Lugano, Switzerland

It’s been awhile since you have last seen a place this grey and this radiant. The whitish grey fog hangs low in the sky as if it is a giant laundry that hangs on the tarnished-red roofs of the short houses that align the hills around. Between the houses and you stretches a lake whose greyness blends so well into the greyness of everything else that you would not have noticed the water were it not for the abandoned sail boats at the dock. The boats tremble every time a small wave comes by and lifts them up slightly above the usual water level, and you imagine the boats to be on their tip toes and waving a big hi as they rock on their sides. At where you come from, people used to ask you how you were doing instead of saying hi but no one ever waited for the answer to the question. It’s not an actual question, a friend of yours told you, it’s just a casual way of addressing someone. So they aren’t really interested in how I’m doing, you asked back. Your friend looked at you and blinked thoughtlessly. Maybe, she said. Maybe not, she said.

It’s been awhile since anyone has asked you how you are doing, and as you stand there in the brilliant greyness of fog, lake, and dock, you feel an impulse to ask the flying sea gulls how they are doing. The sea gulls look white, whiter than the distant stars in the night sky, and unlike the stars, the birds fly around– the white specks in the greyness fly to and fro, scattered here and there, and they make the grey even more brilliant. It’s interesting to see that the whiteness renders the greyness even more like grey than it would otherwise be without the whiteness. How are you doing, seagulls? You wonder if anyone has ever asked that question to the sea gulls. Has any sea gull been asked any question at all? What happens to the stories of these birds if no one ever asks about them? You and your friend try to talk to the birds that are so nearby that it would be possible for you to jump on one of them give it a hug. You wonder aloud about the chance of encountering any relative of Ramalinga, a pigeon that your Singaporean friend told you of, that had accompanied her when she used to attend high school there. Your Singaporean friend saw it every morning on her way to her school and she attests that she never saw it fly. Curiously enough it would walk, run, and even lie down on the street as if about to take a nap, but it never flew, she said. Whenever it was chased by one thing or another, it would run like the fastest pigeon in the world. Your Singaporean friend had thus named that pigeon Ramalinga, after an Indian runner who was supposedly the fastest runner in the world (not fact-checked). So now you are here, in a bird-crowded place of Switzerland, looking for Ramalinga that you have never seen before and perhaps would never see but nonetheless would look for and be reminded of whenever you see a pigeon or any sort of a bird. You and your friend call out its name in the unfamiliar street, and desperately too, because there must be a sliver of hope in a grey that is so brilliant. There is no doubt that such brilliant grey is wonderful, you think to yourself, as you and your friend shout out “Ramalinga!”

Hanover, NH, USA

You miss everything about that place. Nothing elsewhere comes even close to getting as real and fantastical as things were in Hanover. You remember the wonderful taste of gelato that you had on a snowy day; the warmth of August sunlight that blanketed the greenness of the Green when you first got off the Dartmouth Coach and stepped into that magical island in the middle of nowhere; the angelic snow whose mere sight delighted you and made you wish that time would stop so that you could simply stand there forever and watch the snow glitter forever. You cherish those moments when you used to look up at the night sky and find shooting stars splitting the darkness every now and then, as if the night is a crust which, if cracked, would break like an eggshell to reveal who-knows-what that lies beyond the night. You recall that shooting stars slashed across the murkiness of the night, quite suddenly and surreptitiously. Pieces of sky would fall apart under such sharp cuts– perhaps some would fall onto the treetops while others would crash into the soft, wet ground with a thud– and you might feel an urge to pick one of them up, if you can. You used to sit there, under the night sky on an open field so that when the sky actually breaks apart and falls, you would actually be able to grab a piece of it. Anything could happen, you used to think to yourself, at a place like Hanover.

Pieces of Dartmouth strikes you just when you think that you have finally put past things as past and are ready to focus on your present. A glimpse of a lush-green lamp that somehow reminds you of Harry Potter every time you see it catches you at a cafe in Hongdae where the waiter is quite rude and the dessert too sweet. It looks exactly like the one you used to work under on wintry days at Dartmouth, on the top of the antique library building where both students and professors drowsed off under the spell of warmth and coziness that pervaded the place. The transparent, purple water bottle that was one of the first things made in America that you owned jumps at you in your home university’s store and makes you smile wide at the thought of yet another alma mater. Some things come back, and they bring everything else along with them. You unconsciously play around with a loose string near your fingers and accidentally pull it until the entire sweater that you are wearing comes apart and you stand there naked, vulnerable. You shiver at the room temperature because the memories are so real and they create goosebumps on your arms. That’s what Hanover does to you: the place makes you swim naked in its memories, people, snowflakes, and fall leaves.

