To be burned by the Swiss sun. That’s bliss for the day.

Seated at a Starbucks cafe in Lucerne right now, I got a perfect chance to gaze at a historic bridge on my left, the sun on my face, and snippet but none the less sufficient view of the enigmatic icy Alps on my 2 o’clock, and Swiss buildings running down to eternity on my right. Street lamps stand on perfect intervals on the cobblestone ground, tourists unmindful of the heat of the sun which we are given the chance to get our faces burnt with.

From a distance, the sounds of crackling noises of swans and ducks, white, black, and sometimes earth-coloured ones, can be heard, and bring the feeling of a city too good to be true.

If you look long enough, you’d realise how gigantic the Alps are, peering into the city from the sky where it stands, in this nicely warmed morning almost burning, and you wonder why those ice caps are not melting at all.

The lake in front sparkles in crystal-like playful waves, conducive to the frolicking swans and ducks, enjoying the day as the humans do.

swiss-sun

*This is part of a 68-Day Travel Diary called Reflections of a Nearly Thirty. Read the full Reflections Series here.

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About hellopenville

Writing is my one true north. (The other is eating spaghetti. I make the best pastas in the whole world I swear!) I have been writing since age 10. I remember being in another school a lot because of Campus Journalism contests. I was a grade-school copyreader, headline-writer, and feature writer, who emerged to be a college editorial writer and eventually a TV news writer. However, I have always been an insecure artist. These constant condescending thoughts always stopped me from creating: “No one would read this.” “This has been written before and therefore no one would read this.” “This is not interesting enough and therefore no one would read this.” “This is not relevant, or factual, or trendy enough and therefore no one would read this.” But I learned to risk to write even if no one reads it, than not to have written anything at all. To resist writing is to resist truth itself, to betray that which comes freely to you when you do not allow it to be manifested through you. I didn’t think writing was serious work. But every time I thought about writing, it would make me nervous. It would rattle me and frighten me. I would shake the ground under me. Aren’t dreams like that too? Read more at penville.net.

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Europe, Switzerland, Travel, Travel Reflections Series (3 months in Europe)

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