I am on my second long-distance train of this trip to
Norway. The kid next to me sleeps; the
one on the other side of the aisle eats a banana and watches ‘Catching
Fire.’
I, in the meantime, will take entirely too long to write
this blog because I can’t help pausing every few words to survey the world on
the outside. It just began to snow, big
flakes that look ferocious but only because the train moves so fast. The route from Oslo to Stavanger passes
through a landscape that is a study in greens and whites with the occasional
burst of color from a red or beige house, or a lightning fast snatch of blue
blue sky. The greens are moss, fir,
pine, evergreen, an odd brownish-mint.
The white is the reflection of snow, frost, smoke from the fires burning
in those red or beige houses, a salty deposit on the big rocks that form the
walls of the valley through which I travel.
It is breathtaking.- it is making gluttons of my eyes If I could feast on the scenery, I
would. I would gorge myself on this
place; forever fill myself on it. I
can’t actually bring myself to picture what it will be like in the spring and
summer, I don’t want to. Instead I want
to absorb this winter into my bones. I
want to burn it into the backs of my eyelids and pull it around my heart- like
a cold cloak that protects this beating beast.
Why did I decide to go to Norway in the middle of
winter?
I did not know it when I booked my flights; I could not
fathom it when I paged through the guidebooks, dog-earing this page and that
one. But this is why- this primitive
combination of sinister and pristine. The
cold is callous but it is innocent, as well.
And old as time.
Norway in the winter is a slap in the face of complacency
and complaints.
Norway in the winter will put anyone in his or her place-
real fast; it’s size will remind you of how small you are; it’s cold is a
testament to how fleeting. The few
moments of sunshine dare you to look away.
And I cannot.
Until next time, I am far too captivated to keep writing.
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