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If someone has a more horrific dream, please tell me about it so I’ll feel better.
A few weeks ago, of all things people can dream of, I dreamt of Freddie Kruger.
It must be the ultimate nightmare.
I can’t imagine anything worst than dreaming of a demented disfigured serial torturous murderer who swallows children (and adults?) into their beds and kidnaps them in their dreams and have them screaming in pools of blood.
If you don’t know who Freddie Kruger is, in short, he is that guy in those 80s horror movies that appears in people’s dreams and murders them under horrific circumstances.
Look, I’m so terrified I’m not even going to put a photo of him on my blog, lest he haunts me here too. So just google him ok?
I blame my uncle, who we lived with for a while during my first few years in primary school, who is a fan of horror movies. As is my mom. I spent many a night sitting next to them watching through gaps in my fingers as I half-covered my eyes.
(Unfortunately, I still do it.)
Why have I only just dreamt of him? A guy who kills people in their dreams? I have no effing clue.
In the dream, I was genuinely terrified. As terrified as anyone can possibly get, and he lifted me up and I screamed the most horrifying scream I’ve ever screamed.
I woke up in the midst of my scream, wondering if I’d actually screamed.
Watching bits of Into the Blue last night, I recalled a cute surfer-dude guy at work who went to California for 2 weeks on holiday (and to see about a girl).
He was asked what he thought of his stay, and this is part of what he said:
“California is full of beautiful people with hot bodies driving expensive convertibles. I came back feeling poor and ugly.”
I’ve never been. But I’ve hence concluded that, if a cute English guy felt poor and ugly in California, I’m not sure if I’ll ever muster enough self-esteem to survive a visit there without breaking down and running to the nearest plastic surgery clinic.
The weekend before last, Nasty and I somehow came up with the *brilliant* idea of cycling from:
London
to
Godalming.
Don’t ask me why I thought it was a great idea, I probably thought up half of it anyways, which means I wasn’t quite in the right frame of mind…
So last Saturday morning, we set off on our bikes at 9.50am from north-east London.
We cycled through west London, seeing sights I haven’t seen in ages (Big Ben) and passing by places I’ve never been (Battersea Park). I was again amazed at how big this friggin’ city is and how much of it is still unknown to me.
Cyling through and away from London, it was interesting to see as well how cycling trends change.
Trendy Shoreditch fixed-gear and single-speed bikes were hardly seen outside east/central London. The further away we go, the more lycra-clad cyclists whosh past. Embarassingly enough, as soon as we left London, and for as long as we were out of London, I was the only person I know wearing a neon yellow high visibility vest (think construction workers) (and yes, I think it’s ugly, but I got it for free, so might as well wear it). Probably because of the risk of being run over, a lot of cyclists in London wear one. But outside the city, I felt like a highlighted idiot.
Going through west-end posh neighbourhoods, we arrived at Richmond Park an hour later.
I gasped seeing it for the first time. It was like going on safari! I’ve never seen anything like it. This must be the best park I’ve been to yet.
The park is humongous and people can drive through it’s paved roads. In the distance, horse riders gallop through the plains. On the tarmac, groups of (again) lycra-clad cyclists slice through the wind, and on another grassy plain, kite-boarders unload their gear.
Best of all was the magnificent hordes of deer roaming free in the park.
They were so close, so accessible, I was awe-struck. I wanted to go closer but was afraid they would charge me with their big horns. Do deer charge?
We stopped for some food and drink and then set off again towards Godalming. I wanted to stay in the park forever…
Cycling to Richmond Park took an hour, and then from Richmond Park onwards, time stood still and it felt like an eternity before we arrived at our destination.
The distance and physical exertion aside, what made it additionally difficult was the wind that was blowing against us the ENTIRE day.
As the hours wore on, my legs got heavier and heavier and I cycled slower and slower.
Slowly, each rotation of the pedals became a struggle, I kept shifting to easier gears, but even on gears that are normally easy-peasy for me felt like someone’s added a ton of weights to them. It was a constant mental battle to not get off my bike and just push the damned thing up the many hills.
After a while, when you’re on semi-major roads like the A307 and you have no choice but to pedal on, you try different mental tricks to get yourself going.
Going up the hills, I tried to be positive and look forward to the downward ride after. I channelled images from the Tour de France and imagined I was doing something as amazing as that. (Yeah right.)
But then when the packs of cycle club members whosh pass me in their colour-coordinated lycra and closed rear wheels, clipped cycle shoes and aerodynamic helmets, I peddled with a too-heavy overnight bag on my back and I cursed them. DAMN YOU you cycle geeks and nerds!
Unsurprisingly, taking photos was the last thing on my mind, as such there are no photos of Nasty massaging my thighs on the road side, no photos of us studying our maps, no photos of us drinking our 2 litres of water, no photos of Nasty always cycling 200 meters in front of me coz I’m too slow, no photos of Nasty yet again stopping to wait for me to catch up, no photos of me grimacing and cursing my way up hills…..until we finally reached Guildford (2 train stations away from our destination) and we stopped for a pub lunch.
We regained some energy, was finally in the country lanes, and we cycled the final stretch home along a river and canal.
Fresh , crisp air away from London…
…includes horse shit air.
Scenery like this made me feel like all the slogging through traffic on the motorways earlier was worth it. (Just don’t ask me to do it again.)
We also came across a World War II era pill box along the river, one of many set up across the English country side to stockpile weapns and men in anticipation of a German invasion that didn’t happen.
After 7 hours of cycling (including one tea break and one lunch break and too many I’m-so-effing-tired-I-just-need-to-sit-by-the-road-side breaks), we finally arrived in Godalming at 5.18pm.
This was one of the most physically challenging things I’ve ever done.
