I went hiking on a misty day, everything around was shrouded in a milky white haze. All outlines of the world I know were erased. I felt I could fly. I ambled step by step until the winds blew by revealing patches of lush green grass and mottled stones covered in moss. I paused to behold dewdrops glistening as they drifted, I asked the mountain: “Whose wedding veil just swept through?”
The mountain replied, “Not a wedding veil, that nightgown belongs to a sleepwalker.”
How light and pure—a child?
“Not quite. What “they” transform into the next morning depending on what landscape that gown trailed.”
To illustrate, the mountain told me about a researcher who was weary of constant move, dedicated to finding a place to settle down. Fancy leaving his fate to chance, he sent applications to places he’s never been and promised himself to accept the first offer.
And so he landed in Bergen, the rainiest city in Europe.
He found a charming apartment on the mountainside, where he could view the city and walk to work every day. Day after day, rain after rain, so tranquil the city seemed almost dreamlike, like a somnambulist. He had no regrets, though he couldn’t say he particularly enjoyed endless rains. Instead, he found solace in creating joys.
One foggy day, as he was preparing dinner, he heard a noise outside the door. He opened, no one was there. “Perhaps a stray cat,” he thought, left a can of fish outside. A little while later, the thud again. “This cat might be thirsty,” he thought, leaving a bowl of milk outside. He didn’t go back inside immediately but lingered by the window to see if the cat would come.
There was no cat, only the wind. Happened to be homesick, he recited a childhood poem: “Knock, knock, who’s calling? … If it’s the wind, come on in.”
Well, since the wind called, he might just open the door. He greeted with a respectful bow before returning to his dinner preparations. When he sat down, he laid an extra plate and poured another glass of wine for the wind.
Pouring a glass of Montepulciano, he reminiscenced a trip he had ten years prior in the wine region of Tuscany. Winemakers there were so generous, so talkative, proudly sharing traditions of their craft. The grapes, they claimed, could only grow on Tuscan hills which are doused in the right amount of sunshine and feasted on satisfactory times of breathtaking view. The grape therefore turns into a type of wine like no other.
He naturally couldn’t share these memories with his invisible guest. Talking to oneself seemed too lonely, but perhaps the wind could glide through his thoughts.
Feeling elated after dinner, he watched an Italian movie: The Legend of 1900. It was so captivating he couldn’t help but remark towards his unseen companion, “I should have watched this sooner. That “full-bodied” guy could make a fortune as a narrator!” He then drifted off to sleep. The air was so pleasant. The mist filled up his room, wrapped into his dreams.
The next morning, he was awakened by bustling chirping outside, as if the sound of a piano of 1900 came into these forest birds. The moon still hung faintly in the sky like a half-closed eye, the mist lifted, and the sun shone bright against the clear blue sky.
For weeks, birds trill, dry weather, warm-20-25-Celsius-degree temperature. Everyone shed their winter coats, tanned their wintery-pale-skins under warm sunlight. Newspapers cheered: “Record-breaking streak of sunny days, as if Mediterranean climate had descended upon the city of rain.”