Copenhagen, Denmark

You arrive and are immediately plunged into the insipid grey of the night. It has been quite awhile since the sun has set and luminous yellows stand by the roads, here and there, awaiting for the complete darkness to settle in. The yellow lights seem distant and nebulous; the misty night pulls over a diaphanous cloak around everything that is lit and you are left thinking whether it is your sleepy eyes playing tricks on you or the place really is that misty. Copenhagen at night never fails to remind you of the very first scene of Harry Potter, that misty night when Hagrid turns up in Dudley’s neighborhood without a warning. You imagine a giant figure walking towards you from far away, breathing heavily and knocking out everything in his way, and the illusion stays with you for so long that eventually, you feel as though you would not be surprised if you were to actually encounter someone with as big of a coat and a beard as Hagrid does. If that ever happens, you would casually offer him a piece of chicken nugget and perhaps even an entire burger from Burger King that you are having with your once-in-a-lifetime friend.

Days of Copenhagen are short, especially when Christmas is just around the corner and your dearly-loved friend has three essays to complete in two days. You lie around in an old couch that faintly smells of spilled milk and cookie crumbs, watching the sunlight fade away at three in the afternoon. Sometimes it rains, and raindrops cling to the windowpane where yellow light of the room seeps out little by little. Other times, you hear distant owl’s cries that somehow make you feel lonely and cuddled at the same time. Perhaps you feel cuddled because artificial lights in Denmark are all yellow and so everything you see at night is yellow– the notepad, the chairs, and even the tired smile that overhangs on your friend’s face. Perhaps you feel cuddled because your friend asks you what you want to eat for breakfast even though both of you know you do not have too many options. Your friend fixes breakfast, lunch, dinner every day for three days, and that makes nine warm meals of slightly burnt spaghetti, Danish rice pudding, and black bread that you manage to convince yourself is tasty enough. As far as you can recall, this is the third time that a friend of yours has cooked for you, and you secretly feel grateful for such a privilege; certainly, it is not to be taken for granted when someone cooks for you because cooking seems to be such an intimate activity, the making of something that is directly related to your health, survival, and above all, your precious taste bud. You realize that it is little things that make you feel cuddled, that really matter in life.

Little things can also make you feel scared too– for instance, when it comes to bikes Danish people turn into one of the most aggressive peoples in the world. Believe it or not, they start cursing the moment you slow down, pointing fingers and glaring at you like you have just murdered your son. You hear all the scary stories about the transformation of Danish that seem to exceed that of Frankenstein, and without further hope decide against getting on a bike in that country. Walking is better for looking at fat mannequins that align the street shop windows, you tell yourself rather timidly. Strangers are no one in your life– you are going to see them only for several seconds– and the words they throw at you are only going to be heard by you and no one else, but then you find yourself afraid to bear those few seconds and words. And you realize yet once again that little things are big things. Denmark is full of little things that are actually big.

Jeju island, Republic of Korea

You see through the stone walls because the stones do not quite fit into each other and that is the way it is supposed to be. The wind that was born in Atlantis and came all the way across the backs of traveling whales never tires as it runs in between and right through the stones. The rushing air blends in with the rocks as if to let the long-held breath of dust and cut plant roots out of the solid chunks of time. The walls breathe without moving their lungs or any other part of themselves; they simply are there and the wind does all the dancing and twirling in and out of the stone walls– the breathing in and out of the walls– until all the life that the walls need fills all their cracks. When you lower your face until the tip of your nose almost touches one of the stones and peek into the purposeful holes, you realize that there is indeed so much life imbued into the walls; the roof of the house that floats just above your chin, the fat chocolate-brown horse grazing on the color of the apples that you ate in the morning, and the cacti that may or may not contain water underneath the prickly thorns (who knows what the cactus hides in its inside?) are all growing lively within the holes of the Jeju stone walls. There are many other things, too, dwelling in the smallest and the largest cracks of the island, some beyond your expectations and others far from the lowest of your imagination: the navy blue waves that quickly turn into the pearly foams, spreading like a spiderweb across the deepest azure; the veil of sunlight that renders the air faintly misty, just like the way morning dew rains down in the earliest time of a dawn; the standing boulders that remind you of both black honeycombs and hexagon pencil leads; all these grow in between the rocks of the island amidst the rough manners of coastal people who serve fresh sushi. And in one and all, the conscience of an island looms; that feeling of separation from the mainland, farewell to the main civilization, and the distillation of mundane, everyday life.

