On the maps, the California-Nevada border goes through Lake Tahoe. But geologically and biologically speaking, Nevada begins a few miles east, at the peaks of the Sierra Nevada mountain range where the lush Californian forest turns to dust and brown rocks. When the highway reaches these peaks, Nevada is visible through the windscreen. This is mainly because suddenly there are no more trees blocking the view, and there it is – Nevada, stretching out all the way to the horizon, down the mountains and across valleys until, somewhere unseen, Utah happens. I’m reminded of the geography textbook from my first year of University and the term ‘rain shadow’ comes to mind.
A few weeks earlier I was on a bus going to work at Sierra-at-Tahoe, an out-of-the-way snow resort with decent trails but killer tree runs, as well as the best half pipe on the West Coast. I was silent and moody because it was early morning, when suddenly my travel buddy Simon (who reminds me of Point Break and is also a devout Christian), points to the snow-capped peaks beside the highway and announces, “Over those hills lies… Carson City.”
Carson City is the capital of Nevada. It is full of crazy saloon bars with swingin’ barn doors, reminiscent of Western films, complete with neon signs of cowboys advertising cheap beer and steaks. Shimmering casinos tower over the saloon bars, which themselves are next to serious-looking government buildings and diners. The diners are a mix of locally-owned businesses and corporate joints, such as Denny’s and IHOP, where the waitresses call me ‘honey’. Amongst all of this madness is Comma Coffee.
When you walk in, the first thing you see is a massive, old school espresso machine. It is sitting on a long glass bench top displaying fudge brownies, pecan pie, chunky muffins and all sorts of tasty baked goods you would expect from a country where cake batter ice-cream is mainstream. On the counter are brochures explaining the origins of the name: how the comma, which signifies a brief break in a sentence, (just like that), can also be used to signify a brief break in our hectic modern lives.
The elaborate and mismatched tables and chairs work perfectly in this environment. So do the mirrors on the walls, which hang beside framed portraits of people I’ve never seen. My ‘regular’ cappuccino is served in a huge mug large enough to bathe in. Cosy and warm, Comma Coffee might be the only decent coffee shop in the entire Silver state. Even though none of the wait staff call me ‘honey’, they make me feel welcome. After a long drive doing a road trip from San Francisco to Salt Lake City, this is the place to stop.
The streets are narrow, forcing cars to squeeze between one another. My breath stops and my eyes scrunch as each car navigates past another. The concentration needed is like that used to thread a needle, a few millimeters are all that separates them. The buildings, whose facades show the ravages of time and the dampness of the climate, are bathed in the last remnants of golden sunlight. The delicate sea breeze carries a hint of salt that can be smelt and tasted. The surroundings begin to cool, and with the tingle of erect hair on my neck, yet the temperature is heating up in the Tres Villas Restaurant. Arms are waving, voices rising and the atmosphere is intense as Barcelona FC draws closer to victory. The great rivalry between Real Madrid and Barcelona hangs in the balance as Santiago Ezquerro Marín effortlessly weaves in and out of the Real Madrid opponents, like witches hats. Will goalie Iker Casillas be quick enough? Despite the tension and anticipation that everyone can feel in the room, it is not the loyal supporters who are stirring – needless to say, their eyes are glued to the TV. No, it is not Spanish or Catalan that the crowded restaurant could hear. It is me, in my attempt to make my English more understandable to the non-English speaking waiter.
Barcelona, the largest capital city on the Mediterranean was my third stop, with previous adventures in Canada and New York, with Paris as my next and final destination. Barcelona meant no more friendly Canadians who would talk as if they hadn’t had a conversation is years. It meant no more pushy New Yorkers who were always rushing, yet if they told you to get out of the way you would have no problem understanding them. I was heading way out of my comfort zone. With the Rocky Mountains of Banff National Park and Time Square behind me, and the city of love ahead of me, you can imagine how surprised I was to find all I wanted from a new destination in a small, unkempt tavern that was saturated by the presence of men who weren’t so small, yet upheld the unkempt nature of the place. It was my hidden delight; I just didn’t know it yet.
“Uno….er a Coca Cola,” I pleaded with my hand rattling the glass in desperation.
“And umm….uno Pe…Pa..Pealla,” I stammered.
“Paella?” the waiter questioned as he attempted to hold back a grin.
“Si, Si, gracias,” I muttered in a wacky version of a Spanish ascent.
“De nada, senorita,” he replied. (You’re welcome.)
This poetic phrase could have been the waiter telling me that I had a huge nose or that he planned to serve me rat tails instead of prawns for all I knew, but all I could muster was a smile and a nod.
It had been a long day of exploring the work of the great artistic figures that Barcelona has given birth to, with a final visit to Antoni Gaudi’s famous Temple de la Sagrada Familia. Its skeletal appearance in the form of a Latin cross with five naves, three facades, an apse and a transept was eye opening. This temple which is famous for its slender towers, which soar nearly one hundred metres over the building and are crowned by ceramic pinnacles, was not enough to distract me from the continual noise erupting from my belly. Traveling on a budget was not agreeing with my stomach; neither was attempting to place an order without ending up with callos a la madrileña – or, in English, tripe.
Despite the initial struggle with ordering – I know the waiter understood what I meant by Coca Cola, but my pronunciation of Paella and patatas fritas seemed to be a source of amusement to my neighbouring table. Nevertheless what was ahead was something that my tastebuds would never forget.
