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Kingston SE

Day 13    26 February

We drove south to Bordertown and on to Naracoorte today.  We pulled into a roadside stop along the way to eat our lunch and in no time, two guys with trucks and earthmoving equipment turned up to work on improving the surface of the parking area – it certainly needed it!  They said it would very soon become very noisy and dusty and they needed to work in the area where we were parked so we moved a hundred metres further on to another patch of shade and gobbled our lunch down just as they were starting to work.

We thought we might have stayed in Naracoorte but decided to go a bit further to Kingston (SE) on the coast.  We set up in the foreshore caravan park there and relaxed with a couple of cold ones before dinner.

The Cape Jaffa Lighthouse overlooking our caravan park. It was repositioned here when the Light was decommisioned at Cape Jaffa.

The caravan park was just across a lawn area and a couple of dunes to the beach so we walked down to the beach to join the small throng congregating there to photograph the sunset.

Sunset from the beach.

Day 14    27 February

We did a load of washing in the park laundry and hung it out to dry – and it was dry within about an hour.  We worked on our PCs and made some phone calls (we are trying to find a better place to store our van when we get home) and had a delicious lunch.  We eat very well (VERY well!) in the caravan!  And then we went for a drive around town and the nearby area.  I found quite a few birds near the mouth of the Main Drain and when we drove down some of the other tracks off the main north-south road, we discovered that driving on the beach is a very common thing here.  One of the drives was fourteen kilometres each way but we just did a short one – about five clicks each way.  At one point along the beach, we encountered a flock of some twenty-odd Red-capped Plovers who were surprisingly unfazed by us.  They happily sat ten or fifteen metres away and let us watch and photograph them with no sign of fear.  It was a lovely little encounter and we returned to the van soon after.  We had been trying to get rid of some recycling that we had accumulated but couldn’t see any yellow-topped bins, so I called in at the Information Centre to see if they did recycling here.  They do but it is all very strange with green-topped bins being the only disposal avenue - and only for private premises.  We eventually found some in the caravan park but none on the street – at least we managed to ‘put it in a bin’ and our conscience is now clear. (More than a week later, we have found no other way to dispose of our later cache of recycling.)

Day 15    28 February

It rained for about ten or fifteen minutes overnight, contrary to the forecast of zero percent of zero millimetres of precipitation – but at least everything seemed just a little cooler and fresher when we got up.

We had a long drive today but one of the best days of the trip so far.  We headed out to the main highway and pointed the car north – and eventually reached Meningie at the top of the Coorong after travelling the full length and then some – well over 300 kilometres for the day.

The road is mainly on the inside of a long range of dunes, the crest of which ripples along unevenly.  It was notable that all the high spots on the dunes had a sparce covering of some sort of grass or shrubbery on it: clear evidence that even very small shrubs can withstand the winds better than the adjacent areas that are much more heavily eroded and metres lower than the peaks.

We called in at a number of places as we headed north.  The first was at Chinamen’s Wells – something of a tribute to the thousands of Chinese adventurers who arrived along the coast here and walked (or died along the way) to the gold mining enticements around Ballarat and Bendigo.  Brave souls, but they left a legacy, and we did an interesting couple of kilometres fairly gentle walk recording some of their travails, looking at plants and birds and reading the signage as we went along.

A well dug and used by thousands of Chinese (and others) walking to Ballarat, Bendigo and other gold-mining adventures. The 1100 kilogram lid for the well was cut from the rock a kilometre away and carried to the well - the second such lid cut after the first one cracked in two.

We had another longish walk to a Pelican Lookout a good deal further north.  It was a bit disappointing with the pelicans way too far away to see them, but with some spectacular views overhead as they glided in to their roosting islands from miles away.  (See my earlier post showing some of the hundreds of pelicans that flew over us like a squadron of huge bombers gliding in on the updrafts to land on their breeding islands a couple of kilometres away.)  They are magnificent birds, just riding the air currents and they really do remind me of WWII bombers sailing over us – massive and truly fabulous.  We were surrounded by dozens of Singing and Spiny-cheeked Honeyeaters, flitting from bush to bush, singing incessantly, but almost impossible to photograph.  I have identified more than eighty species of bird so far this trip, but there are MANY small birds that simply hide and I have been unable to see them well enough to identify them.  I saw a very shiny dark snake crossing the path six or seven metres ahead of me but really too far away to identify it.  It was a metre-and-a-half long, but I had no wish to encounter it close up.

We drove all the way to Meningie where we had stayed for a week or so (and loved it) several years ago.  Unfortunately, it was getting late and we had about 150 kilometres to drive back so we didn’t stay long – and like every other place along the coast, it has changed a lot and didn’t seem to have the appeal of our previous visits.

We called in at a place where a couple of farmers cut a channel to drain a swamp on their properties 70-odd years ago. We had seen it before, but the signage has been upgraded since then and we got a better understanding of what a mammoth job it was for two guys with some pretty basic mechanical assistance. They completed it in less than three years - and ran their farms at the same time.

The sign and a photo of the kilometre long and 34-metre deep channel they cut to make their land more productive.

We also called in at Tilley’s Swamp on the way back.  I had seen a few swamps marked on the map, but all were a fair way from the highway.  Tilley’s was right on the road according to the map but it was at least ten clicks in.  I was about to turn back when we crested a hill and there it was on both sides of the road and with plenty of birds to be seen.  We spent half an hour looking and then went on to where a number of other lakes were shown on the map – but all too far away and inaccessible from the road.  At least Tilley’s was interesting for me, with at least ten or twelve species on it.

We decided to stay in Kingston for another couple of days so tried to book in, only to find the office closed – so we had to wait until tomorrow to book and pay.  We have a mammoth Fifth Wheeler parked next to us in the park.  (And I saw a similar one in the RV Park on the other side of town.)  It takes up two caravan parking sites and I reckon it is more than two-thirds the size of our entire apartment.  It has two levels (giving it more floorspace than our whole apartment) and two extendable areas on each side of the vehicle – four in total.  They have small Mazda parked in front of it (that they left running with the lights on for about three hours yesterday) but that would get crushed by the ball-weight if they ever tried to hook it up – quite impossible of course because it requires a B-Double type of hitch.  The smallest vehicle that could tow it is something like a Ford 400 or similar.  I have seen an older guy there a couple of times, but he would need a wife and a family of ten to fill all the space inside.  (A couple of days later, there was a woman with a couple of young kids there – along with a silver Mercedes – but still nothing like the vehicle that would be needed to tow it.)

Day 16  29 February

It seems like years since we had an exceptional day like today – exactly four years in fact, but at least it is the end of summer.  We didn’t do a lot today.  We did a small load of washing in the laundry (we usually do it in our plunger washing bucket) and hung everything on the line – and it was all dry within an hour or so – it was warm and sunny but also very windy.  Heather had a script to fill so we found a pharmacy and drove around the local area a bit more.  We went out to the mouth of the creek looking at more birds but there was less variety to see than when we were there a couple of days ago.

Day 17  1 March

Autumn today with fabulous weather to match.  It was a nice day for a drive so we set off to follow the coastal road to Cape Jaffa (not a lot to see, but easy to get lost in all the new development) and then on to Robe.  We have visited Robe a couple of times before and not liked it with their wall-to-wall tourists.  It is now several times bigger than it was on our last visit with roughly ten thousand caravans crowding the van parks, lining the streets, blocking intersections and generally outnumbering the locals twenty to one (maybe fifty - just a guess!).  We drove around and took in some of the sights before sitting beside a pretty ordinary lake to eat our sangers.  The town has obviously developed a lot since we were last there but it still has very little to recommend it to anyone who has any interest in anything except sitting on the beach or going fishing.  It was certainly a great place from which to drive away.  The one good thing we did while there was to find a fish wholesaler and we stocked up on a variety of seafood.  We also visited the supermarket for a couple of items and replenished our stock of booze.  The one thing we have tried to get at numerous places along the Limestone Coast – that is famous for its cockles – is coochies as they call them here.  Nobody stocks them and their best advice is to try at Goolwa more than two hundred kilometres away. They sell bags of cockles/coochies for bait ($15 for a 250 gram bag) but they say they are not good to eat.

We went on to Beachport – more of the same, but maybe not quite as nice.  I think I am over places with nothing to offer other than their crowded beaches.  I live in hope that I will see an unusual seabird or wader when I visit the beach, but such delights are very rare.

Milicent and Penola came next with a bit more historical context, with old stone buildings and some nice parks, but it was getting late so we didn’t spend a lot of time at either and headed back to Kingston.  We needed fuel and our 265 litres cost us a tad over $537 – at least we travelled over a thousand clicks for our money – at almost 52 cents a kilometre.

We decided on fish and chips for dinner so went to the main fish-jetty shop that advertises that it closes at 7.30pm.  Alas, it closed before we arrived at 5.30.  We found another place and ordered our meal there along with about five other groups.  They must stockpile the orders and then cook them all together.  We all had to wait ages – certainly at least 45 minutes – and then all the orders came together and because some of the orders were very similar, it took a couple of minutes to figure out who owned which order.  But the fish was excellent and the chips were crisp and tasty, just how we like them.

Day 17  2 March

We spent the day around the van today.  We walked down to the beach after breakfast and spent a bit over half an hour shuffling around in the sand at the water’s edge hoping to catch a meal of cockles for ourselves.  There were heaps of shells around, but no cockles so I think the locals must have fished them out.  They are obviously around along other beaches, certainly north from here, but not where we were – or was that just my fishing prowess being exhibited again?

We did some washing and around lunchtime, the wind came up and it was no violent that we had to roll the awning in.  It has been pretty wild and noisy all afternoon but it has also been quite cool so we can’t complain.  I wrote a bit more and caught up with a few deferred tasks before showers late in the afternoon and then yet another delicious dinner.

[rahleeyah]

what if jen and jean swapped places?

