tanzania

alright. the first bit of the journey is done. i frankly wish that it was over by now. i am tired and flying has lost much of its charm. the entertainment programme includes a ton of interesting and exciting movies. but i find myself scrollng up and down, not finding what i am looking for. if indeed i am looking for something. i do not know. 

i sit perched between a turkish family. the father to my right and his son and wife to my left. the reason for this rather peculiar sitting position i never learn. the boy has apparently a weak stomach. everyone speaks turkish and i don't understand a word. 

when the aircraft comes to a halt, i am relieved - and frequenting the nearest toilet immediately. 

unfortunately, there is no free wifi here. i have lived in norway so long that i nearly don't believe it, and walk around from one end of the airport to the other, and even stop next to a starbucks, everywhere else a sure guarantee for internet, but no, nothing. it is not so much a problem yet as on my way back. twenty hours is a long time to pass without the possibility to skip through buzz feed articles. i hope that daudi, the manager of the hostel in moshi, which is supposed to send me a taxi to the airport, did not forget his mission. i really look forward to lying in a hostelbed right now.

fo my entertainment in the mean time, i have two books, one half-destroyed tagesanzeiger, a notebook (unfortunately without a pen) and an ipad wit no connection. 

i refill my waterbottle in the lavatory, although i am not sure whether one is really supposed to drink from the tap. 

i feel like buying chewing gums, but since i am broke it would be contra productive. 

the variety of people around here is amazing - i think every culture is represented somehow. what i represent i am not sure of. 

i guess the whole disconnectedness has its perks. it is like what it must have been before the age of the internet, before smartphones and whatsapp. they did manage. and i am not really bored, for that matter. i am just - a little uneasy. i guess it is a natural reflex that you want to contact familiar people, when you are travelling and have to stop at a place you do not necessarily want to stop.

i do not want to be here, admittedly. there are too many people and no possibility to escape the masses. to yearn for something familiar is natural. a little more than two hours to go. 

i might just check where my gate is, switch this thing of and start reading. my only escape, it seems.

ps. i need to buy more such trousers. they are by far the most comfortable thing i have ever worn.

--

shortly before my departure from istanbul, a faint flicker of hope concerning the wifi was sparked by two british girls who sat behind me. apart from their highly annoying conversation "oi think 'at bri'ish people aa the only ones in europe who can undastand saacasm." bet you are. 

but they also complained about the wifi that was not there, until the one sittting behind my left ear obviously managed to connect. i did not eavesdrop, she might as well have been telling it to me and all the other 300 people on the waiting room, judging by the height of her voice. 

i, however, was not able to profit, since the sms code never arrived on my mobile phone. the more i hated the british girls. but i guess i was just tired. 

i will spare you a description of the six hour flight. it was tedious, and the noise was so high that i could only watch movies while not understanding any of the spoken text.

the landing was sudden and in darkness. 

i headed for the visa office, only there were dozens of people heading before me.

 from desk one they sent us to desk two and then to desk five, where i finally got my passport back for good and could collect my luggage. the blue rain coat wrapped backpack was already standing solitarily on the conveyor band. 

i approached the exit and something i had already feared, came to pass. my transport to moshi was not there. but that was okay, since dozens of other sign waving and trustwirthy looking men wanted to drive me there. i hesitated and looked on my phone, although there was nothing to look at but the passing minutes. finally, i took the offer, since i could not really do anything else. the driving style of tansanians is rather homicidal. the street are not lit by lamps, and every approaching car blinds you with the flashlight, so that you have to hope that you are not heading towards the light. once we stopped before a parked truck and men were approaching, mustering our faces. my driver lowered the window and talked with unexcited calmness. i thought that thats it, now he is going to sell me off to a some gangsters. but it was just the police, as he replied at my enquiring after we had driven off again. i relaxed a bit while taylor swift sang on the radio that it is gonna be forever or it's gonna go down in flames. 

after 35 minutes i arrived at my hostel. people had to be woken and called, but eventually i was driven to another hostel ( because mine was - naturally - fully booked) and could lie down under the roaring ventilator. 

