Tuesday, May 3, 2005
10:23 p.m. On Florida Avenue, we followed a Ford with dogs hanging out every window, a giant Saint Bernard out the back left, a little white snout in shotgun.
We took Route 66 westward out of DC, the hills in front of us green and tufty with trees. Virginia: the sky in front of us wide and low, and here and there the sun beaming down in streaks of light. Turning left for the Skyline Drive took us through the curving country streets of Front Royal, a dusty gem in small-town America with an antique antique store and an ice cream shack advertising burgers and Butter Brittle–flavored ice creams.
At the entrance to the Shenandoah National Park, the nice park ranger lady told us about the route. A three- to four-hour drive, service stations along the way, possibilities for exiting to I-81 before Waynesboro. I said, “We’ll take it!” and we handed over two fives for entry.
We are three girls on a roadtrip, so the first sight of deer maybe ten minutes into the drive brought about squealing and cooing. Also, we are three girls with varying degrees of bilinguality on a roadtrip, so the nature drive necessitated a dictionnaire français-anglais of forest animals. Deer, le daim. Squirrel, l’écureuil. Hedghog, l’hérisson. Skunk, le putoir. “’Putoir’ parce qu’il pue?” I said. “Oui,” Maud said, “tu pues, toi.” And then I was the only one laughing while everyone else laughed at me laughing.
* * *
Announcing Blog Quiz #1: Anyone know how to say “chipmunk” in French? Tell us, and you could win a souvenir from Tennessee, yee-haw!
Attention, le blog-quizz #1 : si tu sais comment dire “chipmunk” en français, lève ta main et dis-le nous! Tu gagneras un souvenir de Tennessee ouaaaiiis !!!
* * *
Except for the rare car on the lonely road, Shenandoah was just us and the deer and the squirrels and the wildflowers in pink and yellow. And the mountains, my word, the Blue Ridge mountains, waves and shades of blue stretching out and neverending on either side of us.
Gal Costa was singing into the muted mountain air as we pulled over at the Jewell Hollow Outlook for a breathe and a stretch. She sings in Portuguese so I can’t be sure what she was saying, but the way the song feels, it can really only be about love.
The Appalachian range and the deep green valley. We were speechless but for understanding that life is good.
The sky turned pink like a rose Ladurée macaroon, and then the setting sun was a blood orange in the sky. Everything glowed golden, the hillsides, the trees, our faces.
Soon, the enveloping darkness, our headlights on black gravel, and, to the right, the lights coming on in the valley. We took the curves to Dinah Washington on “What a Difference a Day Makes.” As we came to Waynesboro, the modern jazzy brass of “Our Love is Here to Stay” felt like the neon lights of the city, of Broadway, of civilisation refound.
The Inn at Afton is sixty dollars a night for a massive room and cable television. Because we are classy ladies, we have a delivery Domino’s pizza and Fox TV for dinner.
10:23 p.m. On Florida Avenue, we followed a Ford with dogs hanging out every window, a giant Saint Bernard out the back left, a little white snout in shotgun.
We took Route 66 westward out of DC, the hills in front of us green and tufty with trees. Virginia: the sky in front of us wide and low, and here and there the sun beaming down in streaks of light. Turning left for the Skyline Drive took us through the curving country streets of Front Royal, a dusty gem in small-town America with an antique antique store and an ice cream shack advertising burgers and Butter Brittle–flavored ice creams.
At the entrance to the Shenandoah National Park, the nice park ranger lady told us about the route. A three- to four-hour drive, service stations along the way, possibilities for exiting to I-81 before Waynesboro. I said, “We’ll take it!” and we handed over two fives for entry.
We are three girls on a roadtrip, so the first sight of deer maybe ten minutes into the drive brought about squealing and cooing. Also, we are three girls with varying degrees of bilinguality on a roadtrip, so the nature drive necessitated a dictionnaire français-anglais of forest animals. Deer, le daim. Squirrel, l’écureuil. Hedghog, l’hérisson. Skunk, le putoir. “’Putoir’ parce qu’il pue?” I said. “Oui,” Maud said, “tu pues, toi.” And then I was the only one laughing while everyone else laughed at me laughing.