This is SUCH A FUN QUESTION OMG

Jen would be FURIOUS. If she's trying to play along, the restrictions suddenly placed on her by Jean's role in the house and position in society would, I think, be a grave insult to her. Jen is used to a certain degree of convenience in life, and a certain degree of responsibility and professional pride, and I think she would find this position sexist and insulting. What do you mean there's a separate room in the pub for women? What do you mean she has to cook and clean and organize the surgery for Lucien when he can't even bother to put his own laundry away? What do you mean she has to wash his dirty undies and they're not even married? What do you mean she can't take out a loan, or buy a car, or do what she sees as proper police work? She sees the way women are treated by their husbands, owned by their husbands, trapped by husbands and babies and the church and all of it, and she is seething.

I love the idea of Jen trying to explain the situation to Lucien, and him believing her completely. Like "yes, you most certainly are not Jean, I can see that now, but no one else will ever believe you so let's keep this between us bc otherwise they're gonna lock you in an asylum."

I love the idea of Lucien being fascinated by what she can tell him of the future, and I also love the idea of Lucien showing Jen that like, yes, the treatment of women in this time period is Not Great, but he respects Jean and cares for her and Jen doesn't have to pity her. Pity others, sure, but not Jean Beazley.

I love this: "you look just like her, you know," he says softly while they sit in his office sharing a drink one night. "Except for the...erm..." he gestures to her hair. Jen arrived in this place looking just like herself, ten years younger than Jean and blonde to boot, and Lucien has been trying to keep her home and out of sight as much as possible, just in case.

"You miss her, don't you?" Jen asks. She can see it in his eyes, the way he watches her, the sorrow that seems to linger on the edge of every word he says. He helps with the dishes, and with the dinner, sometimes, has been kind and done his best to assist her, to make her feel comfortable and work through this problem with her, but she knows when he sees her he doesn't see Jen. He sees her.

"Very much," he says, softly. "Not that I'm not delighted to have you here, Jennifer, it's just that Jean...well, Jean is...she's..."

Jen smiles, and lets him flounder. She knows what it is he can't say.

BUT THEN

Jean, thrust into the modern day. It is so loud and so bright and everything is moving so fast and there's a roughness to the people around her she doesn't quite know how to manage. They aren't...well...they certainly don't hesitate to say what they think, and Jean is learning, day by day, how to deal with them.

Picture that first morning. Jean wakes up in a bed that is definitely not hers to the sound of a small device on the side table making a truly terrible sound. It alarms her so much she just stuffs it under the pillow, and goes to explore the little house where she has found herself.

It is, she thinks, exactly the sort of little house she might like to have herself one day, two bedrooms, cozy, with a neat little garden, only the furnishings and decor and by god the clothes are all...it's like her world, but everything slanted a little bit to the left, almost the same but just strange enough to leave her uncomfortable and afraid.

The kettle in the kitchen is familiar, though, so she goes and makes herself a cup of tea. She has no sooner sat down at the table, wondering what on earth has happened to her and how she's going to get out of this one, when she hears someone pounding on the door. It's a man, and it sounds almost like he's calling her name. Almost, but not quite. Jen, he says, not Jean. But he's not going anywhere, so Jean wraps herself in the robe hanging on the back of the bedroom door and then goes to see who's come calling.

His suit is black, and nice, but nowhere near so fine as Lucien's. His face is handsome enough, his hair thick and soft. He's tall, too, though not so broad as Lucien. And when he sees her, he swears.

"Jesus," he says. If Jean knew him she'd chide him for his language but the man is a stranger to her, and she bites her tongue.

"Where is she?" He asks after a moment.

Jean deliberates with herself. She doesn't know this man, doesn't know if he means her harm, but she doesn't know where she is or how she got here, and his eyes are kind.

"You better come in," she says.

So Jean tells Nick her story, and Nick tells her about his Jennifer. Nick "runs interference" (that's what he calls it, anyway) between Jean and Jennifer's job. He takes her out, shows her the city, helps her buy groceries, keeps her company when he can, around the job.

"You miss her, don't you?" Jean asks him one night. They're eating Chinese food Nick picked up from a shop, and while Jean has come to find she quite enjoys it, she can't bring herself to eat out of the cartons and insists she plate up their meal properly. Nick doesn't protest.

"Yeah," he says. "I do."

Nothing more than that. He's a quiet man, Jean's found. Not brash and endlessly jabbering like Lucien, but kind, still, for all that.

Jean and Nick are the ones who figure it out, in the end. Jennifer Mapplethorpe, born in 1969, is the daughter of none other than Amy Parks, Jean's wayward niece. Since it was only 1960 when Jean left her life she has of course never met her great-niece. Jen never met her great aunt, having spent her childhood in Melbourne, believing she had no family beyond her parents.

"Maybe that's why," Nick says quietly as they look over the family tree they've drawn out together. "Maybe you're here so that we can fix it, so that whatever made Amy leave Ballarat doesn't happen. So she doesn't feel so alone."

"But if Amy never leaves Ballarat, you'd never have your Jennifer," Jean points out.

Nick smiles. "Oh, I don't know," he says. "Fate's thrown us together twice already. Third time lucky, and all that."

The next morning Jean wakes up in her own bed, and she thinks of Nick, and she smiles. His quiet, steady nature was a comfort to her in that wild world, and she has learned so much from him. The most important lesson being: don't waste time.

So she races downstairs in her pink nightgown. The light is on in Lucien's office and she doesn't hesitate to approach. At the sound of her footfall he calls out, "Jennifer?" And it is that, more than anything, that convinces Jean that this is real.

"Expecting someone else?" She asks softly as she steps through the door.

Lucien vaults to his feet, his eyes full of wonder.

"Jean?" He breathes.

"I'm here, Lucien," she says, and in the next instant he is racing out from behind his desk, crushing her against his chest.

"I missed you," he whispers, and when Jean lifts her chin, and sees the look of devotion in his eyes, she just smiles, and kisses him senseless. No time like the present, she thinks.

In Melbourne Jennifer wakes up in her own bed, and she's so happy she could cry. Lucien has his Jean back, and they'll be happy, she knows. Now Jen has her car and her mobile and her little house and the Chinese takeaway place she loves so much; now Jen is home, and home means work, and the boys, and Nick, Nick more than anything.

The thought no sooner occurs to her than she hears someone knocking on her front door. She knows, somehow, that it's Nick. Who else would it be?

She races out of her bedroom half dressed, flings the door open, and watches as his mouth drops open in shock.

"Jen," he says, and she has missed the sound of his voice saying her name so much that to hear it now shatters her restraint. With a little cry she breaks, and races into his arms; Nick lifts her bodily from the ground, her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck, her face pressed in close to him.

"I missed you," she says. "I missed you."

Nick just kicks the door closed, and carries them both to her bedroom. They both call in sick that day.

[misslillianelliott]

The Neverending Blake Fanfic Chapter 1 - Long Gone

Well it took me a while but here it is, the first chapter of @theneverendingblakefanfic. So who should I tag? Well @seven-dragons I’m passing the baton over to you. Enjoy!

The heat had begun to leave the air, meaning that summer was coming to an end. Much to Ballarat’s relief. This bushfire season had been bad. Luckily it hadn’t come too close to them. It also meant that the Blake’s wedding anniversary was fast approaching. They didn’t plan to do much this year, probably just go out for dinner at the club.

Like most days, Jean prepared breakfast for the family. Up before all of them, an old habit she hadn’t gotten rid of. She placed their mail in each of their respective positions. Bills for Lucien, a letter from Melbourne for Matthew, she guessed that it would be either from Rose or Vera. Charlie had a letter from London, from Mattie. They had stayed in touch over the years. From what Charlie had been telling them Mattie’s post was finishing up, and she was thinking of coming back to Ballarat. She apparently missed her ‘family’ and was still extremely sorry for not being able to make it to the wedding, despite both Lucien and Jean telling her that they understood. Coming out from London was no small feat. Charlie was the first to appear at the table, him being the only other morning person in the house despite it being his day off. He and Jean chatted for a while, as he opened his mail. It was from Mattie, saying she had booked a flight and would be landing in Melbourne in a week. She was wondering if Charlie would come to pick her up, she knew it was short notice, but she would really appreciate it. Jean noticed how he smiled at the suggestion.

‘You know, once she’s back, you could ask her to go out to dinner with you.’ Jean suggested, a huge grin plastered across her face as she poured some juice for both them. She watched Charlie blush, but before the conversation could continue the sound of Matthew’s cane filled the hall. Grunting his usual good morning and sitting down to eat his own breakfast. They chatted about the town’s goings on and when Lucien woke after a long night’s sleuthing he joined in. Charlie went into town to send a telegram to Mattie. Matthew and Lucien were called out to a crime scene mid-afternoon. Which left Jean to her own devices for a few hours. She vacuumed the house, did some laundry and began to prepare the roast for dinner that evening.

-XXXXX-

Charlie had a spring in his step for the rest of the day. Mattie was on her way home, and you couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. Once in town, he immediately sent a telegram to Mattie saying he would be at the gate waiting for her. Jean had been on the right track when she asked if he was going to ask her out when she got back. He most certainly was. He went into a couple of stores to look for a simple welcome back gift. He couldn’t find anything suitable. He looked down at his watch to check the time, if he wasn’t home soon, Jean would have a fit about him missing dinner. So with the plan to buy flowers before picking Mattie up, he turned on his heel and began to walk home.

Walking up the drive, Charlie noticed that the car was missing. He assumed that Blake had been called out for some reason. When he reached the door, he saw the door was wide open, while Jean would do this the air the house out after a couple of hot days, it wasn’t a common occurrence, and it had been quite pleasant the past few days. Charlie’s senses were on high alert; what with being a policeman and all. He entered with caution, calling out to see if anyone was home.

‘Jean! Jean, are you home? Jean, where are you?’ He didn’t bother calling out for Matthew, he knew he was working late tonight.  He made it through to the kitchen, the oven was on, and the roast was cooking away. The vegetables were out on the table, in the middle of being prepared. Charlie noticed an open envelope addressed to Jean, but couldn’t see its contents anywhere.

