountain Range, the setting was romantic yet family-friendly, with kids in white linen skipping on lawns at pink hour. 

I wondered if I had ever seen a place so flawlessly perfect. And then, I thought of Switzerland—a country that had twice lured me from my home, once for nearly four years, and now for four days. It had taught me the joie de vivre that comes from exploration, and the peace one finds in emerald hillsides that blush at sunset.  

As we pulled into our San Diego property, I hoped that Benjamin too would soon achieve his Alpen Avalon. 

Lord knows he’s tried. 

In the past month, I’ve watched as my husband has memorized facts, studied the language, researched politics, read history, devoured books, and even (just yesterday) prepared Swiss fondu for dinner. 

Where does this leave us? In two weeks, we’ll be flying back to San Francisco for his final in-person test at the Swiss Consulate. Regardless of the outcome, I know that Benjamin has valiantly pursed his Swiss citizenship—neutrally of course—one California destination at a time.