Something beautiful, creative and very, very colourful is brewing.
On Saturday, assistant rainbow follower Elise and I, along with a brilliant army of helpers, strung and hung one thousand white paper cranes in Adelaide’s botanic park, underneath the shady branches of the dreamiest Moreton Bay Fig tree imaginable.
We are not ready to reveal exactly what we’re up to yet, but it’s called Let’s Chase Rainbows and we’re too excited not to share these behind the scenes iPhone snapshots OH, and a time-lapse of the setup!
Benjamin Liew of Benjamin Liew Photography kindly took some amazing photos of us frolicking amongst our crane sanctuary come macaron picnic in the late afternoon light. You’ll see these soon!
A month home, almost, already, and I feel like my feet have hardly touched the ground.
A hundred coffees and hugs and reunitings, a massive Christmas, moving into a new home, new years eve and now 2012 is here.
Bam.
I’m not sure I’m ready / I’m not sure if I should post this, but why not be real and raw? It’s been really tough to settle. I haven’t yet.
I’m so happy / I’m so sad / I’m feeling / I’m unfeeling.
I question why I came back / I know I had reached my ending there.
Here is home / but so was there / and so I’m just floating.
Waves of homesickness for France clash against waves of joy for the things, people, familiarity of here.
This / There / The inbetween.
The memories sparkle and fizz, so very real and vivid. I can close my eyes and be right back there, in those moments, all at once.
Picnicking on the steps of the Basilique du Sacré-Cœur overlooking twilight Paris / walking the Cinque Terre trails / finding platform nine and three quarters at Kings Cross Station / gazing hopefully out to the Loch Ness waters in the Scottish highlands / walking the Charles Bridge in Prague at sunset / dipping ten toes in the glorious waters of La Côte d’Azur / savouring apple pie and runny custard on the cobbled streets of Stockholm’s Gamla Stan / getting lost in the canaled streets of Amsterdam / crying at the beauty of Julia Stone’s enchanting voice during an intimate concert amongst the ancient theatre ruins in Arles / riding the world’s steepest cogwheel train up the side of a 4000 foot mountain face in Lucerne / contemplating Stonehenge / scalding my fingertips on roasted chestnuts and mulled wine at the Christmas markets / champagning at the lofty tip of La Tour Eiffel /seeing, really seeing, the brutal beauty of Anne Frank’s words and experience in Amsterdam / tasting home-pressed wine in the back of an Italian’s shed on the coast / dancing in the back streets at the Fete de la Musique / soaking up the Joie de Vivre with wine, cheese and balmy friday nights at Les Estivales / biking to the beach / strolling through Hyde Park / lining up with thousands at the final Harry Potter premiere in Trafalgar Square / Portobello markets and Hummingbird cupcakes on a saturday morning / watching the changing of the guards / skipping heartbeats over the pink salmon Florentine sunset / eating fresh pasta in Rome / wine tasting on the rolling hills of Tuscany / sharing a gondola ride in Venice / ohhhing and ahhhing over Chagall’s colourful and dreamy works in Nice / knowing the Paris metro without map / meeting beautiful strangers / a million more untold adventures / That clear, pure, blissful, present, embodiment of complete, unbridled freedom.
On my final beautiful day in Montpellier, I sat in the oldest botanical garden (in all of France) and wrote down my wishes, and tucked my paper and peace dove inside the wishing tree.
As they say, every ending gives way to a new beginning. I hope, crave, need for my next adventure to be a beautiful, inspired, unwalked, sunshine-dappled, closer one.
With thanks from the bottom of my heart for for reading, commenting, flying with me these past months.
For a little while, this petite bowerbird bids you love, adventure, and au revoir
There is something even more magical about an already enchanting town when there are Christmas markets lining the streets.
I spent Wednesday night in Aix-En Provence, a charming southern French town just a couple of hours away from Montpellier by train. I had already visited back in June, but at that time I was sporting an arm sling and feeling a bit miserable, so I promised myself I would take my happier self back sometime before December. I’m so glad I picked Christmas market time.
