Post Paris Perspective

It’s 04:45 in the morning, Oslo time. I remember waking up once in Paris, in my chambre 12, right about this time, because of some high ramble outside. Then, there, it was thunder awaking me, firing off rainstorms from heavy golden clouds, and the view from my window looked like this:

Now, here, it was the States Road Service awaking me, planting trees into the roundabout outside, and the view from my window is two men in orange and yellow reflex outfits, a tractor and trees, in this brick-building-surrounded roundabout with huge commercial signs on the rooftops.

I am sure that if my sense of adventure would leave me at this point, depression would be quick to take it’s place.

It’s been 45 days since I left the City of Lights, stood at the airport after an up untill then tear free departure (you can’t cry when something seems so unreal), hiding behind dark sunglasses and an 80 kg mountain of luggage stacked on the trolley, my grand fathers blue shirt on my shoulders, high heels on my feet and a real struggle on the inside to understand the situation. Leaving? Haha, no, why of course not! Quelle drôle d’idée.. And yet, yes, here you go, Jenny Moe, back to the country no french know anything about if it wasn’t written in Asterix and Obelix, on my way to the country called the way to the north, cause my year was done and up there was where the adventure supposedly continued. 175€ of overweight and 6 carry-ons later,  I was well buried into the window seat in the back row of the plane, a row blessedly empty except for me and my post paris blues (that’s an understatement), and a notion of this being the beginning of an adventure couldn’t have been further away, I wouldn’t believe it even if Asterix told me so. With a certain sense of fatigue in my muscles (muscles after all very grateful for the help from a friend carrying the luggage down the 6 staircases at my home 5 hours earlier on) I kicked of my shoes, put my feet into the seat, flung my hands around my legs, rested my forehead on my knees and began what would turn out to be a two-hour long event of grieving, gradually drenching my grandfathers shirt with tears&sniveling, under the concerned supervision from the flight attendances. The scene accompanied by a selection of french&other songs on my iPod, beginning with Brad Mehldau’s ”Don’t Be Sad”.

As I tried to tackle the end of the Parisian year, the airplane took the most beautiful arch around the whole of Paris I’ve ever witnessed. I could see the Eiffel tower, Champs Elysees, my university at Jussieu, the arrondissements, I could see everything, I could feel everything, I remembered everything, I missed everything, and everyone. It was a killing 10 minutes view, in my head winning all kinds of Oscars, and I’d run up to the front of the plane to thank&hug the captain for the beautiful flying, if I didn’t think that my now so red eyes probably would have given me quite the insane- watch -out-she-might-try-to-highjack-the-plane-back-to-Paris-look.

I stayed in my seat, ordered red wine and some water so not to forego with dehydration, iPod showing Brad Mehldau ”Now you must climb alone”, window showing a neutral no-man’s land of clouds and blue sky. No man’s land suited me fine. I was nowhere myself.

But now the view outside my window has changed again, that’s how it goes, that was then, this is now. New views, new adventures.

And now is Oslo, now is music, now is friends, family, now is breathing a bit more calmly as I’m out of the high tension field of always interpreting, now is continuing to make mistakes, but being a bit more aware of making them (the privilege of making mistakes in your own language&culture !). Now is the weird feeling of being a place where nothing reminds me of Paris, here is the strange sensation of having stepped into CS Lewis’ wardrobe a year ago, been a fantastic place, and when I’m back in Oslo, it’s like Paris and all it held was in my head, cause Oslo bears no witness to anything that has taken place this last year. True, memories are in my head, and with those who came visiting, with things and everything. Music. But on an everyday basis, Paris doesn’t exist. It’s a bit sad. It’s also a bit good.

Now is Norway, north, and already the anticipation of crisp clear october mornings with frosty breath and red golden trees and coffee in the park. The air is fresher here. The sea is salty. The forests more deep and the world a bit more wild. And a bit less crowded. Vraiment.

All this. For now. Cause sometimes my iPod plays Mehldau’s ”Always departing”. And sometimes it plays ”Always returning”.