Gazing up at the sky in wonder at the International Balloon Festival of St Jean sur Richelieu, I felt like I was six, with cotton candy on my fingers, a clip barely holding my messy sunkissed hair, a wide smile frozen on my face and a giddy fluttering sensation in my belly. What a wondrous thing, to be launched into the sky at dusk with only a general sense of direction, knowing full well that the winds could change at any moment, not knowing at all where or how exactly the landing would take place.
You look up, making a memory, recording the perfectly orchestrated scene of balloons, birds and the gentle breeze in the setting sun. You feel connected through an invisible portal to all those who gathered to witness hot air balloon flights in history, going all the way back to Paris in 1783.