The humble balcony

In lockdown, a balcony is irreplaceable. The sense of liberty afforded to us by this small wonder of construction was paramount, even if we didn’t have the strictest of lockdowns in Switzerland. After all, it was a surefire way of not breaking any rules. We were at home: we didn’t have to worry about other people and most of all we didn’t have to worry about ourselves. There were three of us: myself and two sisters, George and Charlotte. During these seemingly indefinite weeks of longing (for normalcy, for others, for a rowdy night out), the balcony became the bastion of our great outdoors. 

The view is incomparable as we are lucky enough to live right next to the lac Léman. Day after day we gaze across the lake at the beautiful mountains opposite us, watching the snow inch its way up their flanks as temperatures rise, revelling in every revealed crevice. Every night, a sunset blush envelops our silent stone companions across the way; the water runs a deeper blue and the mountains turn plum-purple.

At midday, the balcony sizzles and we eat a meal of homemade gnocchi, each crowned with a dollop of pesto its equal in size. As the weeks go by, the long-dead rose bush shrinks in size as we snap off its dry twigs one by one, using them to cast off unwanted spiders. 

Cocooned in our own world, the balcony becomes a space for revelry. We bring out the speaker and sun ourselves topless in order to digest our food. A man goes out of his way and crosses the road in order to get a better view. Gross! A few days later, we see him walking by once more. I can’t stop myself: “Oi, it’s Mr. Titty-Lover”, I shout from our perch. The girls giggle and join me with shouts of their own. Mr. Titty-Lover turns red and accelerates to a rather uncomfortable-looking pace. We howl with laughter, gleeful and victorious. 

One evening during dinner, we wave at a little girl in the next house, so far away we can barely make out her little hands smushed up against the glass in her enthusiasm to greet us.

Late at night, we sit on the balcony and watch the moon carve a solemn course up through the sky. I’m holding George’s hand, with my other arm around Charlotte. Together we look at the mountain to the left of us- the one that’s oddly shaped like a thumbs up. There’s a light emanating from behind it and we can see its outline sharply contrasted against the night sky. My mind jumps out of reality and I become convinced the mountain is on fire. After all, anything seems possible now that the world has changed. Eventually, the moon rises and reveals herself, peeking out first from one edge of the thumb before resolutely changing course and careening out from the other. We sit and we stare, a happy trio in unhappy times.