* * *
Announcing Blog Quiz #1: Anyone know how to say “chipmunk” in French? Tell us, and you could win a souvenir from Tennessee, yee-haw!
Attention, le blog-quizz #1 : si tu sais comment dire “chipmunk” en français, lève ta main et dis-le nous! Tu gagneras un souvenir de Tennessee ouaaaiiis !!!
* * *
Except for the rare car on the lonely road, Shenandoah was just us and the deer and the squirrels and the wildflowers in pink and yellow. And the mountains, my word, the Blue Ridge mountains, waves and shades of blue stretching out and neverending on either side of us.
Gal Costa was singing into the muted mountain air as we pulled over at the Jewell Hollow Outlook for a breathe and a stretch. She sings in Portuguese so I can’t be sure what she was saying, but the way the song feels, it can really only be about love.
The Appalachian range and the deep green valley. We were speechless but for understanding that life is good.
The sky turned pink like a rose Ladurée macaroon, and then the setting sun was a blood orange in the sky. Everything glowed golden, the hillsides, the trees, our faces.
Soon, the enveloping darkness, our headlights on black gravel, and, to the right, the lights coming on in the valley. We took the curves to Dinah Washington on “What a Difference a Day Makes.” As we came to Waynesboro, the modern jazzy brass of “Our Love is Here to Stay” felt like the neon lights of the city, of Broadway, of civilisation refound.
The Inn at Afton is sixty dollars a night for a massive room and cable television. Because we are classy ladies, we have a delivery Domino’s pizza and Fox TV for dinner.
Labels: Travel: Road trip USA
posted by stellou at 11:21 PM
7 Comments:
CHIPMUNK: C'est pareil en francais. Ou bien tamia raye ou ecureuil raye.
Vous avez rien de plus dur? ;)
Il se mange mon cadeau?
ben....
pas mieux.
enfin si au détour de mes recherches, le terme de spermophile semblait séduisant, mais il semblerait que ce soit une autre variété de rongeur.
et puis de toute façon chez nous ce sont les marmottes qui emballent le chocolat dans le papier, alors cecyl peut bien manger son chipmunk. faudrait voir qui s'occupe de la vache Milka chez les Quebecois...
Gôte d'Or
yo - i'm just impressed that you can see "yee haw" in French. Dayum.
- Kat, too lazy to figure out how to log in, as usual...
Girls!
Your parallel translation of blog quiz/le blog-quizz and yee-haw/ouaaaiiis puts me in mind of my favorite line from my favorite edition of my favorite Michael Ondaatje poem (which is perhaps not saying much, given how little I care for poetry, but trust me--this poem, it cracks me up). And it's a little bit appropriate, as an elimination dance is a countrified thing where there's probably fiddlers and such. What it is, per Ondaatje's publisher:
'Instructions: An elimination dance begins with a crowded dance floor. At a signal, the band stops playing and the announcer reads an elimination, say, "Any lover who has gone into a flower shop on Valentine's Day and asked for clitoris when he meant clematis." Any dancer answering this description must sit down, and his partner is also disqualified. The process continues (e.g. "Any person who has burst into tears at the Liquor Control Board") until a single couple remains. And now, . . . Brick Books reaches out to Quebec: "Tout amant qui, à la Saint-Valentin, est entré dans une boutique de fleuriste et a demandé pour un clitoris au lieu d'une clématile."'
So, without further ado, the line:
'Those who have filled in a bilingual and confidential pig survey from Statistics Canada. (Une enquete sur les porcs, strictement confidentielle)'
That is all.
BONUS: Elimination Dance as a short film.
c'est pas clématiLE, c'est clématiTE --en tous cas en français, en Québecois, jsais pas !
Papa Benoit: Well, that just makes it all the more better, I think. Because really, who goes to a florist and asks for clematis, anyway? Don't you just point and say, "these pink ones"? Especially now, after we've learned that all those things we thought were peonies might actually be ranunculi.
No comment on what word peonies could be freudian-slipped for.
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