‘Maybe she’s taken it out to the sunroom to read’ he thought to himself. She often would read her mail out there. But in the middle of preparing dinner? Jean was very particular about how she cooked. She never wanted to mess anything up. Charlie made his way out into the sunroom, hoping that she would be sitting out there and simply had not heard him calling out. Much to his dismay, she wasn’t, nor was she out in the garden. The washing was still out on the line. Now Charlie was panicked, Jean never left the washing out in the evening because it would get chilled. Also, the neighbour had a habit of doing bonfires to get rid of debris. Often leaving the laundry smelling of smoke, meaning Jean had to do it all over again. Charlie rushed inside and went to check in the studio. He never usually came in here, it was not his place. He only poked his head in when he was looking for either Lucien or Jean or if he was needed to help fix something.

‘Jean!’ he called out. At this point, he knew she wasn’t here, but his emotions clouded his thoughts. He couldn’t be sure how long he had been standing there but he snapped out of it when he heard a car on the drive. He rushed out from the studio running through the hall out to the front. He threw the front door open just in time to see Lucien getting out of the car.

‘Hello Charlie.’ He said in his usual jovial tone before noticing the look on his face.

‘Charlie, are you ok? You look as white as a sheet.’ He placed his arm on Charlie’s shoulder.

‘It’s Jean…’ Charlie croaked out. Lucien pushed past him into the house, rushing down the hall.

‘Jean. JEAN!’ Lucien cried franticly.

‘Doc, there’s no point. I’ve looked through the house and called out for her. I take it you don’t know where she is?’

‘NO!’ Lucien roared, causing Charlie to jump. He then began to mumble, the word ‘no’ falling repeatedly off his lips. He ran his hand through his hair, messing it up. Charlie returned to his state of shock before Blake looked up at him.

‘No Charlie I don’t know where she is, sorry.’ He didn’t need to expand on the sorry, Charlie understood. Charlie suddenly snapped into action, as if he bottled all his panic and fear and now the most important thing to do was to find Jean.

‘Ok Doc, you head into town have a look around. I’ll call the Boss at the station, and deal with the roast in the oven. I’ll put my uniform on and join you in looking for her.’ Charlie knew he was waffling and over-explaining, but it was his way of coping. Lucien heard enough of it and put his hat back on and got back into the car. Charlie walked down the hall to call the station.

‘Boss, it’s Charlie. It’s about Jean… she’s missing.’  

[gayorphanboss]

Christmas is hell in my world - To be continued

Blood rushing to my head, heart palpitations beating faster than an electronic dance music track and bleeding from my head with a flow like a river. 14-years of this shit, 14 fleeting moments of beatings in a time period of 10 minutes. I’m on my floor, concussed with a swollen face, blood dripping off my face into the floorboard cracks. As the blood dries on my face, then makes it hard to open my eyes with the drying of the blood working as a glue on my eye lashes. The rats in the walls hear silence and make their way near me. I was frozen from the previous events, so I probably came across as an inanimate object of my room. Who did this to me? My father. Why?

The morning before I’m immobilized on my bedroom floor.

Eyes heavier than a dumbbell. I’m Half-asleep and half-awake, before the sun beaming through my bent and crooked cheap aluminon cheap blinds, make me fully aware of the day. Waking up in my own personal hell. Today isn’t just any other day. Today is Christmas. Therefore, it’s a Christmas lunch today with my family which seem like a bunch of strangers who hate me. I’m very much the black sheep. You grow up thinking adults are mature, but sometimes they act like they are still in high school, like a peer I would come across in the hallway.  But perhaps I am the problem. Sigh, why do I always feel like I’m the issue for everything I do. Do all 14-year-old boys feel like this? Sometimes I feel like a fish being pulled backwards and drowning in my own environment. Having the resources like gills and still consuming toxicity.

We are taking a full car from Ballarat to Melbourne. Guess what, I’m in the middle even knowingly I am taller than my sister Shannon. Shannon is three years older than me; she is about to go into her final year at high school. She has a good work effort, quite pretty, has freckles and long thick brunette hair. When I encountered a bullying ideal at school, she mentioned to me “once you let people walk all over you, they will be doing it for the rest of your life. In some sense I could already understand what she was talking about, with my current abuser, my father. All I knew what to do, was freeze and take it like a punching bag.

I don’t speak up or challenge any logical statement of being taller to not sit in the middle, because the consequence is more physically brutal of having a boney ass and no leg room for an hour and a half. Much better than being whipped by a belt, smacked in the face and whatever my father feels like doing to me. He struggles with his own personal problems and looks me like a punching bag, then when he wants to release his anger, he hits, kicks, throws plates, belt and whatever he wants.

Have a small bite of Weet-Bix then straight into the shower. I close the wooden door and make way into the shower filled with moldy walls. Stare at the spider in the web before washing my hair. In this moment I’m fantasying dropping dead. Perhaps being turned into ash like some magical spell in some sci-fi shit on tv, sci-fi or fiction? Who the fuck knows, I don’t! All I know is I want my ashes being washed down the drain like no such thing as existence of myself Xavier. I relive a memory of watching Saw with my mother, while she was spaced out on crack and I was seven. Admired the beauty that they had endure the pain and mostly they dyed afterwards, while I was constantly enduring more and more abuse without being relieved of my pain through death. So… death seemed pleasurable today.    

I wash my hair quickly, since getting a “hurry up Xavier” from my other sister Nikkita, through the wooden door. Now Nikkita is a very amazing athlete, dual sports or being a national athlete, finalist and medalist, I’ve always admired her. Also admired her when she put her body on the line between myself and dad, when his red bull anger was bursting, and he was trying to hurt me. I was at the door, she was in-between myself and dad, while she was not letting him through. She was in a sense stronger than him. In this moment anyways, because she wasn’t backing down and she was firm, and he couldn’t get through. She was pushing him away, while was trying to her out of the way.

I get dressed in some shorts and a T-Shirt. Now we all make our way to the car. We drive to another suburb in Ballarat, to Nan’s home. We are taking her car, on the basis of ours was gross and my father looked after things very poorly. Nan is a, my way of the highway type of women. I have a Ying and Yang love for that part of her.

We arrive, say our hellos’. Then we pack the car with my Nans dishes. Now we are on the road to Geelong. I’m so wrecked and not prepared for this day. In this car trip, I’m quite quiet. I have decided that I won’t speak any more than I need to for the day. Because I seem to always tend to be the problem. The “know it all”. This remark stems from earlier years working out basic logical problems, which ignited hatred towards my intellect. These problems solving were over many different factors in life. But one what comes to mine, is trying to fit a couch through a doorway. I suggested another way, since the initial way of trying to force it through was not working. So, I suggested “how about we try putting it on an angle”. Then my father gave up, had a little tantrum, stormed through the door and slammed the screen wire, like a four-year-old not getting a chocolate at the checkout at Coles. Left my sisters and I, to work out how to get this fucking couch into the house while he is defusing his tempter in his room. Therefore, I have come to the conclusion to be polite and not react to any remarks made by the adults on this Christmas day. Since everything I do and say is just a problem. I sincerely saying this, I’m not being sarcastic, I just want everyone to have a good time and if I do not speak, I think that will be the easiest way.

Looking past the paddocks into the skyline. Listening to my tunes and minding my business. All is going to plan. Just a normal trip, nothing abnormal. Few remarks about us, made by nan. Some body shaming to my beautiful sister Nikkita, influencing Shannon to be more proper and you know, the “know it all” remark made about me even knowingly I am being dead quiet. So in short it is a shit travel from point A to point B.

We arrive. My uncle grant and his wife Christie are the hostesses of this Christmas lunch. Also, Uncle Brett and his wife Andrea are here. With their kids, Nigel and Glen. Greetings to all, I am being polite also a little closed off not to draw to much attention to myself. I have now just witnessed Andrea and Nan accidently peck while greeting each other. I’m moving gently throughout the space and saying hello. I’m sitting on the couch with my mouth shut, but the conversations are drifting between footy (AFL) and the cricket. Two things, I am no longer interested in, but I do not voice anything. Wow. I think I am the problem. The social setting is a dynamic with only signs of peace and joy in this festive. Dad’s laughing loudly. Nan’s smiling. Pa is being the beautiful soul he is. I’m sitting on the couch, identifying I am the problem. That moment of nothingness is followed through with the hollow feeling. The feeling of emptiness, and my thoughts are thinking, I deserve every shred of abuse in endure. I’m a broken piece of shit which brings my family anger.

I make my way out-side to pat the dog. This dog is a stunning Kings Charles, named Penny. Doesn’t bark and is very friendly. I’m patting Penny outside so I can take a breath. I need a second. A second to wrap my head around, that I am a fucking burden to everyone. I am this fucking know it all twat. I want to cry, but dry less tears are coming out since I’m so fucking empty. Soo fucking over everything. I am that “cunt” one of my friend’s parents at the time called me, when over afterschool in grade 6, yes, fucking primary school. I am also that “cunt” my dad called me at 5 years old. I am stupid and ugly which my step mum called me. I am weird. I am arrogant which the dads at the swim club called me. I deserve to be the laughingstock at the swim club’s presentation when dad was awarded the golden clip board award, for breaking one over my head when I was 7 years old in Melton. They all laughed so fucking hard over awarding him it, may as well created the term “lol” before the internet slang took over in later years. I’m all the names grant calls me, I’m worth $5 a day to clean a whole house like Christy said. I’m ungrateful like every single fucking adult in my life has told me, if that’s family or teachers and everything in-between. Perhaps, they can smell the homo on me. And I am an abomination against reproduction and to this conservative family. All the beltings for crying when I was younger. I fucking deserve to have my emotions beaten out of me. The ringing ears from being so consumed by my thoughts gets broken by the calling of me name. “Xavier” Nikkita slurs.

I shift my feet back inside, the realization of my own burden on others feels like my legs are twice as heavy… I’m just extra weight on others. Back inside. Sitting on the light-colored couch, and feet on the carpet-mat. Conversations are still that bleak short talk whether shit. Time passes and we all make our way outside.