--

it is 10.25 on saturday and i am sitting in the hotel lobby with my money purse, the ipad and a towel. remembering hitchhikers guide to the galaxy, i could not be better equipped.  i left my room in a hurry, because apparently i was assigned another room (identical in looks to the first one). spesiosa, the hotel receptionist, who was already here on my arrival in te middle of the night, takes me to my new lodging and i hurriedly get rid of my big and small backpack, intuitively not letting go of the towel. if i think about it, i had rather taken a book with me, to shorten the waiting time til the room is finished cleaning. i already feel very white and very european and very annoying after realising that "ten minutes" til i could move in is not measured in swiss time and i feel guilty of stressing the people here out. my apologies. the deepest. 

after i was finally settled in my room, i went to the reception asking for a map of moshi, so i could go and see something of the surroundings.

i was taken on a walk by the lovely sheena, heading to a shop. the friendly looking man there wanted 20000 for a map. i was so surprised to be charged at all ( it was one of those kind of maps you get for free in tourist offices all around europe) i paid the full sum, without even considering bargaining ( or convert the currency)

on the way back i talked to sheena, who was busy rejecting the men who obviously wanted to take over the guiding. most of the time it took no more than one word from her to silence them. 

neverteless i had to rest a bit when i was in my room again. so much attention from people is destructive. i decided to take a stern, emotionless look without a smile for my next time outside. together with frequent "hapana"s, i could get safely to the kilimanjaro garden cafe.

the atmosphere was great: laid back and a nice mixture of locals and tourists. i ate my samoosas and drank an iced coffee while reading treasure island. next to my a group of british people were happily chatting with eachother. 

---

i was then off to buy my ticket to karatu tomorrow , intending to be back before sunset. there was i, standing in front of the bus station, having actually expected a station. ticket office was my mental goal, which i soon had to give up. 

there were busses alright, many of them, parked on a large pitch of dust, sometimes with a sign of the destination. people were swarming around, some following me with a "where do you go lady?". my mistake when i had expected a ticket office. there were many small stands with placenames and fares, men who were shouting. it all seemed like yet another bazaar. only that here, i could not simply walk through with absent eyes. i needed this ticket. urgently. however, after 2 circles around the wasp's nest i decided to go back to the hostel. i was simply not prepared for this. i was already on the sidewalk of the road again, as somebody approached me. he tried to talk to me, but i was not in the mood, first not replying. then he asked, whether i searched for the bus to dar es salaam. no, to karatu, i responded. he promised to bring me to the ticket office, and i, not knowing anything better to do, followed. it was astonishingly easy. the man at the "counter" gave me a paper ticket und assigned me a time to be back tomorrow. after that i felt so inclined to thank Secky (that was the man's name)'that i agreed to visit his shop. he was an artist, he said, and some of his paintings were for sale there. 

they were quite beautiful, even if i doubted that it was really him that painted them. to show my gratitude, i decided to buy a small picture on canvas as a souvenir. 

how much is it?

don't you want two? maybe this one too? he said while pointing at a picture in which i had also expressed some interest. 

well how much?

my first mistake. always begin with the prise when you bargain. always.

50 dollars, the owner of the shop wrote on a piece of paper.

i almost laughed out loud, because although i had not named him a prize, i had made one in my head. and it was definitely not fifty. 

i said i would give him 10 for the small one. 

he was not happy. at least i think so. but maybe he laughed inside about my naivity.

at the same time, a guy was in the shop, probably spanish, but he seemed to be used to these shops already. 

how much are they charging you? he asked. 

i told him. 

then, he himself started bargaining in my place. secky, who brought me in was not happy, because surely his provision would be lessened. 

the shopowner was not happy because he surely has smelled some profit in the rich, unexperienced swiss girl. 

i was not happy because 3 men were arguing because of me. 

