A Favorite Place - Entry 7
D7.M5.Y19.
São Paulo
Writing Challenge - entry 7
Between school years, my parents used to ship me off into the mountains to spend the summer there among snakes and sheep, and more importantly, away from them and my friends. That last bit is not true at all, but it just fit into the sentence so well. They loved me very much and had no problems with my friends. It had something to do with being outdoors, fresh air of the altitude and drinking fresh milk and other libations local to that region. Strict diet of meat and fruits was nice too.
At some point during the summer, they would take some time off work and come to join me. They like to walk. I never understood it. They also liked to drag me with them to these long walks. I never understood that either. Walking was boring. Why walk when you can drive, ride a motorbike, a bicycle, rollerblades, take your pick.. But they insisted that it had to be walking. Boredom of it drove me to fantasies and imagination. Along the way, my parents would pick flowers or leaves of plants they did not know so they could learn about them afterwards. I often found blueberries to forage which usually lead me off the trails and into forests and it always left me covered in indigo stains. Although tasty, fun and nutritious, it rarely made a significant dent in my boredom. My father got creative and decided that it was a good idea to make me feel important, indulge in my creativities and give me something to do, all at the same time.
His solution was to find a nice little pine and give it to me along with his Swiss army knife and task me with making myself a walking stick out of it. I'd carve out the grip, tip and butt and tie wire around the bottom to prevent splitting from constant pounding in the ground. Then I would add more lines, squiggles and additional tribal details and symbols. This way, I would be kept busy, walking and entertained even on the longer walks which could sometimes top twenty kilometers.
One of these walks started going uphill from our little cabin. We would take a dust road away from the village and eventually come out onto the road leading to a hotel. We would stay on that road only a little bit before breaking off to the right onto another dusty road. A little way down this path, we could sometimes see artillery smoking on the grass in the shade or doing similar exercises. If they happened to be there, they'd usually let me climb on their tanks and pose for a picture or just engage in friendly banter that would eventually have them soaking in some of my wisdom. From there, the path would steer left into the woods and then right and a little downhill while progressively getting narrower. Eventually it would become a goat path. Narrow. Sheer drops on both sides. Sometimes you could see tiny little avalanches of dirt starting to slide where we had stepped. Then the path would widen into a terrace and there would be a little clearing and a vast and immense view would open in front of us. This is the edge of a very tall cliff. Below it is an ancient forest where no one has set foot in centuries. The next thing you'd see would be a 13th century monastery where a lot of local rulers, nobles, and church dignitaries were buried. The monks there translated Ancient Greek texts and scientific manuscripts and also held a school to which most local literature owes its creativity to. You could also see a nearby town, a large and cold river, a neighboring country and endless horizon hiding behind a flock of surrounding mountains.
This is not only my favorite place in the old country, but also my favorite place in the whole world.
São Paulo
Writing Challenge - entry 7
Between school years, my parents used to ship me off into the mountains to spend the summer there among snakes and sheep, and more importantly, away from them and my friends. That last bit is not true at all, but it just fit into the sentence so well. They loved me very much and had no problems with my friends. It had something to do with being outdoors, fresh air of the altitude and drinking fresh milk and other libations local to that region. Strict diet of meat and fruits was nice too.
At some point during the summer, they would take some time off work and come to join me. They like to walk. I never understood it. They also liked to drag me with them to these long walks. I never understood that either. Walking was boring. Why walk when you can drive, ride a motorbike, a bicycle, rollerblades, take your pick.. But they insisted that it had to be walking. Boredom of it drove me to fantasies and imagination. Along the way, my parents would pick flowers or leaves of plants they did not know so they could learn about them afterwards. I often found blueberries to forage which usually lead me off the trails and into forests and it always left me covered in indigo stains. Although tasty, fun and nutritious, it rarely made a significant dent in my boredom. My father got creative and decided that it was a good idea to make me feel important, indulge in my creativities and give me something to do, all at the same time.
His solution was to find a nice little pine and give it to me along with his Swiss army knife and task me with making myself a walking stick out of it. I'd carve out the grip, tip and butt and tie wire around the bottom to prevent splitting from constant pounding in the ground. Then I would add more lines, squiggles and additional tribal details and symbols. This way, I would be kept busy, walking and entertained even on the longer walks which could sometimes top twenty kilometers.
One of these walks started going uphill from our little cabin. We would take a dust road away from the village and eventually come out onto the road leading to a hotel. We would stay on that road only a little bit before breaking off to the right onto another dusty road. A little way down this path, we could sometimes see artillery smoking on the grass in the shade or doing similar exercises. If they happened to be there, they'd usually let me climb on their tanks and pose for a picture or just engage in friendly banter that would eventually have them soaking in some of my wisdom. From there, the path would steer left into the woods and then right and a little downhill while progressively getting narrower. Eventually it would become a goat path. Narrow. Sheer drops on both sides. Sometimes you could see tiny little avalanches of dirt starting to slide where we had stepped. Then the path would widen into a terrace and there would be a little clearing and a vast and immense view would open in front of us. This is the edge of a very tall cliff. Below it is an ancient forest where no one has set foot in centuries. The next thing you'd see would be a 13th century monastery where a lot of local rulers, nobles, and church dignitaries were buried. The monks there translated Ancient Greek texts and scientific manuscripts and also held a school to which most local literature owes its creativity to. You could also see a nearby town, a large and cold river, a neighboring country and endless horizon hiding behind a flock of surrounding mountains.
This is not only my favorite place in the old country, but also my favorite place in the whole world.
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