It’s a scorcher of a day in Melbourne. I am now seated at the “kids table”, while the “adults:” are at the adult table. We are under a gazebo whole they are seated under a shelter. Everything isn’t still going to plan as I drown in my own guilt of being this factor of unhappiness to my family and a subject of pain for them too. Half or so hour later, we all make our way grabbing a white kitchen plate to plate our food. I get some ham, potato salad and lamb and of course gravy. Some salt and pepper and I’m ready to eat this delightful feed. Through the sliding glass doorway, minding my business while treading lightly protecting my plate of food. Bum to the plastic chairs, very similar to the ones in primary school. Fork and knife in unison eating this delicious plate in serenity.

[doctoraliceharvey]

Request for a Malice fic where Matthew has to go to Melbourne for a case and Alice is out of sorts because she misses him. Happy reunion ending please 😍

here you go, nonnie! I put it in the Baby Lawson universe (hope you don’t mind, it fit really well) - Dee

Wandering Thoughts

AO3 | FF.NET

---

"You alright, Alice?" Lucien's voice - and his hand upon her shoulder - jolted her from her thoughts.

"I'm… I'm fine," she nodded, diverting her attention down at the paperwork in front of her.

"You don't sound fine."

Alice rolled her eyes and gave Lucien an exasperated look - he was immune to it now that they practically saw each other all hours of the day.

(Alice really needed to make a start on finding a new house for her and Matthew; she loved the Blakes, but she loved her own space more.)

"Is it because Matthew's in Melbourne?"

She clenched her jaw - the thin gold band of her wedding ring weighing heavy on her hand and heart. Matthew had been called back to Melbourne fairly quick after their week-long honeymoon in the city (why they couldn't have just asked him to stay was something that bugged Alice to no end - she had vacation time saved up, or she could have helped out Mac at the university for a bit). They needed him on a case up there and while he was certain it wouldn't take long - a promise sealed with a kiss on the train station platform as his hand brushed against her growing bump - the days turned into weeks and Matthew had been gone almost a month now.

Oh, he called when he could - Alice staying up far later than she should, her toes growing cold in Lucien's study as she and Matthew talked until she couldn't stop the yawns every other word. But it wasn't the same as having him here. It wreaked havoc on her sleeping schedule, she tossed and turned more at night, and while her blood pressure was fine - Alice knew both the Blakes were worried about her.

She wanted Matthew; she wanted his warmth, to feel his calloused hands against her body and hear his low, rumbling voice in the early morning as he talked to her and their unborn child. She wanted her husband, but the higher ups in Melbourne weren't done with him yet.

She slumped down on a stool and sighed, "I… I miss him."

"He's your husband, it's natural to do so."

"I just… I know that he's doing this for work, that it's good for him, but… Ballarat doesn't feel like home without him."

Lucien sat on the other stool next to her - his hand rubbing her upper back gently, "He'll be done soon, Alice. Matthew's just as antsy to get home as you are for him to come back."

He leaned in with a wry grin, "I don't think he likes big cities all that much."

Alice laughed, "No, not really. At least not Melbourne. He's been catching up with his sister and mother though, sometimes I talk with them on the phone if Matthew's called out for a later shift."

"That's good! Getting to know the in-laws and all that. How about we finish up here with Mrs. Dunlop and call it a day, hm? Jean's busy with her campaign, but I know she'll probably have a good dinner on the stove at home."

Alice smiled and nodded. Together, her and Lucien finished up the autopsy (natural causes, more her field house than Lucien's, but with no active case at the moment, he was helping her out in the morgue when he didn't have patients) before they headed home.

It was still odd to walk into 7 Mycroft Avenue and call it home, but it was her home now. There'd been some whispers - some snide remarks - at Alice moving in before she and Matthew married, and more after the Lawsons stayed after the wedding. Alice held her head high - ignoring all of it, hiding her shaking hands when the talk turned to her expanding waistline.

(Those whispers, the ones that speculated on her condition and the reasoning behind her and Matthew's hasty wedding, were the ones that hurt the most - they hurt more with Matthew not here.)

She smoothed a hand over her bump - smiling softly when she felt a flutter in response as they arrived in the driveway.

"Baby Lawson already dancing in the womb?" Lucien grinned and parked the car.

"Yes, they've been very active since the honeymoon. When will others be able to feel them move?"

"Soon, very soon. I hope you've been practicing your glare, Alice, because people are going to want to touch the belly."

"I'd like to see them try," she huffed as Lucien laughed. He got out and opened her car door for her - lending her a hand to pull herself up with. Alice sighed, "I've got how much longer with this little tyke in me?"

"You're only halfway through."

"Ugh," she sighed again as they walked through the front door. "I'm over it."

Lucien laughed and helped her out of her coat as Jean leaned out of the kitchen.

"Dinner's almost ready, you two, go wash up and Lucien if you could set the table afterwards? Rose and Danny are on their way now."

"Of course, my darling," He kissed Jean on the cheek with a smile that left Alice's heart aching.

She hid the hurt throughout dinner - though she did notice Jean and Lucien exchanging looks as she idly played with her food throughout the lively discussion with Rose and Danny over old cases and stories. Everything felt muted and off as she and Jean washed the dishes - Alice barely felt the kiss on the cheek from Rose as her friend (niece? she was technically Alice's niece now) bid her goodnight.

"Why don't you go have a bath, Alice?" Jean suggested quietly. "It'll help you relax."

She wouldn't relax until Matthew was home, but Alice nodded with a faint smile. Jean ran the bath for her - putting in lavender scented bubbles - and pressed a kiss to Alice's forehead once she settled in the bath.

"Relax, Alice, I'll come get you out before you prune."

The lavender filled her senses and the bath water wrapped her in a warmth that made her feel drowsy. Alice rested her hands on the bump and gently rubbed it as she closed her eyes.

(If she willed hard enough, she could almost feel Matthew's arms around her)

Alice sighed - she didn't used to be like this. Time was, she was happy to be alone, she could sleep alone and wake up feeling refreshed. Now, Alice couldn't sleep well without Matthew's familiar warmth and weight in the bed next to her. Now, the bedroom was too quiet without his snuffling snores or his low chuckle in her ear as he teased her awake with kisses.

Matthew Lawson had ruined her - and Alice loved him for it.

"Hand inspection, Alice," Jean teased as she popped her head into the bathroom.

Alice smiled and lifted her soaking wet hands from the bath for Jean's perusal.

"Hm, just starting to wrinkle. How are you feeling?"

"Like I'm about to fall asleep in the tub."

"Mm, can't have that, can we?" Jean reached down and pulled the plug. She helped Alice stand and wrapped her in a fluffy towel. "C'mon, into pajamas and then into bed for you."

She didn't fight Jean's motherly coddling, instead she leaned against her friend - suddenly more tired than she originally thought she was - and listened to Jean's soothing voice as Alice dressed in her pajamas and wrapped herself up in Matthew's heavy dark green bathrobe.

"Would you like some company?" Jean smoothed back Alice's hair from her face with a warm smile.

Alice shook her head, "No… I think I'll try reading before I go to sleep, Jean, but thank you."

"How about some ginger tea then, and a bit of shortbread in case you get a craving for something sweet?"

Alice's heart warmed at Jean's generosity and she nodded.

"Thank you, Jean… I know I haven't been the most… engaged lately."

"You're worried about Matthew, that's understandable, Alice. I'd be exactly the same if it were Lucien. You're family, and family takes care of each other even if we're out of sorts."

Jean kissed her forehead and left the room. Alice flipped to her bookmark and read without actually processing the words on the page. Voices out in the hallway drew her attention from the same paragraph she'd been trying to read at least five times and Alice leapt to her feet when she heard Matthew's familiar timbre.

Lurching to a stop at the end of the hallway, Alice clung to the wall when she saw her husband by the front door - nodding along at Jean's idle chiding, his shoulders slumped in the way they did whenever he was exhausted - and a holdall at his feet.

He was home.

"Ah, there she is," Jean smiled when she noticed Alice lurking. "Go on, I'll fix up the tea for both of you."

Matthew squeezed Jean's shoulder and started down the hallway towards Alice. Alice willed her feet to move and practically ran into his arms; he let out a faint chuckle as they teetered for a second - Jean steadied them both as Matthew held Alice tight and Alice wrapped her arms around his neck.

"You're home," she let out a shuddering sigh - a few tears slipping out to dampen his collar.

"I am. The case is done, I'm home and I'm not leaving again any time soon."

She sniffled and held him tighter, "Good."

"I'm sorry I had to leave you, sweetheart," Matthew pressed a kiss to the side of her head.

"I know you didn't want to, Matthew."

He pulled back and kissed her gently - wiping away her tears with his thumb. "Next time, I'm saying no."

Alice shook her head, "Don't do that, Matthew. It's your job."

"And you're my wife, you're more important."

She cupped his face with her hands, "I don't want you to throw away your career for me. We've got more than each other to think about."

---

He leaned his forehead against hers as she pulled one of his hands down to the bump where their child grew. Matthew sighed as he drew strength from his wife and their unborn baby - Alice was right, Baby Lawson was joining them in little over four months and they'd need both incomes to raise the baby (and buy a new house). He couldn't afford to say no to Melbourne, but he also didn't want to be away from his loved ones that long again.

"How about, the next time you have a case in Melbourne, I see if Mac needs help and come up with you?"

"Even after the baby's born?"

Alice shrugged with a smile, "It'd be an adventure for Baby Lawson."

Matthew pictured Alice in the morgue with their child in a sling against her chest - Alice bouncing slightly to soothe the baby as she and Mac did a full autopsy and he laughed at the image. "Our kid's gonna know how to do an autopsy before they can walk."

She kissed him, "I missed you."

"I missed you too," Matthew kissed her back. "I love you, Alice Lawson."

She grinned against his lips, "And I love you, Matthew Harvey."

