Leaving Oslo
A lone skiier crosses lake sognsvann
“I adore this salted land, the black mountains and the deep cold water that is too mysterious for me to ever step into. I love the snow and the dark winters and the way people make light. I love not knowing the time of day. The sun in summer chases itself in a little circle, just like the dog going after fleas on his tail, and there’s all the rush and excitement to be outside when the sun comes.”
Like all new beginnings, we start with a farewell.
My twin countries have always been defined by a close relationship to land and sea, a collective understanding of the sharp steel edge of nature and the passage of the seasons. Those of us who choose to live in these places, do so in the shadow of these lands, learning from childhood that they can be both brutal and perennially forgiving. We yearn to experience the dark recesses of our countries, the exploration of which often leaves us slack-jawed with wonder. We are peoples unafraid of bad weather; Driving rain, howling winds and storms have taught us all to appreciate thick blankets, warm hands, hot showers, and the all-too-fleeting summer months.
Long, long before I moved to Oslo, while I was living in Dunedin, I read Dogside Story, by the New Zealand writer Patricia Grace. She writes of Norway, an ode which has stuck with me now for some 10 years. Grace, as she is so appropriately named, is far more eloquent than I could ever be.
I am leaving you, Oslo. There were times when you were not kind to me, when I slipped on streets caked with ice and my lips cracked in the cold, when friends were few, when I applied for job after job with no hope in sight. Battered by your cold demeanor, I fled abroad. I find of late though, that I recall just as easily the times, where, stealthy as a lover, you won me over with your saccharine sweet winter sky, with the dark glow of the cityscape in the night; with still Sunday streets of crisp untrodden snow.
I remember from June the startled leap of deer in the Marka, the ruddy blush of strawberries left to ripen in the sun; the acrid smell of burnt meat and spilled beer. Friends take heed, you shall be missed; your whoops and shrieks at breakneck speeds on toboggans slick with ice, soft snores heard through dappled tent walls, reckless shots at dartboards. Breakfasts, lunches, and dinners shared. In summer, did we even sleep?
Farewell Oslo. I will come for you again, when apples are ripe on their branches, and the smell of chanterelles fills the woods. For now though, I am moving to California, to a place of sunshine, warmth and reinvention. It is a land of possibility, a land of relentless summer. But, without the dark starred night I wonder, will I dream only of snow?
