by Christina Daub
I am seventeen, in Zurich waiting for a train to Kilchberg, a welcome break from the grinding German language drills that march me through my summer mornings. Kilchberg, literal translation: mountain of freshwater whitefish and the site of Thomas Mann’s grave, but these could be not be further from my mind.
I am going on my first chocolate factory tour, the Lindt Swiss chocolate factory, where you can sample the goods and I can hardly breathe.
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