While waiting for my meal with my fingers crossed, I took the chance to absorb my surroundings. Seated towards the back of the tavern, I was the only person waiting for a formal meal. All the men had their eyes transfixed on the TV screen. The room was clouded with Spanish chatter and occasional cheers. Luckily for me, the Barcelonian team was winning, so everyone was in good spirits as they threw back their wine and tore at their bread. The bare brick walls were adorned with the ugliest tapestries and the crockery was as plain as a blank canvas, yet it was on these plates that something truly artistic appeared. Paella. A frypan was placed in front of me and I tossed its contents onto the blank canvas. I had a mouthful and felt my insides tickle with joy. It was a combination of colours and smells, with a new flavour in every bite. It was the elaborate tastes of chicken, prawns, mussels and fish with a hint of red pepper and saffron in rice, with a side order of hand crafted chips, that finally saw my stomach forgive me for what it had previously endured.
That night I could have tried to experience Barcelona by visiting the Palau de la Musica Catalana. Or I could have strolled along the Port or the Rambla, another popular tourist destination. Instead, I lived like a Barcelonian, doing what they would do, eating what they would eat. Even though I couldn’t understand them, I listened to what they listened to. All it took for me to find what I was looking for were middle aged men, a football match, a laughable attempt to speak Spanish and a satisfied stomach.
My mother always used to say, “What doesn’t kill you, can only make you stronger,” but as a rebellious teenager, I never used to believe nor listen to her advice… until I was fortunate enough to participate in a two-month reciprocal student exchange program to France.
For me, a two-month reciprocal exchange was particularly appealing because it would provide minimal disruption to my studies back home. The opportunity to also experience a white Christmas was simply too hard to resist! But I never thought that spending two months on the other side of the world and living with a group of strangers would completely change my perception of the world, and indeed, change my life.
Every day was a constant challenge, from trying to understand my teachers at school to trying to buy a stamp at the local post office. However, my very limited vocabulary was the least of my problems…
I was placed into a family, with a situation completely different to my own here in Australia. As an only child, I’d always dreamt of having siblings, and my wish was granted when I went to France. My host family comprised of seven people; my host parents and five siblings, all of which were under the age of twenty and all of which had an extreme passion for winter sports – they lived in the French Alps.
Having grown up on a rural property in southern Australia, my knowledge of winter sports was very minimal, but as part of a cultural experience, I agreed to try skiing.
On reflection, I seriously believed that learning to ski was going to kill me, and as a result, I would frequently read the fineprint of my travel insurance policy. It seemed that every time we went skiing, someone would always get hurt. On one skiing outing my friend broke her wrist, on another my host brother dislocated his thumb… and they were experienced skiers. Nevertheless, with some encouragement from my host family I rose to the challenge. After all, I couldn’t let one snow-covered mountain get the better of me. I will never forget the moment when I finally mastered the beginner’s slope, much to the relief of my host family.
A year on from my exchange experience, my fond memories of skiing, school life, and trying to buy a stamp at the local post office are still fresh in my mind – small accomplishments that seem so insignificant to others, yet mean the world to me. Exchange has taught me so much, and I’ve made so many lifelong friends in the process.
Being an exchange student certainly isn’t a piece of cake; the prospect of leaving your friends, family and everything that is familiar to you is a massive challenge for any young person, but the immense linguistic benefits, sense of independence and accomplishment that you will feel and the many new lifelong friendships that you will make, will help you become a much stronger person.
Filed under: Creative Non-fiction, Get Creative, Red Letter Days, Travel, Vietnam
She could hear the rooster’s crowing and smell the intoxicating salty scent of the ocean as she opened her eyes. It was still dark outside. She brushed her teeth and tucked her increasingly unruly hair under her filthy old hat and headed out the door to meet her trusty tour guide.
It was 5:30am in Mui Ne – a small fishing village on the south-central coast of Vietnam. At the driveway she was greeted by Vinh, a Vietnamese university graduate who had offered to show her around in exchange for some English practice. She swung her leg over his motorbike and held on tight for the journey ahead.
Off they roared, out of the alleyway and onto the main road, which was silhouetted by coconut palms. In the darkness, she glanced up at the sky. It was still full of bright twinkling stars, and to her right she recognised the Southern Cross – a beacon of familiarity in a land so foreign. With the crisp morning air lashing her face, she stretched her arms wide and let the air glide between her fingers. She felt alive for the first time in months.
Suddenly she could see the Pacific Ocean. Shadows cast from the pre-dawn light danced across the waves, beckoning her to play with them. The incandescent outline of salty sea puddles stretched for miles along the shore, like a snail’s slimy trail.
The motorcycle veered up and over a hill and all at once the scenery changed. They were surrounded by enormous sand dunes. It was like the deserts of Arizona meeting the seas of the Caribbean. She jumped off the bike and ran up the dunes, sinking deeper with every step.
The sun was beginning to rise and as its first rays caught the ripples of the dunes. She was overwhelmed by the beauty before her. For a moment, everything seemed clear.
We go through life worrying about each ripple, without appreciating the overall majesty of the dune. The journey is not about climbing to the next level, but about appreciating the overall picture – the gift of being on this Earth, if only for a moment in time.
Tearing herself away from the sunrise, she saddled the bike and they took off. After several minutes of speeding down the highway, only slowing for the occasional goat or cow, they arrived at the White Dunes.
Accompanied by a friendly desert canine, she hiked to the top of the dune and did a 360-degree swivel. The dunes stretched for miles – like white marble meticulously carved into the Earth. She turned to her guide and tried to explain how she felt. No luck, so she gave him a grin and the universal thumbs up.
Back in Mui Ne, she sat on the beach and watched a group of children playing makeshift volleyball in the sand. As the waves lapped the shoreline and the palm trees bent to shade her. She felt a tremendous sense of gratitude to be alive and enjoying her morning in paradise.
