Catherina - Day 7

We were rolling in the air, literally, with clouds beneath us and city even farther down. "Man, how did you pass the driving test?" I was shouting at the top of my voice, for the wind was shrieking into my face. I could barely see through my hair that had formed a waving curtain, or strands of whips by the wind's force. My dear friend, who sat on the driver's seat beside me, replied with an even higher pitch, "… a small accident!" I didn't catch the first part, as I was busy handling my hair, desperately trying to grab them all into a ponytail.

Oh my, she admitted that shamelessly. Only I had no stand to criticize her, for I had not yet passed my driver's test. Well, I held on to my safety belt tightly – in effect, I was at its mercy, for over half of the time, we were head-down, experiencing gravitational pull ever so clearly.

"Now, here we go-o-o-o-o!!!" At that moment, I started to suspect my partner's evolutionary origin – suppose humans could not produce that high a pitch? With threads of hair escaping my grasp and flapping against my face, that crazily turning wheel was the single object in my view. Fortunately, we were not yet free-falling, even though we were already far away from the original course.

Then, with a sudden movement forward, as I was sure the seat would gladly projectile me with a perfect parabola if the seat belt wasn't on, we bumped against the ceiling multiple times, and finally back to peace.

"Ooooh, a small accident." She patted the wheel as if soothing a stubborn puppy, "never do that again, will you?"

"You meant this was a small accident?" Still panting, I tried couldn't trust my ear.

"Look, I passed that baby driver's game with a perfect score." Single hand on the wheel, she turned to give me a rather stern look, "I know what you are thinking, Madam. But we are technically at the airplane's stratum."

"So, cheers?" I attempted to communicate sarcasm.

"Yeh. Cheers!" Not getting my message, she set the tandem (the sightseeing quadricycle with a canvas ceiling) to neutral, which allowed it to float by itself, "appreciate the view, will you?"

I had to admit that sitting in a tandem (with an engine, of course) at this height was surreal. Although humans had artificially evolved themselves to sustain their lives at the top strata of the troposphere, most people still chose the traditional way to travel at this altitude – by which I meant airplanes.

The dome reflected a serene violet, and storm clouds were gathering beneath our feet. Over at the edge of the clouds was a descending sun, burning the surrounding darkness crimson, and its fading brightness blending into the cooler blue and lavender, sending up a layer of pink – the shade of rose pudding.

"Shall we get back?" My friend suggested. Despite all human effort in eliminating deoxygenation or heat loss in high altitudes, the biological appendix of detesting height persisted.

I nodded. Legally speaking, tandems were not banned from this altitude – as we were in a grey area that did not risk clashing with a plane but still higher than "recommended" – but one drawback of its design (empty on all sides) caused concern. I was honestly uncertain whether my lovely hairband that had just fallen would gain enough acceleration to commit manslaughter. So, away from this place, ASAP.

We flew eastwards, horizontally, to return to the safe (in relative terms) ascending path through the storm. We descended, the first layer was empty without traffic, perhaps due to the bullet-like raindrops attacking from all sides – again backing up my argument on the flaw in tandem's design. Gasping hair in my hand, I looked down: a depressing grey shrouded the city, few cars scattered across the third – the lowest – traffic layer, their wheels within 3 meters from the ground.

"Where are we going, exactly?" Right when I asked the question, a carpet swooshed by, carrying four schoolboys and leaving indistinct laughter. They were taking a carpet in this weather! You see, the hormones had not yet fully surrendered to human control, and these young people (though older than me) were living proofs.

"There!" Pointing her chin to the right, my dear friend indicated a little neighborhood with several stores at its front. We penetrated through the second traffic layer (one would fail the driving test for doing this, but in reality, people do it all the time so long as no obstacles in sight), and flew the rest of the way on the third layer.

The wheels touched the ground, we parked. To my amazement, the parking lot was half-full. Four stores stood side by side in front of the parking lot, and only one was open – a pet store.

"I don't recall you have any pets," I stated fact – even if she had kept a secret pet, picking it up with a tandem with no storage space was not a smart move.

She shuddered her shoulder, "you will know."

The lounge was bright with white LED lights and fresh with green plants at every corner. Girls in uniform greeted incomers with perfect smiles at the reception. In the sitting area, clients positioned themselves comfortably on the long velvet sofas, and some, like that little boy nervously holding up a rodent cage, had their pets with them. After all, it was a pet store – least I suspected it to be some other business in disguise.

A receptionist received my friend, who soon proceed to some lengthy paperwork with asterisks appearing every other line. Being the idler, after lingering around the sitting area for some time, I finally dedicated myself to a staircase leading downward. Checking on my friend – still filling up stuff – and down there, I went.

Again, it was not an underground casino or pub, but it did have an impressive structure. Unlike the modern style upstairs with marble floors and hospital-white walls, this space's interior was utterly wooden, except a metal spin stack. This precious metallic piece stood beside a strut that had been seamlessly covered by twinning ivy, and on the stack were postcards and picture books.

To make good use of the time – as my parents often suggest – I pulled out a French picture book with a yellow sunflower lion painted on the baby blue cover (my level of French should allow me to understand the gist of this book, hopefully).

Before I opened the book, however, a question popped up: why would they have postcards here? Perhaps, out of irresistible sentimentality, clients would opt to leave a crafty note to their pets that had to stay here alone – although the pets were more likely to bite it than to comprehend it. Anyhow, I stretched out my arm to take one of them.

At the exact moment when my fingertip touched the card, I felt a strong pull – not from the postcard but the ivy-twinned strut – and I was pulled in, not understanding the physics behind it.

I opened my eyes and found myself on a plane, comfortably sunken into a soft leather seat and tucked under a warm blanket. After checking my seatbelt to ensure that it was tightly fastened, I was surprised to found my seat blocking the walkway.

"God, I am so glad that I had my safety belt on!" Satisfied, I felt sleepy again – by seeing (which I meant to stand in front of it and observe from a third-person perspective) myself under that warm blanket alone had stimulated enough melatonin in me.

Deeper darkness – which layer of the dream would I arrive next?

photo credit: https://www.google.com/url?sa=i&url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.internationalsurreyco.com%2Ffour-wheel-bikes%2Fsurrey-bike%2F&psig=AOvVaw3BbDtQ57E7ovC4I-xLEbkp&ust=1591754513333000&source=images&cd=vfe&ved=0CAIQjRxqFwoTCMiksPTS8-kCFQAAAAAdAAAAABAD