the guy offered to pay any excess to the 10 dollars which i was ready to spend, which again made noone happy. the arguing between the guy and secky grew fiercer, but my painting was wrapped and the guy told me to give them 10 000 schilling. i did so. the shopowner handed it to me and mustered me. his eyes were red and he was a bit of a scary figure, to be honest. after telling him that i most probably will spend the night at the hotel, leave moshi early tomorrow and never come back, he smiled and i left. behind me they still argued and i paced back to the hotel. 

it struck me that i needed to eat something and take my malaria medicine, and since eating out necessarily envolved being outside after dark, i chose te nearest restaurant and ordered pizza. of course i forgot the mosquito spray as well as te malaria pills. so i waited impatiently and hoped that the sun would take its time with disappearing. the waitress brought a toast with tomato bits on top and while i nibbled on it i hoped that that was not the tansanian interpretation of marguerita.

the clouds turned yellow, then red, and the sky went bright blue. already the mosquitoes were swarming around me and above, the swallows were chasing them through the air. go, get them all, i silently cheered. 

dd

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.

---

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.

---

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.”



<3

The One With The Internet Blackout

It’s true what they say: You only realise how much you need something, when it’s taken from you. Ripped from you, suddenly, without you having had any time to prepare. Only then can you see how that particular something was such a big part of your life, how it practically WAS your life at some point. And you wish you had appreciated it more. Used it more wisely.

After the loss, you find yourself sitting on your bed, empty, staring wholes into the wall and simply not knowing what to do next. What does one do, generally speaking?

Eating breakfast, for example. Full Stop. Not simultaneously getting informed about the weather today, not scrolling through the newest pasta recipes while absent minded sipping on a (way too hot) hot cocoa. Enjoying, instead of multitasking. 

With this in mind I decided to use the at first sight unfortunate event of our Wifi-Router being responsible for a power failure, and the landlord’s advice not to use it anymore (ever!), to my advantage.

No Wifi – no stress. Simple as that, right? And maybe I could also counteract a certain laziness that had taken hold of me lately, mostly caused by internet access and chocolate.

I told myself that I wouldn’t despair. I sure don’t need internet 24/7. I can handle this.

The first stadium was denial. When you have not yet come to terms with the new situation and you are constantly repeating old habits. It’s funny, how your fingers make the cursor automatically click on that tiny symbol with an orange fox circling a blue globe. Click on it, only to close it again after half a second because, no, it still doesn’t work. And you quietly curse yourself for repeatedly opening your MailApp on your tablet, because all you see is the little symbol that indicates that there is no connection. None at all. The Internet has disappeared from here.

After that comes the recognitional phase, also known as the “oh my god, I certainly cannot handle this” stage, where you realise that you cancelled your Spotify Premium Account 10 days ago and the only music you can actually listen to at home is the one U2 album, which they made accessible on iTunes for free.  Not wise, Myriam, not wise at all.

On the other hand, I had also decided not to prolong my free Netflix Trial , which was certainly a lucky shot.  (If I think about it, I might have spent way too much time there anyway. 5 seasons of Friends in three weeks – could I BE any more addicted to that show?)

Next up, the reactionary phase, where you start doing new things that fill up the empty space. I began reading– and read 6 hours straight, until the clock showed 1 AM, my eyes were tiny and Norwegian police officer Harry Hole had solved the whole dark mystery of the creepy killer snowman (need a sleepless night? That’s the book to start with! Or wait until the movie’s out next year.)

Another plus of no internet access: Writing is so much easier. Because all the distraction that is normally there, all the Buzzfeed Quizzes that tell you which Weasley sibling you should be dating (Bill, right?) or where in Britain your accent is from (southern accent, baby!), all the group chats on Facebook which mainly consist of cat-stickers and smileys, the newspaper websites that you could browse for exciting news from home plus the live coverage of the Icehockey World Championship… Oii... Okay, you know what? There’s this Café around the corner that has Wifi.

What? I cannot sit here all day. That would be lazy.

Besucherzeit oder Let’s eat Cake.

