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?


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The Shape of Love

I only came inside to get out of the rain. I swear. There’s nothing else that would tempt me to come in here. Not the coffee, nor the atmosphere, nor the music (which is, admittedly, jazzy and nice enough). Nevertheless, I have ended up sitting on a bar chair in front of the 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 given up this endeavour). I look around. To my right, a group of English speaking folks on some cosy armchairs. I feel a slight chill from the sudden breeze that resulted from the door being opened and I turn my head. Outside, the street lamps, which hang on wires that are stretched over the roads shake alarmingly. The 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 school children are fetched by their 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.

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. You stand there for a second, squint, and remove your hood. Your hair is a mess. But something about your face leaves me looking a little longer than one ought to. Don’t I know you? 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. I search for a name, an event, a possible encounter. A lecture at university? A concert? Strolling through the bathroom section in Ikea? I subtly shake my head. Imagination. 

Outside, the storm has grown stronger. A cyclist, desperately trying to make it safely through the gusts of wind. A car driving through a puddle, ruining the dress of a woman, Carry Bradshaw style. A sudden wind blow sends restaurant advertisement signs flying through the air. People hold on to railings. 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. Trapped. I feel a certain relief that I brought two books, a laptop cable and a bottle of water. I could survive in here for quite some time.

The screeching sound of a chair being moved to my left . Your messy hair bent over a cup of tea. 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.

Who needs the sun… and why would anyone wish for summer? I don’t want to leave this coffee shop. I don’t want the rain to stop. I could sit in here forever, with you only two chairs away, drinking your tea, whilst outside the world is going through a rehearsal of ragnarökr. 

I wouldn’t mind.

----

This text was inspired by Tor, the storm that hit Bergen today, and The Shape of Love, a great song by Passenger (Seriously, Check it Out!).

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To the Idiot Family who took my Sofa in my favourite Café

I know, one is actually not allowed to write things like that. But sometimes, you’re cooking inside, whilst everybody (i.e. society) around you expects you to be calm and “fine with it”. But frankly, I’m not.

I hadn’t been in my favourite café in 4 weeks or so, and I really looked forward to spend a nice cold afternoon curled up on my favourite sofa in my favourite café, with my favourite coffee and my favourite cake. Everything was fine.

‘Till you came along.

You, meaning a family of way too much people, maybe 7, who stepped into the café, finding it occupied, apart from a few chairs here and there. You saw me sitting there all alone on the sofa, with my studying book in front of me. Naturally, I understand your thoughts: she is alone, she is studying, she fits on that tiny table in the corner, directly next to the loudspeaker. We don’t. We are 7 and have 3 children with us. We will consume so much more than she can in a whole day. It is our right to sit there.

So you, the man of the family asked me, whether I could move. I understand the reasoning. And it makes perfect sense. You were not even asking rudely, but polite.

But, to hell with that: Dishonor on you. DIshonor on your cow. Dishonor on your whole family.

For a moment I was sitting there, perplexed, and on the verge of saying something rude. But, of course, I am not that kind of person. And they must have smelled that from the moment they opened the door. “Oh she looks like a nice girl, she wears a woollen Sweater, she must be polite”. 

Of course I moved. I said “sure”, packed my stuff and moved. I didn’t even get a thank you.

Oh, how I hated you.

I had the Book of Norse Philology an my knees, reading about runes and in my imagination I read those runes allowed, cursing your family for all eternity, cursing you to get diarrhoea from that cake you were eating. I cast a (in my imagination, maybe it was much nicer than I wanted it to be) evil look to the one woman, who surely would not have had the guts to ask me to change place.

From that moment I did not as much as glimpse into your direction; I read my book, changing from a look so sour it could make every lemon dry up in envy, to a sad one, hoping to make the impression of being very depressed and making you regret sending me away from my spot. But of course you did not notice any of this, whilst you were playing scrabble, drinking Chai Latte, and laughing in perfect happiness.

Ooo, how I hated you.

I planned to stay at least as long as to jump back to the sofa, the moment you as much as touch your bags. I was determined to get my spot back in my possession.

But when the moment came and you did indeed rise and slip into your coats there were two girls coming in and – seeing the imminent departure – standing right next to the sofa, ready to take over.

Oooh, How I hated you.

Especially when you turned out to be two blond, selfie-taking Norwegian Girls, who both wore the same jeans and almost the same white sweater and showed no sign of any individuality. Your faces were hidden under a ton of make-up, who made you look like Barbie-dolls that landed in, well, a pot of make-up. You took pictures of your coffee, your cakes, yourselves with coffee, yourselves with cake, but not yourselves eating the cake or drinking the coffee, because that would have prevented you from smiling mechanically into the camera.

I decided to comfort myself with a slice of Apple Pie and the promise that I would come here everyday next week. While you probably have to be at school or at work or look after hyperactive children.

Aaah, I love my life.  (but I still hate you a little bit)