Matthew held her close as they had a late night tea with the Blakes. He squeezed her hand tight as they wrapped it up fairly quickly - Jean and Lucien beating a hasty retreat to the studio as Alice pulled him towards their bedroom.

He was tired, but at the first brush of Alice's hands against his neck, Matthew needed her. She sensed the same thing and in between heated kisses they left a trail of clothes on the floor. It was quick and quiet, their lovemaking - brought on by time spent apart and the need to feel her skin against his without making too much noise to disturb the rest of the house; Alice seemed especially impatient and took the lead. As they lay next to each other, panting softly, Alice let out a soft laugh and Matthew joined in - the two of them giggling in the tangled sheets of their bed.

"Welcome home," Alice pressed a kiss to his chest.

He ran his hands through her hair and pulled her up for a slow kiss. "It's good to be back."

[melbournevicservices]

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Saturday to Tuesday, 1-4 January 2022

(My last post actually covered three days (Wednesday/Friday, 29th - 31st December). The first two days and nights were spent in steamy Tibooburra – a somewhat eclectic place I really like, although it might just be the cute name and the wonderful area around it – Sturt National Park and the romance of Corner Country. Then on the 31st, we drove down to Wentworth and camped at as little park in nearby Curlwaa – a really great little place run by lovely people.)

Saturday – New Year’s Day 2022

Happy New Year to everyone! Hopefully, it will bring us all happiness and prosperity – emotionally, if not financially. It was a very quiet night here in Curlwaa (on the outskirts of Wentworth – still in New South Wales) with nary a sparkler, a hoot, or a car-horn to wake us. Mind you, I was awake throughout. My itchy arms kept me awake until about 4 am and I was awake again soon after 6 so I am struggling a bit today.

New Year’s Eve was perhaps our lowest-key event ever with sleep being far more important than pointless celebrations.

We spent the whole day around the van and environs. I strolled around and looked for birds, a pointless exercise because it was very hard to reach the river where I could hear some birds – the levy ran right around the park, but there was then more than 100 metres of jungle to the current course of the river. We both went for a walk around the park too, once it cooled down a little, but most of the day was spent hiding out in the van under the air conditioner just wishing that we were starting our trip rather than ending it.

Sunday

We drove to Ballarat today – a long drive, but very different from the long days over the past nine months. There were a lot more trees, more green, lots of small settlements and a few bigger towns – and of course, most of the country was much more familiar to us, having visited it many times over the past 30-odd years. It was all so different from our outback experience, but enjoyable for all that. We arrived in Ballarat about 5.30 pm, just in time to get set up and enjoy dinner.

Monday 3

Neither of us slept well and we woke up still feeling a bit zonked but despite that, we did a massive cleaning and reorganising/rationalising job that took all morning today. We basically cleaned and reorganised almost half of the caravan with all our cooling devices working overtime and a continuous supply of cold drinks being consumed. We have a LOT more to do when we get home, but we should be on bitumen for the rest of this trip so we wiped down almost half the inside of the van and it is probably a few kilograms lighter following the removal of so much red dust. We will have another go at it when we get to Burwood but one morning’s strenuous cleaning was enough for us today. At least, the weather in Ballarat was about 16 degrees cooler than up on the Murray.

Tuesday 4

We were up early and had everything ready to go by 8am. Heather had found a place where we could wash the caravan. The place we have used before no longer operates, but this place seemed OK even if it was 11 kilometres back across town from our caravan park. Our GPS took us via a very circuitous route and it was right out in the ‘boonies’ and hard to find. It was hidden on the approach to a shopping centre but we had to drive through the shops to find a place to turn so we could access the place – and we had to ask two groups of people for directions before we finally reached it. Alas, it was positioned at the side of a parking area and was being used to park a few cars so it was impossible for us to even get into the place, much less use their equipment to wash the van. The staff said that, despite their advertisements, they were not operating at present, but even if they had been, it was by appointment only (not that they tell anyone that!). So, for the foreseeable future, our poor caravan will remain looking somewhat forlorn and neglected.

Then it was essentially a straight drive back to Melbourne and out to Burwood where we parked the van and loaded the car with as much as we could fit in and headed for home. And that was that.

But not quite…… We are now preparing for our next excursion, probably just for 6 to 8 weeks from the beginning of April – but more of that in due course.

There was, of course, the task of cleaning up the aftermath of such an epic journey. We did about 20 loads of washing – everything needed a good clean – curtains, bedding, blankets, towels, every stitch of clothing and heaps more. We spent a couple of days out at the van cleaning and reorganising, but we are leaving some things until after we have the van serviced early in February – just so our servicing agents can see how much dust enters from all the places they have allegedly ‘sealed'. The car also needs a service and a clean from one end to the other – there are dozens of things to do, but we will take our time and tick them off in an orderly fashion.

[ballartmobile]

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[mountainana]

Secret Santa Fic - All the Things You Are

Here is my gift to @marcuskaen for the prompt “Lucien x Jean + their first Christmas together”.  10,000 thank yous to @professortennant for the endless help. I hope you all enjoy the fluffiness.

Also at fanfiction.net

Christmas night. All the presents opened, all the company gone home, paper and ribbons cleaned away. It has been a lovely - if very warm and busy - day, and Jean finally has a moment to herself. She slips out of the house and into the back garden to catch the evening breeze. Her thoughts, as usual, turn to Lucien. And what a wonderful “first Christmas” they have had…

                  -------------------------------------------------------------------------

Actually, it had started early in November. In spite of it having been a mild Spring day, the evening air was chilly. Lucien had poured a whiskey for himself and Jean, and then set about to build a fire. Jean took a sip of the amber liquid, and sighed as it’s warmth spread throughout her body.  She had started to appreciate Scotch lately for that warmth, but now, watching her husband work, she began to wonder if the heat she felt was from the whiskey or her rising desire.  His collar was unbuttoned, and his sleeves were rolled up, and watching the play of his muscles and the firelight on his skin had Jean mesmerized. Never taking her eyes from the sight of her husband, Jean moved across the room to stand beside him. She picked up his glass and ran a finger down his cheek.

“Lucien…” He looked up into her face and seeing the look in her eyes, stood without a word. She handed him his whiskey, signaling him to drink. Holding her gaze, he accepted her silent invitation and before he could form a coherent thought, she leaned in to taste the whiskey on his lips. The thought went through her mind that this was how she had developed her taste for Scotch.  When he parted her lips with his tongue, she gladly deepened the kiss. Who needed Scotch? She was drunk on the taste and feel of her husband.Things were heating up quickly, but, alas, their old nemesis was about to strike.

 ”Rrri-i-i-i-n-n-g!!!!” 

Jean sighed in frustration. “I’ll get it.” And straightening her hair, she went to answer the phone, sending him a look over her shoulder that said, ‘I’m not done with you yet.” But when she returned a few minutes later, she was shaking her head in disbelief.

“Darling, is everything alright? Who was on the phone?”

“It was Christopher. He has invited us to Adelaide next weekend for the Christmas parade.”

Lucien patted the space beside him on the couch. “Well, that’s wonderful news! Tell me what he had to say.

”Jean joined him and snuggled into his shoulder. “He said Amelia is so excited about Christmas this year that they decided the parade would be just the thing. And Ruby… Ruby (!)…suggested that we might like to join the fun.” She looked at Lucien and laughed. “Can you believe it?”

Jean’s happiness was infectious, and Lucien gathered her closer for a kiss. “Splendid! When do we leave?

”They arrived at the Beazley house late the next Friday afternoon. After a lovely dinner Jean took Amelia upstairs to get her ready for bed. They washed up and brushed teeth and got into pajamas. Amelia had chosen a story she wanted to hear, so Jean got her into bed and snuggled down beside her to read. When Lucien tiptoed upstairs to see how they were doing, the sight that greeted him brought tears to his eyes. Jean was reading as Amelia listened with rapt attention, looking at Jean with such love that Lucien couldn’t turn away. He took in the scene vowing to himself he would hold this memory forever.

The next morning, they crowded into Christopher’s car and headed downtown for the parade. Amelia could hardly contain her excitement as she sat on her daddy’s shoulders and took in all the bands and floats. It had been years since Lucien and Jean had been to a parade and they got caught up in the spectacle as well, but truth be told, they had the most fun watching Amelia. When Santa Clause came by she was so thrilled that Ruby, laughing, had to keep her from slapping Christopher’s head in her joy

.On the way back to Ballarat Jean scooted over on the seat to be close to Lucien and sighed with contentment. “This was just the perfect way to start our first Christmas.”

And now, in the fading light of this day she is thinking ‘Yes, but it was only the start’. She remembers that first Friday in December when she returned home from shopping and was met at the front door by Lucien.

  Before Jean could say hello, he grabbed her around the waist and brought her in for a fiery kiss. As they came up for air she said shakily, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”Lucien just pointed above their heads to the mistletoe that hung from the doorway. “Well,” she smiled mischievously, “We certainly can’t let perfectly good mistletoe go to waste.” And she leaned in and gave as good as she got

.Lucien finally pulled back and said, “I’m so glad you feel that way.” He opened the door and stepped back to let her in the house ahead of him. Not two steps in, she stopped with a gasp and covered her mouth in surprise. Then she burst into delighted laughter. For there, in every doorway in the house, Lucien had hung a sprig of mistletoe. And, oh, they had a lovely time kissing their way from one doorway to the next!

Then there was the morning of December 5th when the not-so-newlyweds woke up to a driving rain. As the morning progressed, the weather continued to worsen and one by one each of Lucien’s surgery patients, not wanting to brave the storm, called to reschedule their appointments. 

Now there are those who would curse the storm and consider the day ruined. But for two people like Lucien and Jean Blake, it was a gift of time. Time for quiet conversation and private jokes. Time for endearments. And caresses. And kisses. And…

The day wasn’t wasted at all. 

The rain finally ended and gave way to what promised to be a beautiful sunset. “Come with me, Love. Let’s take a little walk.”