Ein Jahr im Ausland, besonders wenn in nicht allzuweiter Ferne von Zuhause, bringt automatisch mit sich, dass sich diverse langjährige Freunde, verschollene Verwandte, flüchtige Bekannte, vor Jahren weggezogene Nachbarn und der Typ, dem du im Wartezimmer beim Zahnarzt einen Kaugummi geliehen hast, bei dir melden und fragen, ob nicht ein Sofa bei dir frei wäre. Freudig wirst du zusagen und dir im Geiste schon die vielen aufregenden Dinge ausmalen, welche man unternehmen könnte. Besonders Dinge, die ja eigentlich das eigene Budget sprengen, zu denen man dann aber die Erlaubnis hat, weil „ja Besuch da ist und man irgendwas Spezielles machen muss“, sind in der Vorstellung sehr beliebt.

Der Kalender wird voller und voller, Besuch reiht sich an Besuch, die Abfahrt des Zugs des einen überschneidet sich mit der Landung des Flugs des anderen. Ausflüge wollen geplant, Rechnungen bezahlt werden. Staub sammelt sich auf dem Boden schon lange nicht mehr gestaubsaugten kleinen Zimmers, wo man sich zu zweit irgendwie temporär organisiert. Berührungängste? Sind nicht drin. Personal Space? Dream on. Die eigene Introvertiertheit muss auf Eis gelegt werden, sonst kriegt man schnell die Krise. Die eigenen Stadtführermotivationen verringern sich mit jedem neuen Gast, der an die Tür klopft und beschränken sich am Schluss auf ein „da musst du noch hingehen“ mit einer flüchtigen Handbewegung zum Punkt auf der Karte, während man selbst damit beschäftigt ist, Quiz-Duell Fragen zu beantworten. 

Jetzt, da der letzte Besuch vorbei, das Zimmer aufgeräumt und der Geldverbrauch wieder einigermassen in den Normalbereich gependelt sind (ich hab WIEVIEL ausgegeben? Da kann doch etwas nicht stimmen....) und man endlich wiedermal 3 Stunden lang rumgammeln kann, ohne gleich ein schlechtes Gewissen zu kriegen und den Drang verspürt, dem anderen irgendwas bieten zu müssen, kann man getrost einmal auf das ganze zurückschauen und sagen: Schön wars! Immerhin waren einige der Besten Erlebnisse hier an auswertige Besucher geknüpft (Fjordcruises, Bootausflüge, z.B. nach Rosendal, Wanderung am Hardangerfjord, Road Trip an den Geirangerfjord, Mini-Wanderungen um Bergen herum, wie z. B. der Stoltzen oder Pseudo-Løvstakken).

Es gibt jedoch etwas, dass einen wünschen lässt, jeder Tag sei Besuchszeit. Das Essen. Alleine geht man ja nicht ins Restaurant und bestellt den Falaffelburger mit Brie. Und hat schon grössere Hemmungen drei Tage hintereinader ins Café zu gehen, um den besten Apfelkuchen der Welt und einen Café Latte zu konsumieren. Doch zu zweit, zu dritt, oder gar zu viert, tja, da geht sowas schon. Hab mich zu einem richtigen Food-Guide weiterentwickelt. Die billigste und beste Pizza? Café Spesial! Der beste (oben genannte) Burger? Kvarteret! (Mit Brie. Du wirst es nicht bereuen...BRIIEEEE!) Der beste Apfelkuchen? Krok og Krinkel! Der beste Hot Dog? Tre Kroneren!

Doch nicht nur auswärts wird man zum Gourmet. Hat man einen Gast, wird das Frühstück schnell zum Brunch und damit zum wichtigsten Ereignis des Tages, es wird aufgepeppt mit Rauchlachs, Spiegelei, Polarbrödpizza oder Crêpes. So lässt sich’s schon leben. Auch ein bisschen länger.

