The Very Last One

It was early may. The cobblestone streets of Bergen’s old quarters were for once flushed with light and not with water. The tiny centre was packed with people who, in order to fill up their empty vitamin D supplies, had stormed out of their wooden houses into the warm sun. For once, they were holding ice cream instead of umbrellas, wore sunglasses instead of raincoats and the buzzing sound of the talking crowds sounded a little more cheerful than usually. A nearly perfect spring day.

I, too, had seized the opportunity to take a walk around the charming Nordnes peninsula to escape the loud cars, busses and herds of tourists who had now begun to swarm into Bergen every morning and were taking  pictures of Bryggen and the area around as if their life depended on it. If it’s not on Facebook, it hasn’t happened.

On my way back home I passed through the fish market, which had just reopened its doors for the summer season, where eager, English-with-an-accent-speaking salesmen and women were selling fresh salmon, reindeer sausages, lefser and other slightly overpriced delicacies. I was about to cross the street at the end of the market when an elderly, southern-European-looking couple approached me. The man had a large Bergen-city-centre-map in his hands, one of the kind one gets at the tourist office. Some spots were circled and a quick hand had made notes at certain places, indicating must-sees and sights. The man was establishing eye contact said “Excuse me” from a few meters away and then walked up to me. His female companion followed after and gave me a hearty smile. “Excuse me”, he repeated, “are you from Bergen?” Two expecting pairs of eyes were resting on me.

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When I arrived in June last year, I had this highly romanticised image of Bergen, Norway and the Norwegian people in my head. In my imagination it was all perfect - they were perfect. It took me quite a while to replace those images with true facts, experiences and knowledge. Some were positively surprising, some entirely shocking, some unexpected and hard to accustom to. The picture of the wood-chopping Norwegian with a thick wool pullover and a  beard just as thick was soon entirely wiped out. And I was left with the reality: Norwegians, yes, they, too, are just people. And I began to like them, in Mr Darcy’s words, just they way they are.

Of course, a year is a long time, and I would lie if I said that I never was homesick, that I never had the wish to just take the next plane to Zurich and buy the whole chocolate shelf of the Migros store at the airport, and yes, eat it, too.

Oh yes, I did have those moments. Especially in January, right after the long Christmas break, I was frequently asking myself, what I was doing here, way too high up north and so far away from everyone and everything I knew so well. A simple song was enough to make me sink into nostalgia, enough to open up the floodgates and make me spend the evening at home with only hot chocolate for company. Homesickness, level 3. It wasn’t a particular thing that I missed. It were familiar situations, moments and feelings that I longed for. And there was indeed a time when I wanted to count down the days until I could finally go home.

But time passed, the sun’s visits became longer and longer each day, and my calendar filled up with exciting things again. And it was not least due to some very great people that I sometimes forgot all about the delicious chocolate in the Migros at the Zurich airport (or at least contented myself with what little I had brought with me). I developed routines, made more plans, there were regularities in my calendar. I worked at the student café, went to the weekly quiz and took more walks than I ever had. I travelled to Ålesund and Trondheim. Which are in themselves very charming places. However, when the Flybus from the Flesland airport entered the city, drove past the Lille Lungegårdsvannet and stopped at Bryggen, I could not but smile and sigh at the familiar sight. Slowly and quietly, without making much of a fuzz, Bergen had become my home.

And that’s when time began to fly like an arrow. The to-do list became longer and the remaining days fewer. For the first time came the revelation that not everything on the list would still be possible. That my flight at the 31^st was approaching all too fast. And that this year, this amazing, exciting and educational year, would be over soon. I began to discover new things that I wished I had seen earlier. That delicious bread from Rema 1000. This pair of benches at a very quiet spot overlooking the city and the sea. The cute guy working in Coop Prix. With the knowledge that this all soon would be gone, everything was becoming more appealing. And the prospect of leaving it seemed like a distant memory from a dream: You know there was something, you remember a faint impression, but you cannot describe it or accept it for real. But while the dream memory grows weaker with time passing, the day of departure becomes more real everyday. You look up the time table. Print your ticket. Set an alarm clock. Go to sleep, with knowing this is the last time you will go to bed in this place.

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It was early may. The cobblestone streets of Bergen’s old quarters were for once flushed with light and not with water. Two expecting pairs of eyes were resting on me. I didn’t have to think twice.

“Yes”, I said and smiled. “Yes, I am from Bergen.”



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