Jeju island also holds the memories of the very first family trips. Your grandparents had come here a long time ago for their honeymoon, your parents came here quite awhile ago for their own honeymoon, and now you are here with your most beloved ones, quarreling every now and then over what to wear and where to go. Your mom insists that you cover your head with a towel on top of which you must put on your cap in order to protect your skin from the malicious, lethal sunlight that is bound to bring you nasty sunburns. You adamantly refuse such order, partly because you do not like to have a towel around your head when you swim and also because you are beginning to recall that your childhood was not as happy as you often reminisced it to be (your mom had in fact intervened in almost every part of your childhood). This is how most quarreling starts– with a small, petty matter to which the level of priority bestowed differs among the social constituents– and you wonder whether your grandparents might have had fought over the color of their shirts on a particular day at Jeju island. You can almost guarantee that your parents would have caused a ruckus over the price of lunch that they had on their honeymoon, and then you start to imagine a whole new world of Jeju in which couples dissent over so many little things that eventually petrify into memories. Family trips, bickering, memories. That’s the equation for the birth of pasts.

Quebec, Canada (feat. Groulx Mountains)

It isn’t that the entire place is covered with snow– no, I would not use an expression as cliche and nonsensical– but there, the world is the snow itself; the snow, which is the world, is studded with spruce leaves, treetops, mountains, and sparsely populated human beings. The fresh wolf tracks that are left unseen, the fire-lit pages of books whose words are read aloud ever so sweetly by an endearing stranger, the wisp of anxious sleep that covers your eyes right before you fall into a deep oblivion that gets progressively colder– everything you encounter is just another playful disguise of snow, an intricate adornment for the snow, the world. I’d like to imagine that the core of this planet is actually packed with blaring whiteness, that underneath my frozen toes lies a universe of pure, pristine blankness that has been touched by none and yet embraces everything. It would be just like a magic show where instead of a white rabbit jumping out of a black hat, the quintessence of whiteness surprises everyone who sees it. The moment I lift up the veneer of what seems to be a civilization, an established network of luxuries and desires, I thus expect to find a warm blanket of twinkling snow underlying all those that are in vain, the delusional, schizophrenic chasing of gold, fame, and self-gratifications.

And then there is the black cat with transparent yellow eyes that acts so unlike a cat that you begin to wonder whether it is actually a cat. The question of identity is a complicated one, you see, and any Quebecian would know that. Where you come from, where you are going, how you react to different situations along the way– all your actions, words, motivations, and purpose contribute to determining who you are and in turn, who you are designates you to act and speak in a certain way. Like any other, this cat has decided to choose its own destiny and act like a sheepish dog; when called, it always(!) comes and meows to you, completely acknowledging your presence. It meekly sits on your lap and gives you a nice excuse to not go out into the coldness to cut some more wood for the fire. Sometimes when you forget to stroke its back it carefully scratches you, cautiously nagging for attention and comfort. This cat definitely makes a choice, and it chooses to be with you.

Under the dim, orange yellow light of the wooden cabin also dwell the fond moments of folk music and laughters that are so wholesome to the extent that they feel holy. As you awkwardly play the newly-bought accordion accompanied by others with their harmonicas and guitar, you think to yourself that this is the life that people are supposed to live. This is a way to live, you whisper in your head. Living without electricity and running water (and laptops and cellphones and facebook and emails) reveals the utmost simplicity of life, the beautiful essence of living the elementary life of feeding yourself, keeping your house warm, and occasionally allowing yourself to relax with a warm cup of peppermint tea. Songs sung that night are embroidered with unintentional harmonies that sound good nonetheless, and amidst the excellent company, it is human warmth that you cuddle into as you stare at each other with eyes filled with wonder, endearment, and respectful love. You feel so alive, so good.

