EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNALSeptember
6, 1999
Chens-sur-Leman
Lac Leman
The French shore of Lake Geneva (Lac Leman to the French) is crystal clear. It’s
been a popular and fashionable resort area since the first spa facilities were developed
at Evian-les-Bains in 1839. The sky drizzles on and off all day, threatening sunshine,
threatening a downpour, opening and closing on young calves and horses. They masticate
with their mothers in the fields, spotted cinnamon and white and not yet speckled with the
curse of flies their parents suffer. Geneva is situated on the southwest tip of the 60
kilometre, crescent shaped lake, with the Swiss border curling around with the water and
leaving the rest of the south shore to France. Lake Geneva is the largest lake in
land-locked Switzerland – a hub with the cities of Geneva, Lausanne and Montreaux on
its west, north and east shores. To the French the lake’s south shore is a relatively
quiet resort district for the ailing and curious, with the spa towns of Evian and Thonon
humming with retired, wild swan feeders promenading the lakeside and buying cheese in the
shopping corners, or sipping au laits at the streetside cafes.
It seems we’re about to break a record on cheap sleeps. France’s municipal
campsites are a steal at 40 FF per nights (45 with electricity for the laptops) –
that’s about CDN$10 and they often include a swimming pool. Today it’s
unnecessary – it’s been dropping to 3 degrees at night at the higher elevations
and tonight, on the lake at Chens-sur-Leman it drizzles Vancouver-style in the
full-fledged spirit of autumn. Even with the budget-gentle accommodations and a diet of
yogurt and sandwiches, we’re turning our thoughts to last year, and the anniversary
of our arrival in Europe – September 25th. We’re sitting in Alfi.
I’m spreading apricot jam on the last of Rich’s enormous pain de compagne.
My posy of lavender is holding up on the dashboard, scenting the musty car with something
other than burning oil and the permanent residue of stale cigars. Outside, with a
conference of slugs, the Bike n’Hike stands up to the dampness, muddy still with
Portuguese sand, Spanish dust, Roussillon grass, Provence leaves. The weather’s
turning and we’re remembering last year’s London, Wales and Ireland. Building
peat fires in Ballyferriter, it blustery and bracing outside with wet sheep and cows
chewing. It’s hard to believe that a year is coming to an end and impossible to
fathom all that we’ve seen and experienced. 346 days alone together, with nothing to
disrupt our dreams, with everything to prime our pumps, with infinite possibilities still
around the next corner. Perhaps, maybe though, we’ll give some thought to tickets
home.