There’s this strange contradiction about the markets – in one sense, they are gaudy and loud, lit with excessively bright white lights that hurt my eyes and overexpose the excited kids’ faces. There are metallic helium balloons and dodgem cars and magic shows and barbe à papa (fairy floss, lit. dad’s beard) which all make the centre of town seem like a bit like a warped, overcrowded yet lonely circus.
But then, the other end of the market street feels timeless and tasteful and… perfect. That’s the part with wooden huts adorned with holly and soft fairy lights, vast saucepans of steaming vin chaud (mulled wine) big enough to drown in, locals selling their hand-painted ceramics, wooden toys, bunches of dried lavender, boiled sweets, chewy nougat and marrons grilles (roasted chestnuts). This is the part where I roamed.
I sat on the edge of the water fountain, people watching, a sticky cup of vin chaud balanced wonkily between my knees and steaming bag of chestnuts perched on my lap. The heat of the bag scalded my thigh, but it was that nice sort of pain, and my hands were too occupied cracking open chestnuts to do anything more about it. Peeling away the shells, burnt flakes flew away while the furry, velvety bits slipped under my fingernails… and I was having a moment. The woody flesh – dense, nutty, the epitome of winter comfort. The vin chaud just as much so, spicy and steamy and sweet but tangy, the oil of the citrus rind coating my tongue, the woody cinnamon making my nose tickle.
Another little part of my french life is fresh flowers.
When I first settled into my house, the first thing I bought to make it feel like my home, was a fresh flower and single-stem vase. It brought life and colour to my unlived-in room, it made the space feel like it was mine. And it has become a bit of a habit.
Whenever i’m not travelling, I always go to my local florist Les Floralies par Muriel et Bernard (14, rue du Fabourg de la Saunerie) and pick a fresh flower for my room.
For Mother’s day in May, not long before I left for France, Dad and I took Mum out for a nondescript Sunday brunch. Mum opened and enjoyed her less-than-exceptional presents, we ordered our not-so-out-of-the-ordinary food and unremarkable coffee.
Except, when the coffee was delivered, a little Eiffel Tower was perched on the tray. The waitress insisted that Mum keep it, and she was totally (rightfully) stumped. Mum held this peculiar object in her hand awkwardly, not quite sure what to do with it, and not quite sure what it really meant. She was even more confused as to why neither Dad or I found this whole scenario even a little bit strange.
Then, I handed Mum her final present. Now really confused, Mum unwrapped the plain brown paper with caution. Inside, there was shock, there were tears, there was total disbelief, laughter and possibly the most significant surprise that had ever been sprung on her: one plane ticket to Paris and a three week Mother-daughter adventure planned for September, to coincide with her 60th birthday.
And as it turned out, Denise, one of Mum’s dearest and oldest friends (the friendship is old, not Denise) was also going to be in Paris at the same time!
And what an adventure it was. It’s something I don’t even have words for – but I do know that incredible Europe aside, our time together was priceless, and even more magnificent than the beautiful glittering La Tour Eiffel by night. I also know it’s not something we could have done a few years ago. We ventured harmoniously and side by side as travel partners through Paris, Montpellier, Nice, the Cinque Terre and we ended up in Milan, closer than ever before.
It was more than I dreamed it could be.
Love you Maman x
Highlights from Leg 1: Paris, below (the rest to come).
On Tuesday night I learned that Montpellier sure knows how to party.
La Fête de la Musique, also known as World Music Day, is an annual (and international) festival held on June 21 to celebrate summer solstice.
The Centre-Ville was literally flooded with people; young students, old boppers, parents and their children. Whether amateur or professional, every narrow rue featured some type of creative performer… painter, ethnic pan-fluter in vibrant costume, death metal head-banger, acoustic jazz ensemble or DJ. The main city squares all featured live rock bands or DJs and every music genre must have been represented, on some little street corner, somewhere, like a weird mix between WOMADelaide and Stereosonic… but more!
The whole city was buzzing, except for one old lady I saw peeking from her window. She lived right above where a metal band had set up their gig. Poor thing!