I asked Nasty how he felt. Was he tired? Was he as exhausted and amazed as I was at what we’ve achieved?
He shrugged his shoulders, skipped around the house, and said he felt fine and had fun and then went to pet the cat. He spoke as if he’s just came back from an everyday half-hour jog.
Meanwhile, I thought was I going to need extensive therapy and recuperation to recover. I walked around with jellied legs for the rest of the evening, and suffered from neck, shoulder and leg pain for the next few days.
We cycled a total of 40.84 miles in a day, when all the “training” I’ve done is cycling to the shops and parks in London. I have to say, I don’t care if you’re a lycra-clad cycle nerd and you do this everyday, but I am immensely proud of my now very painful acheivement. I would’ve never thought I could do something like this. :)
That bling hanging from his neck is a big dollar sign. I’m not sure if anyone else’s ever tried harder to be black.
I take it that he just wanted to blend in with the gleaming white cathedral that he’s standing right in front of?!
For four days in Italy, we ate nothing but cheese, salami, parma ham, and gelato.
Ok, so we ate pizza one night. But that was pretty much it.
So much so that by the last day, we were feeling, uh, constipated, and then I ate nothing but salad for the entire week after we got back.
I realised that I’ve essentially forgotten how hot (a real) summer can get until I got to Milan. The sun bared down on us in the streets and the apartment baked like an oven.
Perhaps because of the scorching hot weather, Milan had a third-world feel to it. In the streets in central Milan, everything is brown. With all the architecture a faded orange-brown, the streets cobbled-stone brown, and the dark-featured locals hanging about in flip-flops seeking shelter from the sun…I mean, look at the photo above and tell me it doesn’t look like India?!
Visually, it made me feel like I was in a dusty old town, except for the fact that it has grand architecture and the city is exceptionally clean – in direct contrast to its hot third-world feel. Besides from China, London is probably one of the dirtiest cities I’ve been in.
Although we stayed in Milan, we didn’t spend much time there. I was very lucky to know Nat and Danny there and they basically put us up and drove us around for our entire stay.
We drove to Lake Como, where George Clooney famously lives, and we swam in the refreshingly crisp icy water, surrounded by fish, ducks, mountains and villages.
We dropped by Bellagio, where Mr. Clooney apparently likes to hangout, and everything was just a bright sun-kissed orange, peach and pale pink.
Up over the border in Switzerland, we drove up to Lake Lugano and watched as a ferry blew up!
Aha! Turned out it was Switzerland’s national day and besides from parades, fairs, food, and performances on shore, there was also a big fireworks performance on the lake.
We got on a boat that sailed around for about 2 hours, half an hour of which was spend standing mouth agape at the amazing fireworks. They shot up from about 5 floating barges, and we were so close, the noise so deafening. It made our hearts pound and your entire field of vision is filled with these amazing lights. I couldn’t wipe the grin off my face.
We later wandered around the town, finding obscure entrances to “secret” Swiss banks and watching performaces like this. It was wonderful how casual and relaxed yet beautiful and elegant everything was. I don’t think I ever saw a police officer around.
On a different day, we set off to Bergamo, a town the medieval walled half of which is perched on a hill top overlooking the more modern half below.
We travelled up on a tram and strolled the narrow ancient streets.
Both sides of the narrow streets were lined with little shops and restaurants.
It was a magical place to be. We came to a beautiful square in which some sort of a free old-fashioned games fair was going on, with strange, wierd big old toys littered around the square with anyone and everyone free to pick one up and have a go for as long as they want.
Here, Nasty lives up to his name.
Surrounded by absolutely beautiful buildings, as children and adults laughed and played (no queues, no fighting, no shouting, no parents hollering after rowdy kids), a puppet show was going on at the side and a beautiful church was nearby, which unlike the many churches I’ve been to in Europe, this one is actually still in use, with nuns going about and an old lady confessing to a priest. I felt like an undeserved intruder into this innocent world.
Bergamo was a magical place to be, like stepping back in time into a place where a real honest belief in God is still relevant, where public squares are open, intimate and fun, and people are just friendly and kind.
I find it very hard to capture the ambience there with just a few photos.
This is the view from Bergamo, looking over the town below.
Back in Milan, being a fashion capital, I was surprised at how laid back everyone was in the way they dress. Stepping off the tube and walking home when I got back to London, the first thing that striked me was how style-conscious everyone is here, compared to Milan. People there dressed in surprisingly casual clothes, and I’m not saying that in a bad way. I feel like, comparatively, London focuses a lot more on how you look, what you’re wearing, whether it’s in fashion or not, and brand names. Somehow, in Milan, it felt like, inspite of the Gucci and Prada shops, no one really cared.
The Duomo di Milano never ceases to amaze me. I’ve been there before, but everytime I look at it, it’s just as breathtaking. When we were there, it’s just been cleaned and it was like this gleaming white delicate monstrosity smack right in the middle of all things brown.
We went up to the roof and it is still beyond me how every itty bit of the cathedral is etched with mind-numbing detail. Gees, those people really had a lot of time! (or skillful slaves?)
Yes, yet more parma ham and cheese…
Before we went, I thought that Nasty and I could cook our hosts a meal as a thank-you for accomodating us. But after experiencing their version of home-cooked food (which to us was like a posh 5-star culinary affair), we didn’t even bother mentioning we thought of doing it. We would just embarass and make great fools of ourselves.
I teared up hugging Nat goodbye on our last day. A school friend from when we were 14 and have kept in touch with throughout all these years, it was the letting go of that friendly warmth of familiarity and trust, and the thought of returning to the strangers of London that really got to me.
I’ve been back a week and a half now, and I am missing my daily dose of gelato…
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