Tower Room, Baker Library

The morning sunlight sleepily caresses itself on the carpeted floor, wallowing in the red and green waves of the patterns that remind you of a Christmas tree, with its jingles, lights, and pleasant surprises. Some of its rays perch on the antique armchairs with deep-green cushions and generously shine themselves onto the small golden beads that playfully align the armrests like a group of excited children who can barely restrain themselves at the sight of chocolate chip cookies. Shelves on the walls are filled with books– books covered with dust, faded letters, and time-worn knowledge that are bound by the spell of some unknown curiosity– and the sunlight springs on them, too, bringing their colorful spines into life. The light seeping through the thick red curtains is everywhere and yet nowhere; the room seems to be alighted so naturally that you never really think about where the light comes from. The light belongs here, in this room, as it illuminates the sparkling dusts floating around in the air and the french macarons that sit meekly on one of the desks, and there is no way you can mess around with that. Sunday morn sunlight and macarons are both just so tasty.

The Tower room is where the silence resides, too, away from the fancy neon streetlights, the drunk students’ ramblings with sour breaths, and the growls of rushing cars. A chandelier with faint yellow lights of fireflies hangs still in the air, so still that it almost seems surreal– as if it has been plucked out of the thin air, as if it is not of this earth. The more you stare at it, the more you are drawn to it and the more you begin to wonder whether what your eyes are beholding is actually real. Perchance this an extremely realistic painting, you whisper to yourself, or maybe you are simply in someone else’s dream. You secretly wish that the person who is dreaming about you is the one who is always so fond of you, so blindly in love with you. You notice that the air is viscous with silence, a silence so thick that it would make much more sense to imagine this entire room brimming with honey and everything– the carved wood designs on the wall, dimly lit lamps, pillars of papers– all submerged in golden, oozy honey. This entire place would be so drunk with that particular fresh sweetness of the autumn, then, and everything would slow down just like they do in hallucinations or slow-motion films.

Skiway

The skiway smells of morning sunlight, sliding of snowboards, and a tingling excitement for learning to breeze through the mountainsides. Shaking off the sleep that is still clinging to your arms, legs, and torso, you take crunchy steps on the snow that somehow looks like salt and take deep breathes– you probably won’t be able to breathe once you get on the ski so might as well store up all the air that you would need for the time in your lungs.

The sunlight makes the entire skiway so white, so bright. First you start with baby steps, just like the way you do in life: learn to walk, put one foot in front of the other, start from the very beginning. Skiing may be one of those rarest opportunities in life where you get to have an entirely brand new start with a blank slate of snow in front of you. However you walked on the pavement doesn’t matter here, because you are now on a fresh start. Unless you leave behind and even forget about the way you walked before on asphalt, marble, grass, or whatever, you won’t be able to thrive. Just forget about everything else but slide through the snow. No more of putting your feet up and then slamming them down– what an ungraceful movement! Even if you fall, learn to be a snow mermaid and put your feet elegantly together before you get up again. The way you get back up is more important than the way you fall, as is always the principle in life. Everyone falls, but not everyone gets back up properly.

Kids look like nuggets in their ski suits. Most of them are fearless, and like monkeys that rhythmically jump from one tree to another so naturally, they swish through the snow and poles so easily that you can’t help but to admire their audacity and agility. You vaguely remember learning from God knows where that kids’ bones are still very malleable and squishy because they are in the process of growth and have yet to achieve their adulthood forms. Recalling this makes you imagine one of these nuggets accidentally running into a tree, bouncing back like a gumball, and resuming to ski as if nothing had happened. Perhaps they do have such superpower, you would just have to wait until one of them hits a tree or something.

Nevertheless, you get back to your own skiing because that’s life; it’s about focusing on what has been given to you instead of looking at others and wondering what would happen to them. On your own plate is your time, health, people, love, and blessings, and it’s better to relish them before they disappear into the thin air. After all, you really don’t know when you’re going to be in want of something that you had taken for granted.

