The time in our voyage had finally come, to quit our cozy Portland cocoon and get on the road to San Francisco.
To get there, we would ride along the Californian coast in aterribly cramped fairly comfortable car, taking our time to pull over wherever we wanted…
To get there, we would ride along the Californian coast in a
…like in small, seemingly abandoned villages, though with stylish houses…
…before graffitied walls - a little out there…
…under postcard skies…
…surround by the “tallest trees in the world”…
…on the Pacific shore…
… at the Tattoo Museum in Fort Bragg, where the charming Madame Chinchilla gave us the VIP tour of her incredible tattoo studio, which Julius had especially enjoyed…
…in front of a gigantic tree stump…
…or on a bench with the engravings of many lovers’ initials!
It felt like we were in a movie, against such breath taking landscapes, the wind in our hair (while the window was rolled down), headed for the horizon.
Minuscule below the immense trees, fragile at the edges of oceanside cliffs, grateful to this lady who had welcomed us with such open (and tattooed) arms without asking anything in return.
The Californian coast, from afar, had sounded like a dream, it looked like a dream, and in reality, it even tasted like a dream.
It felt like we were in a movie, against such breath taking landscapes, the wind in our hair (while the window was rolled down), headed for the horizon.
Minuscule below the immense trees, fragile at the edges of oceanside cliffs, grateful to this lady who had welcomed us with such open (and tattooed) arms without asking anything in return.
The Californian coast, from afar, had sounded like a dream, it looked like a dream, and in reality, it even tasted like a dream.
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