les marches

The tempo has changed, a mad orchestral crescendo replaced by the scratch scratch scratch of a record needle. That’s how every holiday ends for me, there’s a moment when I tire of exploring, I become retrospective, my petals curl inward and I wait for the nurturing touch of home. I’m surrounded by origami flowers, I sketch a thousand ideas in my notebook, they wait for my return to come to life too. I am content just being in this place rather than feeling that visceral itch to document everything. Missing a photo of that french clockwork or that sweeping vista no longer worries me. I have seen so much, my mind is full, it will digest and I’m sure soon after my return I will want more, but for now I have been a glutton for experience and I need to rest.

There is one finally destination before we commence work on the tour. A hair-raising descent that leaves my fingers aching from applying the break then we hit the silent Sunday streets. The only person we see is a man walking his cat, that heightens the uneasiness of a deserted city.

As we draw closer to the trainstation more people emerge but almost everything is closed. The train is packed though and it is a relief to be deposited in montmélian. The mountain rears up before us with a geometric pattern of vineyards so steep it feels like a birds eye view.

We ride, the asphalt sizzles with heat. The horizon waves in a haze of cornfields squeezed between houses. My ears begin to ring and my vision closes in, I need to rest in shade with a drink before deciphering the tangle of french instructions that have come with every airbnb in this country. No one seems to have an address, they have a treasure map.

We enter a French housing development, so different to one in Australia, contemporary techniques hidden in a skin of the old world. Our host has that right amount of English for me to improve my french. Not so much that I am complacent, not so little that we don’t bother to communicate.

They welcome us for a family meal, and their cheeky youngest sun puts on a snorkel for dessert. Earlier his entire face lit up when Dylan skirted him with a water pistol in the pool, it was game on! The other boys have already reached the self conscious age where something as silly as language is a barrier.

The humid air produced a rainbow before even a drop of rain fell. Then it rolled over and we were glad that our tent days were over for this trip and there was a soft bed waiting for us.

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amtrakking across the country

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sacramento to portland


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A day of forced rest, people watching and life story gathering. Sometimes its nice just to sit back and let life flow by. We watched winter turn into spring for our seats, snow melt and be transformed into lush fields with spring lambs bleating and bare branches suddenly weighed down with a flush of flowers. Inside the train we listened with glee to the hilariously melodramatic grumblings of an elderly woman kitted out in her best casino outfit (I’m guessing red was her lucky colour), she described every slight and niggling pain with such undercurrents of delight that it sounded like she was unwrapping christmas gifts. Later we listened to the wild adventured of a helicopter firefighter, the perils of “jumpers” and their “hot shot crews”, the girl on the otherside of the table ate up every word with glowing eyes, a blooming romance? This is why we prefer the train to flying. Have you any fun train experiences?


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Trukee

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trukee, california


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We made the bus ride looping through the mountains to Trukee, 20 minutes longer than we expected, luckily with time to spare until our train to Sacramento. It was one of those days with a sticky momentum, where all you have to do is arrive on time, but then so much of it is filled in with waiting. Behind the main street of historic facades and wagon wheels was a surprisingly trendy cafe with walls of Trompe l’oeil. Then if you wander further the boarded up side of town, abandoned buildings that peak curiosity and let the imagination run wild. A different kind of history lesson to the buildings of impeccable stone and folksy ornamentation with tourists in mind.


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Paddling to Nevada

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Lake Tahoe, Nevada


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Our last day at the lake Dylan and I took to the water. Yellow paddle skimming over the water, the water was so clear that we could see right to the bottom. Swiss cheese rocks and buoys chained to the lake floor. As we paddled houses became further apart and money could be felt, no trespassing signs multiplied. As we turned the corner the shelf fell away, going from 10m below to 500m in an instant, we lurched with vertigo until we drifted further out and all we could see was darkness.

Ducks and other waterfowl lazily floated by us, paddle borders and a chain of fellow kayakers powered by a four lazy paddlers moving on the strength of the girl at the front. A yellow caterpillar, that was not going very far with the dead weight. As we turned the corner towards Incline Village shore we didn’t realise that we had ticked off another state, silently gliding over the State line into Nevada, our stay was short, arms beginning to ache we made our way back home.

The luxury of a stove awaited us there and Dylan spoilt us with homemade pizza. I tried to elevate our train journey of the next day with spelt thumbprint biscuits, but they tasted more like scones badly in need of cream. All was good as we packed and prepped for the 7am bus ride back to Trukee and beyond.


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