Venice, Italy

It is a myth retold in reality, as words are chopped out from the traces of a dry, crinkled mouth of a grandmother (with smiling eyes that remind you of swimming tadpoles) and brought to an excited child’s ears like a delicious warm dinner. It glows in the sunlight but shines in the greyness of the rain clouds; its pink, yellow, and light green houses exudes light themselves amidst the grey, and raindrops, when they come, add moisture to the place until Venice becomes so lustrous, so sexy and innocent at the same time. It is the innocent luster that the city has, the eye-catching silvery masks that half conceal the mundaneness of the local people and reveal only the fancy, temporal touristic facet of the place. The masks are beyond thoughts and ideas; the swirling of pure gold, silver, black, purple, and blue is simply dazzling, to the extent that it blinds you with the dainty, meticulous carvings of expressions that it assumes. Your eyes are unknowingly enchanted and drugged by the gold dusts from the masks that float around in the air and they make you lose your way so you won’t know you are going. You thus get lost in the silvery reverie, the extravagance, and the dark alleyways that are sometimes lighted by some unknown dogs’ barks. Venice is the most skillful masked magician that tricks its audience and transports them to an entirely different world.

If you look at its mask closely enough though, above all the crowds, noises, and shops are windows– windows of people, and people like you and me. These are windows with kites, towels, and wet clothes. Occasionally you can even find seagulls and small orange trees sitting on the window and you wonder about living a life in which you would be able to pick oranges and pat seagulls from your window. You would have the brightness of the orange as your windowsill then, and it would be there as long as Venice is there outside your window. The magician with the mask whose bare face is that of some unknown peasant. Venice will always be there.

And as long as Venice is there, the canal will be there too. It will sit there, swishing its emerald waves against the tourist-laden gondolas and break away as playful, white pearls of water. It appears calm and turquoise but probably has seen much more than you can imagine in its blueness, holding all the history in itself; the ancient wars, killings, constructions, kings and peasants, romantic loves, and cheerful gossips. The Grand canal is thus a blue of secrets, time, and eternity. And Venice is thus the fantasy of memories, civilization, and crude reality that, on the hindsight, resembles a tale whose long forgotten story resurrects itself in the winds of northern Italy.

Milan, Italy

You first greet Milan with a suspicious look, having had received grave warnings and anecdotes from sincere acquaintances who had lost their wallets, passports, and souls in that place. That place is full of pickpocketers– they had whispered to you with strained eyes, and with a blink of an eye you may have a cigarette burn your sleeves until your hair starts burning before you can even smell it. Keep your eyes open. You don’t want to close your eyes, no matter what, not even for a moment.

Indeed, Milan turns out to be a place where you shouldn’t blink your eyes. Mind you, though, your eyes dilate not because of fear or suspicion but because of wonder, fascination, and curiosity. It is a city that, on its own, is a classy fashion show. Its semi-transparent black dress with floral patterns that pleases the eyes when worn with knee-long black socks or the denim-colored jacket that sleekly accompanies rose-red boots lures you into the world of modern, capitalistic beauty. The perfumes, bags, shoes. Ribbons, dog collars, socks, rooftops, sunglasses on a rainy day. Whatever it does, Milan makes sense because it is a fashion show. It is the fashion show. It makes you want to take out your dusty sketchbook and start drawing again. The art of fabric, texture, and catlike poses— which everyone admires but only a few masters— lingers on every stone that you step on. Tap, tap, tap. It is the sound of your footsteps on the runway and it is the knocking of fashion on your door. With every step that you walk on Milanese streets Milan walks on you too, and before you know it your heart is covered with its footprints. Milan leaves traces the way a camel’s humps leave digged depressions on your butt after you ride on the animal.

Once the night approaches, though, it sleeps over its traces. The city sleeps like a baby, a baby dreaming a dream of long eyelashes, powdered necks, and teeth that are lipstick-stained from French kisses. Surely enough, it lives its dream during the day when it wakes up to become a stylish woman who arises from her bed and puts on her makeup. Milan ages and “youths” just like that. Flip, flip. And here is a secret to recognize both Milans: Just look for anyone who is always bathed in yellow spotlights and gold sparkles of a fashion show.

Irvine-Los Angeles-(desert/grassland/sea)-San Diego

Irvine: All the wonders of living an exchange student life resides here, in this place where unexpected kindness and empathy lives. Irvine is a place that is initially hard to locate, that snuggles into your heart before you know it, and that becomes even harder to dislocate from where it has rooted itself. It is a place of strangers who become friends and then best friends as you do cooking and laundry together. I actually do not believe in best friends, but I do believe in that feeling of clicking with someone. You do not have to label them as best friends but you still know that you spent some moments of your short life with them and spent that time laughing and sharing your emotions that you can only feel in that specific context. You inevitably get to share that moment with only those people, who are not exactly your best buddies but nevertheless share memories with you that you are eternally bound to each other in some vague, reminiscent ways. Irvine treasures these memories, then, in its cracks of blue walls, behind the large trees of UC Irvine, in the lingering scent of burnt meat on the stove, and in the ghostly presence of a guy who played pools besides you. There are also traces of talks on poverty, love, forgiveness, and the feeling of being lost and awkward floating around the night air. Good homemade food is always there, more real and solid than anything else, and that alone makes Irvine so familiar and friendly.

