My Toes are Cold

This story was initially written as an entry for a writing competition (unfortunately, Chloe did no win herself a free trip to Portugal. Oh. Well). I felt like I haven't actually written a creative piece in a very long time, I feel like I'm in high school all over again - and mind you, my essays were 100% bomb-a-dee-bomb-bomb. 3+ years of critical analyses and literature reviews really makes you think about facts, facts and more facts. In short, I had a lot of fun writing this piece and incorporating my travelling experiences into it. "How can I turn a one-minute experience in the snow into a 700-word essay?"

Disclaimer: It's pretty cheesy.

xx.

It took hours – planning the routes, measuring my luggage to make sure I wouldn’t have to pay the extra £6 to board a budget flight, checking if it’s the right airport – before I mindlessly click “Agree” (potentially consenting to a secret spy mission) and key in my payment details (praying it goes through), that’s it: I bought my tickets to Europe!

We woke up in a quiet housing area of Vienna, the natural sunlight peering through the sheer curtains. It was a cosy, old, rooftop room with icicles hanging by the sides of our tiny window (of which I have to tiptoe in order to look out of, but to also watch out for the ceiling that is lower at that part of the room; every once in a while, we would hear a random “ouch!”). The breeze of the cold wind, you can even hear it – oh wait, that’s just the pipes. Just like Cindy Lou Who, awakened by the presence of Christmas spirit, I noticed something small (but sparkly), gentle (but astonishing), translucent (but breath-taking): snow.

Snow.

Who would have thought that it’s the perfect element to set the right romantic atmosphere, but I’m jumping ahead of myself.

The sight of snow might be familiar to this part of the world; but to me, it was as mysterious as the myths of Big Foot. Coming from a country where the four seasons are “hot”, “very hot”, “rain” and “heavy rain”, snow was magical, intriguing, exhilarating. I grabbed my winter coat and my camera (I think I brushed my teeth), opened the door and took a careful step into the foreign and unknown: snow – I have watched a lot of videos of people slipping on snow, I know the drill.

I extend my arm, welcoming the aureate flake – resembling a beautifully orchestrated ornament – gently landing on my palm. It was twenty minutes of feeling the fluffy goodness, throwing snowballs at my boyfriend (and using my camera as a shield – “it’s an expensive camera, don’t destroy it!”) – and posing for photos before I thought to myself: why are my toes so cold? Of course, my trainers weren’t a good fit for this weather. I suppose this is what happens when I pack for my trips without mother nagging at me to bring the appropriate clothes, “you ought to bring your boots, dear” (this is definitely the toned-down version of a typical Asian tiger-mom). I should be able to handle some icy tingles on my toes for a day – I was wrong.

It didn’t take me long before realising that I am not Elsa and that the cold truly bothered me, but the numbness in my toes didn’t stop me from sprinting across the yards of the Schönbrunn Palace, the usual greeneries now tucked under a blanket of pure white snow, to avoid yet another blow of snow bullets thrown at my direction. We would laugh and collapse in the snow (Is snow even clean? Who cares), naming our tiny creation Mr. Snowman before gravity mercilessly decapitates its cute little slushy head.

We took a stroll, pretending we were Crazy Rich Asians, casually looking for a humongous palace to call our home. No one told me that a small slope would end up being a slippery hike up Icy Town, an uphill battle that required much dedication and focus. Perhaps I was too focused. As I was an inch away from the peak (and by peak, I mean a mere five-minute crawl), I decided that showing off my triumphing the frozen hill with a glorious smile would be necessary; as I cautiously turned around – noticing now that the entire trek up has been eerily quiet – I see my 6ft heartthrob sliding downhill, his hands stretched forward as he tried to regain his balance and momentum. The silence was broken with a burst of laughter.

We continued our little excursion, this time hand-in-hand, and finally reached the entrance of Café Gloriette, right at the tip of the cliff. We spent the next few minutes glaring back into the adventure we conquered, as the white fairy dusts continue to trickle on our coats – my toes were cold, but my heart was warm.