Winter’s farewell can take a long time in Maine. In March and April, snow is still shaking from the sky like feather pillows. Butter-colored daffodils don’t burst from the icy soil until it’s warmer. That’s when many of us senior citizens, hankering for better weather, chose to head to sunnier climes.

My husband, Philip, and I were among those who wanted relief from both snow and headlines constantly proclaiming one calamity after another. Getting out of the country seemed like the best buffer.

So in March, we snagged airline tickets, dug out our passports and headed to Greece to join friends vacationing there for several months. And why not visit dear friends in Denmark as well since we were going that way?

It was a great trip for us oldsters.

Until it wasn’t.

On the last day of our sojourn, we had a layover in Zurich, Switzerland. We were worn out and were anxious for the return night flight to Boston, where we’d take a bus to Portsmouth, New Hampshire, pick up our car and drive back to Harpswell.

But my stomach had other ideas. Gastrointestinal distress, maybe from food poisoning, erupted. Convinced I could make the eight-hour flight anyway, we boarded the flight. That idea ended before I could buckle my seat belt. There was no way I’d make it across the ocean without locking myself in a lavatory for eight hours.

The plane’s kind and patient captain and crew waited until help arrived. Since the airport medical office had closed, two German-speaking paramedics from Zurich came to the rescue, loaded me into an ambulance, and drove over bumpy roads to a nearby hospital emergency room. A “junior” doctor, who looked like he was 12 years old, took over. After poking and prodding, I was given the all clear at about 10 p.m. when we were advised to call a taxi and find a hotel.

Early the next day, with little sleep, we searched the airport for the medical office to pay for a “fit to fly” form before we could get tickets for a new flight to Boston.

Just before boarding time, we headed to one of the many passport control booths and on to an escalator, lugging backpacks stuffed with iPads, iPhones, sundry electrical plugs, American granola bars and Swiss chocolate.

Near the bottom of the moving escalator, I dropped my passport. Before it was gobbled up by mechanical stairs, Philip lurched for it. And then I dove for it. A Swiss Air employee pushed a red button and the escalator ground to a halt. I tumbled onto the floor and several fellow passengers landed on top of me. Like a children’s game of pick-up sticks, we scrambled to untangle ourselves. A young woman who was one of the first to emerge from the pile grabbed my hands and picked me up. Someone else found the undamaged passport. It was darn funny — after the fact. I’m sure it looked like something out of a sitcom.

I still wasn’t feeling well, but once on board the plane, and ever the magpie, I prattled with a young Swiss flight attendant named Emanuel Lins. He said he had been on the job for only a year and it was apparent he was trying very hard to please passengers. I felt like his grandmother and complimented  him on a job well done every time he walked by.

Near the end of flight, he handed me a card with a small stack of mini-Swiss Air chocolates on top, tied with a red ribbon. “Thank you for being my guest today,” he had written. “You made this flight truly special for me and it was a pleasure to have you on board.”

I wanted to cry. Our brief stay in Switzerland had not been ideal and we were headed back to a state with no blooming flowers or trees, and to a country even more divided politically. Yet here was a young man who had shown me that kindness knew no boundaries and no borders.

Nothing else mattered. The world was good again.