Hand in hand they walked out to the garden. Jean’s flowers were a riot of color and the air was heavy with their fragrance. The two made their way through the flowers in comfortable silence. Jean was filled with such a tangible feeling of contentment she thought she might burst. ‘I wonder if Lucien feels this way, too.’ The thought had no sooner entered her mind than Lucien stopped and kissed her hand - so gently, almost reverently. He lifted his gaze to meet hers and the look of love on his face made her breath catch. He tucked her hand through his arm and they walked back to the house.

When they got to the kitchen they realized how muddy their shoes had gotten. “Let’s just leave them here outside the door - we don’t want to track up your floor. We’ll clean them tomorrow.”

The next morning Jean went to bring her shoes in, but when she opened the door to get them she found a surprise instead. “Lucien! Can you come here, please?”

He came to the kitchen looking like the cat who swallowed the canary. “Yes, dear?” He was fighting hard to keep his grin under control.

“Can you explain this?” Jean asked with mock anger as she pointed to her shoes. There they sat -  each one full of little gifts and treats

.“Um, well, it is St. Nicholas Day, Jean. But I can see why you might be surprised. I thought he only visited houses in France!

”“Oh, you!” She slapped his arm playfully.They brought the shoes in and opened all the gifts. Jean popped a sweet into his mouth and then enjoyed the sugar on his lips. She couldn’t stop giggling and Lucien was enjoying it almost more than she. After all was put away, Jean smiled to herself. Lucien’s little escapade had given her an idea of her own

.Oh, and the night they decorated the tree. It was so lovely, and, after all it was their ‘first’, so they put Ella Fitzgerald on the record player, and danced. Then they made love by the light of that tree.

And last night - Christmas Eve. Lucien once again moved her by his thoughtfulness when he suggested they attend Midnight Mass. The thought of going made Jean very nervous, but Lucien was so earnest in wanting to please her that she said yes. They slipped in the back and sat down.  Jean reached for Lucien’s hand, took a deep breath, and let the silence settle over her. The familiar words and music wrapped around her like a comfortable old sweater. He was right - it was just what she needed.

The ride back home was quiet. “Are you alright, Love?”“Oh, my, Lucien. I am more than alright. I’m with you

.”When they got home, Lucien went to pour them both a night cap. Jean smiled and said, “Stay there, I’ll be right back.”She came in a moment later with something on a plate.

 “What have you there?” Lucien asked, intrigued.

“La Buche de Noel” she said laughing. “I know I didn’t say that right” She looked at Lucien’s face as his smile disappeared and tears came to his eyes. Jean put the plate down and went to him, taking his face in her hands. “Oh, what have I done? Luicien?” I’m so sorry!

”He caught her hand. “No, Jean, it’s perfect. It’s just… I haven’t had one since my mother died. She made one every year - just for me. It was my favorite part of Christmas. And now, you….” He gathered her in his arms. “God, I love you. Thank you, my darling.”

And they fed each other the rich cake, kissing away the crumbs and cream

              .-------------------------------------------------------------------------

What a wonderful time it had been. Sitting here in the fading light of this first Christmas, she’s a little sad for it to come to an end, but it’s late and she must go back inside.

 As she passes the study, Lucien calls out softly, “Jean, can you come in for a moment?” He’s by his desk holding an old journal. Why does it look so familiar? She looks at his face and wonders why he seems suddenly shy. “I…um…I have one more gift for you. I’m afraid it isn’t wrapped. Do you mind?

”‘Do you mind.’ With those words the memory comes flooding back. She is the one holding that journal…and his sketches…my God! Those terrible images. 

“Jeannie?” His voice brings her back to the present and away from that awful day. As she finally focuses on her husband’s face, she can see that he’s holding out the journal to her. “I…well…these are for you

.”With trembling hands she takes the journal from him and turns to sit. ‘What is he thinking?’ She closes her eyes and wills her hands to open her ‘gift’. With dread she opens her eyes to see what he has drawn. It’s…it’s…her! And Amelia. It’s the night she was reading the story, and Lucien has caught the expression on Amelia’s face perfectly.She looks up. “When?” she breathes

.Lucien smiles. “Do you like it?

But she can’t wrap her mind around this. Again - “When?”

“There are more,” he says

.She lifts that first sketch, and sure enough, there she is at the sink. And at the clothes line, beating a rug. And in the sunroom with a dirty apron and a smudged nose.

Sewing a button.

Sipping tea

Holding a test tube

Holding a patient’s hand.

Sleeping - tangled in the sheets with her hair loose and glorious

.“Lucien…”

“My sweet Jean. I have seen so much pain. And for so long it consumed me.  I had to let it out somehow, and when drinking wasn’t enough, I put it on paper. The pain was all I knew. It was where I lived and what I breathed. I carried it with me as surely as I carried those sketches. And even when I felt the stirrings of a new life here, I couldn’t take that first step into an unknown future. The past was a terrible place to be, but at least I knew where I was.

 “But as time went by, I began to realize that you were becoming my past. And my present. And now you are my future, too. I want my journal, my home, my life to be full of you.

”Lucien opens his arms and Jean goes to him. For a moment they just stand and breathe each other in. The Jean leans back and looks deeply into her beloved’s eyes

“But…WHEN?”

Lucien throws his head back and laughs. “Oh no, my love. A husband has to have some secrets!”

And with that, Jean is ready to let this first Christmas go. They will never have a first Christmas again, but there will be a second Christmas, and a tenth, and a twenty-fifth. They will each be the other’s past and future. 

And each day a present.  ��<�

[it-is-bugs]

TDBM Fic: It Will Keep

Just a little ‘fill in the blank fic,’ even though I said that I don’t need to see Jean get the call--well, that’s what fanfiction is for, right?   Rating: T Word Count: @1300 words

Going on 9:30; her boys are all late for dinner tonight. Lid back on the pot roast; no sense dishing up.  The clock ticks loud; the house echoes empty. The dark kitchen window mirrors her pale face with furrowed brow. Had a man really been in the garden? Times like this, she misses Mattie.  

The phone's shrill rings shatter the silence.  A smile on the reflection.  He's learning to ring up when he's delayed, or sends a message.

"Blake residence."

"Jean, it's Matthew."

"Are you all held up?  Because this roast is drying out--"

"I've sent a car for you."

Blood rushes in her ears like being caught in an undertow.  "What is it?"

"He's not dead. But it's bad."

"I see."

The car will be there soon. I must go."

"Yes."

It takes several times to get the receiver back in the cradle.  She presses it down, hard, with both hands, to assure it's secure.

Turn off cooker. Remove apron. Pull on coat. Try to put keys in handbag, but drop them.  The clatter on the floorboards rattles around in her skull. Carefully, slowly, bend to pick them up and shove them deep to the bottom of the bag.

A faint siren comes closer and closer. Shutting off the house lights, she opens the door.  Yes, it's bad.  Bad enough for a police car arriving at the house with siren wailing.  Bill Hobart strides around to hold the door open for her.  

"Thank you," she manages and he nods.

Bill drives away with a screech of tyres, pressing her against the door when he takes the turn out of the drive with a sharp yank of the steering wheel.  The streets are dark, with a sliver of blue dusk at the horizon.  The streetlights had just come up, pools of yellow on the black tarmac.  Dark and light, yes or no, life or death.  

Sure that Bill won't try to protect her sensibilities, she asks, "What happened?" 

"The Doc confronted Percy Walker and the bugger stabbed him."

The pain strikes between her own ribs. She shakes her head in denial. When she sees him, first she'll ask why he'd failed her.  He'd promised--not in words, but in his touch, his caresses, the heat of his breath on her skin, the looseness in his limbs--that he wouldn't take risks anymore.  His life has real value now.  Why had he tossed it away like emptying change from his trouser pockets?

That gypsy talisman hangs on the corner of his dressing table mirror. He doesn't carry it, had only smiled when she asked him to do so; she can't always be with him as protection. Arrogant, arrogant man! First tears pricking at her eyes but she blinks them away. Not the right place or time.  

She tries prayer, but the words only rub on the open sore that is her love for him. And she knows that he wouldn't appreciate it. He may still believe in God, but he doesn't want her taking up his case with Him.  

Bill seems grateful that she didn't ask more. He does what he does best, drive fast and recklessly, grinding the gears, and blasting the horn at other vehicles who dare to get in his way.  

The squat white block that is the Ballarat Hospital, brightness in the night. Bill drives right up to the front door.  A cluster of coppers outside.  "It's bad," Jean murmurs. She knows how it is when a policeman is dying; they all come.  

"The Doc will be fine," grunts Bill, more a threat than a promise.

She gets out and mumbles, "thanks," her manners momentarily deserting her.

Charlie meets her inside the door, his jacket undone.  She stares at the blood on his shirt and he quickly buttons up.  "This way, Jean," he says, leading her down the corridor.  

Matthew is there, his hands still stained with blood, hastily washed.  He reaches for her with those hands.  "He's gone into surgery."  

The surgery theater is further along the corridor. He tugs her back, trying to hold her still.  Struggling--

"Jean, there's nothing you can do."

How dare he say that.  How dare he-- She must be saying this aloud, because Matthew apologises: "I'm sorry, Jean."

She regains control. "Yes, yes, of course."  She's spent a lifetime not making a fuss and not upsetting others. It feels like a betrayal to him when she sags against Matthew and allowed him to lead her to a chair.

His arm is heavy, holding her down to the seat, otherwise she'd float away.  She can smell the blood on his hands under the harsh soap.  Blood pressing through her arteries, somehow keeping her alive, as each breath is laboured.  Is he awash in blood?  Is he fighting to breathe?

She should cry but that would waste precious energy.  Raising her chin, she asks once more, "What happened?"

"Best we can figure, he was searching Vern's workshop again. You know how he is. Dog with a bone."  Matthew's resentment matches that which singes her heart, turning it black around the edges.

"So Percy, he was the killer, comes back too. Looking for whatever Lucien found.  And he was going to take it."

"Lucien didn't give it up."

"I don't think he had much choice.  Percy wasn't going to leave a witness.  See what he did to that boy."

