Cleveland calling


Off to see The Mistake on The Lake. A drive that started in the wee hours of the morning, is still on. With my husband behind the wheel, I at the shotgun, and a box of baked wheat crackers next to us, we have crossed many a mountain, carpets of green with match-box houses and rows and rows of trees that stand in strict attention, each competing with the other to touch the cool blue of the sky. The music has changed from the mellow Angus and Julia Stone to the more upbeat Daft Punk and then back to Agnes Obel mellow. Green, blue and orange boards whizz past us like confetti in a party, and the silver of the road stretches, winds, dips and divides like a snake made of clay. Eagles hover above like balloons let loose by mistake, and flies crash the windshield with the sound of mustard crackling on the stove.
…a couple more hours, before the journey ends. Only to start again a couple of days after.

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