Vier Tage nach Auszug des letzten temporären Besuchers ist man dann wieder bei einfacher Hausmannskost, bei Pasta und Brot, Joghurt und Müsli. Dem Portmonnaie zuliebe. (Und der Figur?)

Was dazukommt ist, dass man durch die vielen Leute die zu einem in die Ferien fahren, richtig Lust bekommen hat, selber zu verreisen. So war dann auch ziemlich schnell meine Hurtigrutenreise nach Ålesund und Trondheim gebucht. Natürlich mit Sofa-Crashing bei einem Freund in Trondheim. 

Ein regelrechtes Muss, bei so vielem angesammelten Gastgeberkarma meinerseits.

Ad Fontes, Jeg Elsker Deg

Es ist eine allgemein anerkannte Wahrheit, dass die Zeit, die man produktiv mit Dingen verbringt, die man eigentlich nicht machen muss, aber machen will, mit der Zeit, die man eigentlich aufwenden müsste für obligatorische Aufgaben, positiv korreliert.

Meine in letzter Zeit spaerliche Blogaktualisierung kann dementsprechend damit erklärt werden, dass ich schlicht und einfach nichts zu tun hatte, was ich mit Schreiben hätte prokrastinieren könnte.

Zum Glück hab ich da einen Vortrag fertigzustellen, weswegen ich natürlich ohne zu zögern meine Fachbücher zur Seite geschoben und mein mehr oder minder kreatives Hirn eingeschaltet habe.

Für die, die sich gefragt haben: Ja, ich bin immer noch in Norwegen. Nein, ich habe mich noch nicht im Regen aufgelöst (hab ich den schon gebracht? Sorry gell.).  Ja, es wird langsam Frühling., was man vorallem daran erkennen kann, dass es jetzt doch etwas länger grau ist (Im Gegensatz zu schwarz in der Nacht. Ha Ha Ha.)

Nein, ich habe nichts zu tun. Abgesehen von diesem Vortrag. Da sollte ich doch wirklich langsam beginnen. WO war ich?

Nach meiner letzten Prüfung für dieses Jahr Anfang März, bei der ich den Dozenten und die über Skype zugeschaltete Dänin mit komischen Anekdoten aus der Norwegischen Mythologie unterhalten habe, ohne dabei je im entferntesten fachlich zu klingen, verbrachte ich meine Tage dann vor allem an einem Ort: Ad Fontes.

Ad Was? Fragen sich diejenigen unter euch, die nicht der lateinischen Sprache mächtig sind.

Und die anderen werden wissend nicken und so tun als erinnern sie sich an die Bedeutung dieses Ausdrucks. Frag Cäsar, wenn du dir nicht sicher bist, niemand merkt’s.

Einige werden erschrocken die Hände vor den Mund geschlagen haben und sich besorgt in einem Medizinischen Wörterbuch nach der Schwere meines momentanen Zustands erkundigt haben.

Ich kann euch alle beruhigen. Ad Fontes macht zwar süchtig, und ist auf Grund der Gefahr von erhöhtem Koffeinkonsum sicher nicht ganz gesundheitsfreundlich, serviert ausserdem einen Wein-Slushy, der den Zuckerjahresbedarf eines ausgewaschsenen Flusspferdes deckt... hm, jetzt wo ich es mir so überlege ist es ganz gefährlich hier. Aber nicht so dass ein Körper in den 20ern nicht damit fertig werden könnte. Hoffe ich zumindest.  

Aber WAS ist Ad Fontes denn nun genau?

Ad Fontes ist (trotz oben beschriebenen Gesundheitsrisiken) ein wunderbarer Ort, voller Kos und Kaffe, voller Musikk und Moro, vollgestopft mit Sofas, mit Regalen voller Bücher und Brettspielen.

An diesem mystischen Ort lebte ich, manchmal von morgens bis abends, ohne auch nur einen Fuss vor die Tür zu setzen.