"He was stabbed then?"

"Yes--"

The clattering of heels on the linoleum and Jean starts, as a deer leaping to flight.

"I just heard," Alice says, stopping before them and clenching her hands.   

"Can you ask the matron what the extent of his injuries are?" Matthew asks.  "The surgeon said a bunch of babble about tension in his chest?"

Alice's face blanches and she's gone as quickly as she came.  

"It's bad," Jean whispers. She was cold, now she's hot.  Dark and light.  Death and life.  Living hurts so much sometimes.  After years alone, she'd stepped into the sun and turned her face up to the rays, and it burns painfully.  

Up and pacing. Running in place. Caged and untethered at the same time.  Horrid, clear thoughts about arranging a funeral, boxing up his things, keeping his shirt on her pillow until his scent is gone--

Alice is back.  

"It's bad," Jean repeats, reading her face.

"Yes. But it would appear that he saved his own life by administering a needle decompression with his pen barrel."

A ragged, painful sob of joy--he wanted to live.  That means more than a proposal and a ring given over a candlelit dinner.  

Alice starts to explain the technical aspects of his injury, and Matthew nods as though he understands, although he clearly doesn't.  Alice sees this and winds down: "He'll survive and should be good as new, if he'll rest and heal properly."

Matthew chuckles.

"When can I see him?"

"He's in recovery now.  He'll be moved to a room shortly."

Gently, Alice leads her to the room with an empty waiting bed. She slumps in a chair, strength gone.  A flame flickers in the dying embers though.  She can't truly relax until she sees him, touches him, knows for certain that he lives--

Minutes...an hour?  Orderlies bring Lucien in, unconscious, his hair rumbled and face waxen.  It takes four of them to move him onto the bed. On her own, she's supported him to bed, but that's different, she supposes.  

Alone but for Alice who is a quiet spirit.  Fumbling in her handbag, Jean finds a comb.  She carefully smooths his hair.

When she's done, Alice checks his pulse.  "Good," and steps back again to wait.  

Yes, he should sleep, rest, gain strength.  Fingers stroke his forearm, reveling in the warmth of his skin; his blood flows strong. Feel his pulse as well, just to be sure. Moth's wings-light flutter against her own cold fingers; he's trying to squeeze her hand. Sweep his eyelids open with the back of her fingers, bringing him to life.  

Only then can she can say his name: "Lucien."  

~ end

[perroprensa]

La Ruta 66 y otros once ‘road trips’ de película

De los míticos paisajes de Monument Valley, en Utah, al almeriense Cabo de Gata, grandes rutas para evadirse de todo

LONELY PLANET (ElPais.es)

Las historias de grandes viajes por carretera, vagabundeando sin rumbo fijo, son un género literario que ha dado lugar a grandes novelas y películas, con historias desde el drama a la comedia, pasando por el documental o el biopic. Las llamadas road movies se inspiran en su mayoría en algunas de las grandes obras de la literatura —especialmente la americana— como Las uvas de la ira (1939), de John Steinbeck o En el camino (1957), de Jack Kerouac, símbolo de toda una generación.

MÁS INFORMACIÓN

Ruta 66, una carretera de cine

Destinos de película

Dos viajeras cazadoras de escenarios

El road trip es un género muy americano, pero hay otras muchas carreteras del planeta que han inspirado a autores y cineastas a lanzarse sin rumbo fijo, dejan descripciones inolvidables de pueblos, paisajes y paisanajes. Y para los viajeros, el road trip puede ser una fórmula para dejar a un lado las preocupaciones y convencionalismos de la vida cotidiana, lanzarse a devorar kilómetros y dejarse llevar por el placer de no ajustarse a normas ni horarios. Estas son algunas de las mejores rutas para escribir nuestra propia novela viajera.

Más información en En ruta por la Ruta 66, de Lonely Planet y en www.lonelyplanet.es

1. Ruta 66, la gran inspiradora

Inaugurada en 1926, la Ruta 66 se extendía desde Chicago hasta Los Ángeles, uniendo poblaciones y carreteras secundarias a su paso por ocho Estados. Se hizo famosa durante la Gran Depresión, cuando muchos campesinos y obreros sin trabajo la recorrían hacia el oeste desde las Grandes Llanuras, afectadas por el Dust Bowl, como se bautizaron las ventiscas de polvo que afectaban a esta zona durante los años de gran sequía en la década de 1930.

El apodo de Mother Road (Carretera Madre) lo acuñó John Steinbeck en 1939 en su novela Las uvas de la ira. Gracias al trabajo de jóvenes desempleados, contratados expresamente para asfaltar los tramos finales de lo que entonces no era más que una carretera fangosa, las obras terminaron justo antes de la II Guerra Mundial, y la Ruta 66 sirvió para que una marea de soldados y obreros respondiera a la llamada del destino. Las cosas mejoraron a finales de la década de 1950, cuando una creciente prosperidad animó a muchos estadounidenses a echarse a la carretera. Pero cuando el Gobierno desarrolló una nueva red de autopistas interestatales, la Carretera Madre comenzó a caer en el abandono.

Actualmente es el road trip por excelencia: nostálgica y extravagante, siempre hacia el oeste, con tres tramos diferentes (este, central y oeste) que animan a recorrer Estados Unidos de costa a costa, desde Chicago hasta las playas de Santa Mónica (California), pasando por Misuri, Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas, Nuevo México y Arizona. Se conduce por carreteras casi siempre solitarias, se para a comer en diners que parecen sacados de una película  —reconocibles neones e iconos kitsch—, y se atraviesan pueblos fantasma, apeaderos ferroviarios en medio del desierto y tramos de asfalto que parece tragarse la tierra. En el camino se pueden encontrar también museos y librerías con obras de indios americanos, del Salvaje Oeste y de pioneros sobre esta carretera, para empaparse más si cabe de su leyenda.

2. Breaking Bad en Albuquerque

No es una novela pero sí una serie de culto; de hecho, muchos fans de Breaking Bad peregrinan cada año a Albuquerque (Nuevo México), una de las grandes ciudades de la Ruta 66, tras los pasos de su protagonista: Walter White o Heisenberg, un profesor de Química con cáncer de pulmón que decide fabricar y vender metanfetamina para mantener a su familia.

Los abruptos paisajes de Nuevo México son el inconfundible telón de fondo de la serie, pero, para muchos, lo que más atrapa son los escenarios hoy emblemáticos gracias a la ficción, en algunos casos incluso de forma excesiva: en 2015, Vince Gilligan, su creador, tuvo que rogar a los seguidores que dejasen de lanzar pizzas al tejado de la casa de White, en lo que pretendía ser una recreación de una famosa escena. Muchos recordarán el Octopus Car Wash, en una bocacalle de Menaul Blvd, o iconos de la Ruta 66 como el Dog House Dinner (1216 de Central Ave NW). Pero quizá el más accesible de todos sea el Java Joe’s, una fantástica cafetería del centro de Albuquerque, inmediatamente reconocible como el cuartel general de Tuco, que Heisenberg hace saltar por los aires.

Hay varios circuitos guiados dedicados a Breaking Bad que profundizan en rincones menos conocidos, durante los que, tras varias manzanas monótonas, tal vez nos topemos con la casa o el lugar de trabajo de algún personaje importante o la inolvidable escena de un tiroteo. Routes Rentals organiza, por ejemplo, rutas temáticas en bicicleta.

3. En el camino, biblia de la generación beat

Si algún libro representa el viaje mítico es En el camino, de Jack Kerouac; en los años cincuenta del siglo pasado se convirtió en el manifiesto de la generación beat y en un clásico de la literatura norteamericana. Dicen que Kerouac lo escribió en solo tres semanas, aunque basado en los cuadernos que había ido escribiendo durante los viajes enloquecidos junto a algunos de sus amigos en Cadillacs prestados y Dodges desvencijados, recorriendo la Ruta 66: de Nueva York a Nueva Orleans, Ciudad de México, San Francisco, Chicago y, de nuevo, a Nueva York.

Se mezclan orgías, marihuana, alcohol y una cierta sensación de desolación y abatimiento, pero al final lo que representa En el camino es el retrato de una América auténtica, ajena a todos los convencionalismos de su época, otra cara de un país que está muy lejos de ser uniforme. Sus protagonistas —Jack Kerouac (Sal Paradise), Neal Cassady (Dean Moriarty), Allen Ginsberg y William Burroughs— recorren el país conduciendo a la deriva y aceptando trabajos temporales, escuchando jazz cuando encuentran un garito…

El libro, y la ruta que describe, fueron inspiración y modelo para toda una generación de escritores y jóvenes estadounidenses y europeos, como Bob Dylan. Sin ser una obra maestra de la literatura, es lógico que los jóvenes con ganas de aventura empaticen con el libro que, además, cuenta con la consiguiente versión cinematográfica.

4. Paseo en el bosque con Bill Bryson

Bill Bryson es uno de los autores de libros de viaje que más vende, cuyo estilo destaca, sobre todo, por el sentido del humor. Después de vivir 20 fuera de su país natal, Bryson regresa a Estados Unidos y se instala en New Hampshire con su familia, desde donde decide redescubrirlo con una mirada nueva. Para ello se lanza a recorrer el Appalachian Trail con su amigo Stephen Katz, completando esta popular ruta entre los senderistas estadounidenses. El Appalachian Trail suele hacerse a pie (invirtiendo tiempo y mucho esfuerzo), pero también puede recorrerse en coche. Comienza en Georgia, en el Chattahoochee National Forest, y continúa hacia el parque nacional Great Smoky Mountains, pasando por el bosque nacional Pisgah en Carolina del Norte. Luego prosigue hasta Virginia, a través del parque nacional Shenandoah, y continúa hacia el Delaware Water Gap, en el Estado de Pennsylvania. Las últimas jornadas se realizan en los Green Mountains de Vermont y en el Mount Katahdin, en Maine.

Un recorrido que cualquiera puede hacer, y si es con el libro de Bryson en la mano, mucho mejor.

