Cool
They're
Swiss.
Grown-ups.
Twenty-eight
to my twenty-one.
Cheese-cloth shirts, baggy loons and beads,
Switzerland's antidote for banking and cuckoo clocks.
It's a-happening here in a wooden chalet high above Berne where cows wear cowbells.
Erin and Franz and my first cafetière, black coffee, barefoot, cross-legged on beanbags, a long cigarette that's illegal but welcoming.
So open-plan – their life and their home. Furniture Scandinavian, Bauhaus-inspired; paperbacked walls – Howl, Playpower, The Female Eunuch; Coltrane on the stereo – soprano sax cool. O brave new world, they speak fluent New York.