Ich wüsste wirklich nicht, wo ich meine Tage verbringen würde, würde dieses freundliche Studentenkaffee/Pub im Universitätsgebäude nicht existieren. Und die Wochenende scheinen unendlich lang und trostlos, besonders die regnerischen, welche, wie wir ja alle bereits wissen, nicht gerade selten auftreten.

Wenn ich nach meiner Rückkehr in die Schweiz etwas vermissen werde (oh ja, ich komme tatsächlich zurück! ) dann Ad Fontes,, verdens koseligste studentpub. <3

The Shape of Love 2.0

After some *overwhelming* reactions after my last Blog entry (“Maan, I hope you talked to that guy!” / “I didn´t know you had…feelings?” / “You went to STARBUCKS???”) I have to say thank you for being so great readers.

As a gift to Fränzi, here´s a pimped up version of The Shape of Love. Pick the one you like better.

After all, who´s to say what really happened in that coffee shop.

I only came inside to get out of the rain. I swear. There’s nothing else that would tempt me to come in this god forsaken place. Not the abominable coffee, nor the hipster atmosphere, nor the music (which is wannabe-jazzy). Nevertheless, I have ended up sitting on an uncomfortable bar chair without backrest, in front of the dirty window, overlooking the harbour. I take a sip from my overpriced coffee, which came in a plain white mug without the overly famous logo that everyone knows, without a double-nicaragua-espresso shot, without any pumpkin spice. On the street in front of me I see people packed in raincoats, defiantly fighting against the loss of their umbrellas (most of them having pathetically given up this endeavour). I look around. To my right, a group of English speaking folks on some cosy armchairs. Gosh you´ve been sitting there forever. Don´t you have work to do? I feel a slight chill from the sudden breeze that resulted from the door being opened and I turn my head. Seriously, close that damn door! Outside, the street lamps, which hang on wires that are stretched over the roads shake alarmingly. The patriotic flags that tower over some of the buildings dance wildly in the wind.

Beware, people of Midgard, Thor has come.

The clocks strike twelve.

Universities close, the government has advised people to leave work early. Little frightened school children are fetched by their overprotective and worried parents. Do not be outside unless you have a good reason.

As for me I certainly do not. The short walk from my new home to the coffee shop has been enough for today. My trousers are still wet. No wonder with the temperatures in here. It´s freezing! Turn up that damn heater!

So, really, I only came inside to get out of the rain. And you might well have done the same. The door closes behind you and the breeze dies. Finally. You stand there for a second, squint, and remove your hood. Your hair is a mess. I mean really, when have you last taken a shower? But something about your face leaves me looking a little longer than one ought to. A strange face. You catch my eye and I quickly avert my eyes, back to the screen, unable to hide a slight smile. In the corner of my eye I can see you going to the counter, placing your order. Please, order take-away. 

Outside, the storm has grown stronger. A cyclist, desperately trying to make it safely through the gusts of wind. His own fault when he takes the bike in this weather. A car driving through a puddle, ruining the dress of a woman, Carry Bradshaw style. I giggle. A sudden wind blow sends restaurant advertisement signs flying through the air. People hold on to railings, desperately trying not tob e blown away. One thing was sure: There was no going out in the next hour, maybe longer. Thor was raging over the city, punishing the ones who did not heed the weather warnings. No empathy whatsoever. I feel a certain relief that I brought two books, a laptop cable, headphones and a bottle of water. I could survive in here for quite some time without being bothered by any of the annoying people.

The horrible screeching sound of a chair being moved to my left. Your messy hair bent over a cup of tea. Watch out, or you'll get hair in that tea.. Oh never mind.  You look as if you had taken a bath and had forgotten to dry yourself afterwards. Or forgotten to take your clothes off, for that matter. Your shoes certainly have seen their last day. You shiver, warm your hands on your beverage, stirring from time to time.

A sudden thought comes to my mind.

Why in the name of God do the strange ones always sit next to me? I don’t want to leave this coffee shop, while there´s a rehearsal of ragnarökr outside.

So I take my headphones, open my book and choose not to mind. What choice do I have anyway?


.