When I’m not at the wheel, I tend to fall asleep in cars. Call it vehicular narcolepsy. It’s why I can relay nothing, really, about the 125 miles between Zürich and Lech, a charming medieval village in the Austrian Arlberg, where I awoke one morning in the backseat of a van.

It was early September, a bright, brisk summer day. The valley was a vibrant green, the sky sea-blue, the first snowfall still several weeks away. Come December, thick, white powder would blanket the hillsides; and thrill-seekers the world over would flock to this, the “cradle of Alpine skiing,” for their downhill fix.

After all, it was in Lech and the four other villages of the Arlberg (Zürs, Stuben, St. Christoph and St. Anton) that much of modern skiing was invented. Today, homegrown Olympic champions, products of the pioneering Arlberg Ski School, can still be found honing their stem turns on the icy slopes high above the posh hotels, gourmet restaurants and the famous Strolz store, where the pros go for their custom-made boots.

Yet when the van rolled to a stop, we had arrived, I realized, in a different place altogether — not just a warmer or more colorful Lech, with its painted chalets and plentiful flowers, but a quieter and perhaps more peaceful one than the glamorous ski resort that is ever abuzz with jetsetters and European royalty. (The Dutch, the Swedes and the Spanish have long been regular visitors, as was Princess Diana in her day).

Many of the locals had left town for the summer months. Walking along the stream that bisects the village, a tributary of the mighty Danube, I was struck by the wonderful stillness of it all. Amid the staggering geometry of the Alps, the jagged 7,750-foot Rufikopf hovering overhead, nothing moved save the burbling stream, a newborn calf stumbling around a small grassy pen and a line of hikers snaking its way up the mountainside.

Indeed, if winter and spring in the Arlberg are all about speed, summer and fall are made for trekkers. Lech alone boasts more than 150 miles of marked hiking trails, all of which start from the village center. For anyone wishing to skirt the steepest stretches — or just enjoy them from above — many of the modern chairlifts run year-round. Buses are an option, too.

Setting off the next morning from the Hotel Arlberg, one of Lech’s oldest and finest properties and, like all of them, family-run, I joined a group of nature-deprived New Yorkers on my first Alpine ascent, a four-mile hike to an emerald meadow at an elevation close to 6,000 feet.

My calves burned and my lungs heaved as we trudged up the nearly vertical trail through a forest of towering pines, and before long the sun cranked up to full volume. But once up the hill, I could make out the Spullersee, a glacial lake in the distance, blue and beckoning, as a chorus of cowbells filled the mountain air. Passing through the herd, we marveled at the massive creatures like children in a petting zoo, snapping pictures and caressing their woolly coats. And yet, only minutes later, at the Ravensburger Hutte, a small hikers’ lodge overlooking the lake, no one could resist the Weiner Schitzel.

From Zürich, it’s about as easy to get to Liechtenstein as it is to Lech, and I did that, too. This time I was awake for the ride, a train trip through the verdant Rhine Valley to the world’s sixth-smallest country, a double-landlocked, alpine microstate and a principality renowned for, of all things, its postage stamps — once its greatest source of revenue.

If that isn’t more than enough reason to get on the next plane to Zürich — Liechtenstein doesn’t have an airport — consider that the country is the world’s only entirely alpine state; that its Kunstmuseum of contemporary and modern art is a European gem; and that the prince’s own 300-year old vineyard — Herawingert — in Vaduz, the capital, produces outstanding Pinots just a stone’s throw from the city center, and all are welcome to a taste.

And then there is Norman Vogeli, chef, hotelier and falconer (Leichtenstein’s only one), whose “hawk master” show in the tiny hamlet of Malbun, the state’s singular ski resort, is a one-of-a-kind treat. Sipping a lager on the porch of the Hotel Galina, I watched as, one after another, eagles and falcons and owls swooped off into the sky at bullet-train speeds, disappearing from sight only to fly back again to Vogeli’s outstretched arm for a raw-meat reward.

In a sense, it was the same thing I was doing. I had flown across the Atlantic and ventured into the Alps — and now, just a week later, I was flying home, a global, albeit fully domesticated, traveler, lured back like those birds by the promise of free food. Still, I had one last day in Zürich, and I was determined to spend it well.

From my perch at the Zürichberg Hotel high above town, I took in the sweeping views of the dynamic city and its big, blue lake. And although I was tempted to stay in that 5-star for the rest of the trip, I took a tram to the Aldstadt (Old Town) and saw the sights.

I went to the Grossmünster Cathedral, staging ground of Zürich’s Protestant Reformation, and visited the Lindenhof Hill, where the Romans had built their fort; I peeked in the Kunsthaus of Fine Art (just for the Giacomettis, really) and wandered the cobblestone Rennweg, the medieval city’s main drag. And for the last few minutes before heading to dinner — at the fabulous Zunfthaus zur Waag — I leaned out over the Limmat, the river that slices Zürich in two, and fed the swans some bread.