Amid the turbulence of last week, a beautiful family friend sent me the most lovely pick-me-up email, reminding me of why the very reason i’m on this journey, offering reassurance that the foreign language through osmosis method will eventually work and that one day, not too far away, I will experience a magnificent ‘light globe’ moment when everything will suddenly illuminate and piece together. She then said,“So do something good for yourself today. Get some hugs. Go to that lovely cake shop, order two, and sit in the sun and eat half of each. Feed the rest to the birds. Buy a whole bunch of flowers for yourself today, not just one. And on the way home, buy yourself some proper shoes!”
So that is what I did. I bought some shiny sunshine yellow shoes, a bunch of bright sunflowers and a coffee brulee Verrine from the best patisserie in Montpellier.
Except I decided that instead of buying two for myself and wasting such deliciousness on ungrateful pigeons, I would buy two boxes of macarons for two very special friends back home, and pass the magic of the moment forward.
I popped them in the post just this afternoon… check your mailbox soon, they could be en route to you!
Favourite places so far:
1. Place de la Comedie (main city centre square and Opera)
2. Promenade du Peyrou
3. Porte du Peyrou (for picnics/study in the afternoon sunshine)
4. School: Accent Français (pretty sweet building, huh?)
5. Narrow streets and cafe terraces
6. Favourite alleyways (in love with the ribbons/coloured flags everywhere… makes me happy)
7. Local florist (where I treat myself to a flower for my room each week) and boulangerie patisserie (more of a daily treat)
As the plane descended into Prague and I saw little pointy red rooftops dotted to the horizon, I knew I was going to fall in love this city. And I have. The head-over-heels-completely-utterly-enamoured kind of love.
As I wander the streets, the buildings breathe and whisper wisdom, the cobble stones below my feet hum and tell me stories. From afar, Prague looks like a town out of fairytale… every house is manicured, the windy streets are clean and lined with lush green trees. But close up, you see ruin everywhere. Peeling walls, faded paint, street art and weeds growing between the cracks… it’s just so gritty and real and perfectly imperfect.
I am staying in a gorgeous studio apartment – in a building that’s a converted monastery with petunia and geranium boxes everywhere. Right in the heart of Malá Strana (the most historical district) it’s just a three minute walk to Charles Bridge, nestled between the embassies and Prague Castle.
I’ve walked for hours each day until my feet felt numb/floaty, I have strolled across the Charles Bridge at least eight times, ridden the Funicular to the top of Petrin Hill and scaled the dizzy heights of the lookout tower. I rarely get funny about heights, but climbing this one was a challenge… my legs were literally trembling as I climbed back down. I have wandered through Prague Castle, seen the kitsch but amusing Astronomical clock, the Lennon wall (amazing), retreated to the gorgeous Wallenstein Garden to escape the annoying hoards of tourists (yes, I realise the condradiction in being a tourist myself) to laze in the afternoon sun while reading Alain De Botton’s The Art of Travel, and felt the magic ambience of wandering the Old Town at night, where candle light illuminates couples dining/drinking Czech beer and tourists shuffling from one shop to the next.
It seems I timed my trip here pretty perfectly, arriving right in the middle of the Fringe festival. Although much smaller than Adelaide, it also seems less popular which has allowed me to sit front row for both of the shows i’ve seen. The first night I saw a theatre show called Impossible N’est Pas Français which I thought was quite a fitting title. It was a little quirky and ambigous, but completely entertaining. And last night I saw an amazing, intimate performance by the Sydney-based indie musician Phebe Starr. And gosh, can she sing. Described as a vocal mix of Regina Spektor and Norah Jones, her melodic voice and harmonies with her keyboard were mesmerising. She has a very casual stage presence, performing barefoot and telling the meaning/story behind each song before singing… my kind of girl! Her accent felt so much like home.
In all, I think I have ticked every box for Prague, except for eating cucumbers.
Tomorrow I fly to Montpellier, ‘move in’ to my new home and experience my first afternoon of living in France.
Ahh, excited. xx
And some pictures of my apartment block / cozy apartment…
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