Los Angeles: Frankly, not much has been harvested from Los Angeles except the wistful silhouettes of palm trees that sway in the neighborhood that smells like money. The jingles of Christmas bells and shining festive lights on trees all remind you of the jingling of money, the shining lights of invisible gold coins that seem to roll around everywhere, chased by so many people. The sunset that colors the entire place with red, orange, and yellow just balms the surreality onto the richness that is full of money, making the coins even more elusive; you can never quite guess where you might come across one of those rolling money but then again you might never actually see them. You may be chasing illusions like you would in a desert as you pursue a mirage of an oasis. Where you would end up in that journey, no one knows.

Desert/grassland/sea: It is definitely a curious sight of desert rolling into grassland that eventually gives way to a beach that tightly hugs a sea. Surely in your middle school geography class, you think you have learnt that different geographical landscapes exist depending on the climate or the altitude or something, but here you find that your geography teacher– whoever it was– was wrong. Perhaps it is this new fact that makes you sleepy-headed, because I fell asleep as I gazed in wonder at the simultaneity of a desert, grassland, and sea. Or maybe it was the chase Perhaps this is what Peter Pan’s Neverland is all about: deserts, grasslands, and seas mashed into each other. Where would Tinker Bell live then?

San Diego: (Part I) San Diego is a lovely place. It is certainly lovely in the romantic sense as its red-roofed palace where all the world’s romance and dreamlike dances in the moonlight are performed. You cannot help but be astonished at the blendings of blue, emerald green, yellow, orange, and pink on the sky that eventually crash into the red roof and simmer down as sparkling Christmas lights. The sea that reflects the sunlight resembles a road on a rainy day that gleams with watery luster. The colonial aura of the palace reaches just the tip of a white-sand beach as it melts into the rainbow in the sunset and renders everyone on the beach silhouettes of their loves. You see people, and whatever they do turns into a romantic scene from your favorite movie. San Diego is perhaps the only place in the world where real life meets your impossible expectations that have been derived from romantic movie scenes. Its combination of palace, sunset, and white-sand beach is everything and beyond.

The fantasy is not as transient as some might deem it to be, because the darkness that sets in holds even more mysteries and beauties. The Christmas lights are turned on to create a milky way amidst of which people roam around like moons and planets. Everything soon turns yellow and deep blue-black, but far above the horizon you see shimmering land of the city. It shimmers like nothing else, shimmers in a way that you are led to think that you are seeing suns, so many suns, suns, suns, that are million miles away in the galaxy. The shimmerings are suns that have hearts of blue, yellow, and white, that beckon you to the distant world that you always knew was there but simply never said it aloud. It is like unspoken words that are still clinging to the back of your tongue so all you have to do is stick your tongue out into the kaleidoscope to find that world again. It is the city that you live in, that you pass by, but it is also the city that shimmers like million suns million miles away over the horizon.

(Part II) You start the journey to the sparkling blue with cheesecakes. With hungry fingers I’ll get the white chocolate raspberry cheesecake, please. Clinking of knives, forks, and water-filled cups. Sweet-scented smiles with milk. It may be the sweetest, chocolatey morning you’ve ever had in quite awhile, with such a delicious feeling you’ve got there. Then comes the real sweet part, at the Seaport village with the blue sparkling water. If you actually think about it, the sweetness of the blueness is much more intense and stronger than the sweetness of white chocolate raspberry cheesecake, and you prove this by savoring the sparkling blue for three hours, just sitting there in the sun and being lost in the delightful sapphire sea and its luscious white-silver waves. It is as if you’re tipping your head and drinking in, drinking in that blue vitality until you are brimming with blue spirit that makes you turn your head upwards and see the flying kites. And you see that it is the pieces of diamonds that sunlight throws onto the blue texture of scintillations that bounce up the kites and makes them float above the blueness. Kites and water definitely go well together.