5. De Los Ángeles a Nueva Orleans, en moto

Easy Rider (1969) es una de las películas míticas del género road movie: dos moteros, Wyatt y Billy, deciden hacer la ruta desde Los Ángeles hasta Nueva Orleans en sus Harley Davidson para asistir al carnaval, escuchando a todo trapo a Jimmy Hendrix. La película dinamita los mitos de la América conservadora e inventa otros nuevos, y sobre todo crea en el imaginario colectivo el mito del motero de la Ruta 66. En este caso, los protagonistas recorren el tramo meridional del Sunbelt (el cinturón del sol), entre California y Luisiana, pasando por la ciudad fantasma de Ballarat —donde Peter Fonda abandona su Rolex—, Monument Valley, en Utah, Taos en Nuevo México, y el Estado de Texas. Cuando llegan a Luisiana, paran en la ciudad de Morganza, donde hasta hace poco todavía existía el Melancon Café, que aparece en una escena de la película.

6. París, Texas (sin salir de Estados Unidos)

Kurt Cobain rendía culto a París, Texas (1984), road movie de Wim Wenders y una de las películas favoritas del cantante y guitarrista de Nirvana. Cuenta la historia de un hombre que deambula a pie por los desiertos de Texas. Con este (larguísimo) largometraje, de melancolía conmovedora, Wim Wenders se llevó la Palma de Oro en el Festival de Cannes.

Aunque el título lleva el nombre de la ciudad texana de París, lo cierto es que la película deambula por otros rincones espectaculares del Estado de Texas, desde el parque nacional de Big Bend a Houston, pasando por Nordheim, Port-Arthur y El Paso. También se pueden ver imágenes de Big Bend, a orillas del Río Grande, en un rincón salvaje cerca de Lajitas. Si queremos entrar en el ambiente de la cinta, hay que esperar la llegada del verano y unas temperaturas que suben hasta los 50 grados para entrar en ambiente.

7. De Nuevo México a California con Pequeña Miss Sunshine

Los pasos de una niña que aspira a convertirse en Miss California sirven a los directores y guionistas de Pequeña Miss Sunshine (2006) para caricaturizar la América de los concursos de misses, el éxito social a toda costa y las mujeres-muñeca. A bordo de una furgoneta Volkswagen que apenas consigue tenerse en pie, la familia Hoover pone rumbo a un concurso de talentos infantiles. A bordo viajan Olivia, una niña rechoncha de siete años con pretensiones de reina de la belleza; un padre que ha fracasado en la venta de su Recorrido hacia el éxito en nueve etapas; una madre neurótica; un abuelo yonqui, un hijo mudo y daltónico y un tío depresivo y con inclinaciones suicidas.

Este grupo nos conduce por carretera desde Albuquerque (Nuevo México) hasta Redondo Beach (California), parando, eso sí, en esos moteles tan típicos del oeste americano.

8. Viaje un premio Nobel, y Charley

Otra de las grandes novelas que invitan a recorrer en coche Estados Unidos es Viajes con Charley, de John Steinbeck, el Nobel de Literatura que después de reconocer que apenas conoce su propio país se lanza a un road trip acompañado de un French Poodley llamado Charley. Es una novela autobiográfica en la que aprovecha para hablar sobre él mismo, pero también sobre los paisajes, experiencias y personajes que va encontrando en el camino. Género road trip en estado puro, repleto de reflexiones sobre su compañero de viaje (el perro) y sus particulares habilidades diplomáticas.

El viaje de Steinbeck puede repetirse (con o sin mascota), aunque son más 16.000 kilómetros a lo largo de 34 Estados; unas 12 semanas a bordo de su autocaravana Rocinante. A lo largo del viaje podremos conversar —como hizo Steinbeck— con camioneros y campesinos, partiendo desde Sag Harbor (Nueva York) y conduciendo hacia Vermont, se visitan las cataratas del Niágara, Ohio, Michigan, Chicago, Wisconsin, Minnesota, Dakota del Norte, Montana, Idaho, Washington, Oregón, California, Texas, Luisiana, Alabama y Virginia, para regresar a Nueva York.

Un libro delicioso que anima, como pocos, a conocer el auténtico corazón de Estados Unidos.

9. Rutas salvajes en Alaska

La novela Into the Wild (Hacia rutas salvajes, 1995), de Jon Krakauer, tuvo un enorme éxito entre los amantes de la aventura. La película homónima, de Sean Penn (2007), dio más visibilidad a esta historia real de un estudiante de Virginia, Christopher McCandless, que a principios de los noventa decide renunciar a un futuro prometedor y a un estilo de vida convencional para seguir su propio camino. Esta búsqueda de libertad le llevará a Alaska, lejos de todo. La película está rodada en decorados naturales y es fiel a la auténtica aventura de este joven inconformista que se hacía llamar Supertramp (supervagabundo).

Pero para seguir sus huellas en la nieve de Alaska hay que tragar primero mucho asfalto por algunas de las carreteras míticas del oeste americano, como la Highway 1, a lo largo de la costa californiana, con una parada en Big Sur.

Otro hilo conductor es el río Colorado, desde los rápidos del Gran Cañón hasta el golfo de California y después, rumbo al norte, primero por las rocas de la península Olympic, en el Estado de Washington, para llegar finalmente a Alaska, donde terminó todo. Un colofón fantástico a este periplo excesivo y solitario: el impresionante parque nacional Denali, presidido por el monte de mismo nombre, repleto de osos, alces o caribúes. Un punto y final salvaje, como lo fue el del protagonista de la historia.

10. Sudamérica en moto con el Che

Dejamos Estados Unidos (y sus territorios del norte) para recorrer otras grandes rutas por carretera. Entre los clásicos, está la que sigue las huellas del joven Che Guevara por Argentina, en un viaje que quedó plasmado en la película Diarios de motocicleta (Walter Salles, 2004) y que  cuenta el viaje real por Sudamérica y moto de un joven estudiante de Medicina, Ernesto Guevara, y su amigo Alberto Granado, y en el que nacerán en buena parte sus ideas revolucionarias.

El recorrido es un recorrido mítico: desde Buenos Aires a Caracas, pasando por Valparaíso, Cuzco y Leticia, la capital colombiana de la Amazonia. Un viaje abrumador en kilómetros y en experiencias, que hoy puede repetirse a tramos por la ruta Panamericana, dedicándole tiempo y esfuerzo. El Che hizo su viaje en buena parte en una vieja moto, una Norton 500, que acaba sucumbiendo en el camino y le obliga a seguir a pie. Con o sin compromiso social, el trayecto es impresionante, de los que merecen la pena, incluso como búsqueda de uno mismo y dejando la moto en casa.

11. Por Alemania con Fernando Aramburu

Viaje con Clara por Alemania, novela de Fernando Aramburu anterior a su famosa Patria, propone un auténtico road trip por el norte de este país, donde reside el autor. Con ironía y sentido del humor, invita a recorrerlo huyendo de los tópicos y para ello escoge un escenario poco turístico: las grandes planicies del norte alemán, visitando parajes poco habituales como la isla de Rügen y el cabo Arkona, extremo septentrional del este alemán.

Es, al mismo tiempo, un libro de viajes y el antilibro de viajes: la protagonista, Clara, recibe el encargo de escribir una guía de la zona y convence a su pareja para que la acompañe. Ella es alemana; él español, pasota y poco amigo de los convencionalismos. Al final, será él quien tenga que terminar de escribir la guía, con una mirada muy particular. El viaje comienza en Wilhelmshaven, y prosigue por Bremen, Hamburgo, Hannover, el Hartz, Lübeck, las ciudades hanseáticas, hasta llegar finalmente a Berlín. Es una novela sobre la pareja y un alegato contra los convencionalismos culturales, pero que el autor aprovecha para describir paisajes y lugares de este país centroeuropeo, el carácter y las costumbres de sus habitantes y, ya de paso, parodiar las guías de viaje.

12. Cuatro road trips a la española

Una buena opción es, como narra la película de David Trueba Vivir es fácil con los ojos cerrados (2013), el periplo de un profesor de Inglés de Cartagena enamorado de la música de los Beatles que decide viajar a Almería para conocer a John Lennon y sugerirle que introduzcan en sus discos las letras de las canciones. La película (y la ruta real) se convierte en una oportunidad de contemplar los extraordinarios paisajes almerienses por carreteras secundarias, sobre todo las del Cabo de Gata.

La película fue rodada en lugares como el pequeño núcleo a pie de playa de Almadraba de Monteleva; las salinas de Cabo de Gata; la carretera que lleva hacia el arrecife de las Sirenas, con sus pronunciadas curvas, o el sorprendente y desolado desierto de Tabernas, escenario donde se han grabado innumerables películas de vaqueros.

El segundo road trip nos lleva a seguir las Carreteras secundarias de Ignacio Martínez de Pisón, que el director Emilio Martínez-Lázaro llevó al cine en 1997. Cuenta la historia de un adolescente y su padre viudo, nómadas itinerantes a bordo de un Citroen DS (conocido como un Tiburón), de apartamento en apartamento, aprovechando las costas españolas en temporada baja, y que en el fondo es un viaje hacia la madurez.

Una tercera inspiración, también cinematográfica, es Los años bárbaros (1998), en la que Fernando Colomo narra, basándose en hechos reales de 1948, la huida a Francia por los Pirineos de dos estudiantes condenados a trabajos forzosos en el Valle de los Caídos a bordo de un descapotable junto a dos turistas americanas.

Por último, un viaje rocambolesco, rocanrolero y quijotesco por las carreteras hispanas que describe España de Mierda (2015), de Albert Pla, que narra la aventura de un joven cantante uruguayo y su representante madrileño que se embarcan en una gira de conciertos por varias ciudades durante la que vivirán episodios de lo más surrealista. Desde Galicia a Andalucía, es una especie de Camino de Santiago a la inversa que les lleva a pasar por Madrid, Cantabria, País Vasco, Cataluña, León y Murcia.