2 years – Mobile roots, music and onwards.

It’s my two-years-anniversary for Paris. I think. It might have been yesterday. I think it’s today. I open my imaginary bottle of Moêt & Chandon, and I drink to that. Santé!

Yesterday (or the day before), in 2009, I had fallen asleep outside on the veranda at my grandmother’s place, down town Oslo. In the early morning silence I had packed up my bags, and as I closed the wooden door to her apartment with a heavy “thud” sound , walking outside to wait for the 37-bus, the world went into a silent freeze mode. It might have been my brain tuning into that mode, no matter: we were not moving fast, not me nor the world. Changes were towering in the distance, and I think I preferred not to think about it too much.

A phone call from my dad (-you’re awake? “Yes” – you’re on your way? “yes” -remember, if there’s anything you need, if anything happens, call me and I’ll come down there!” “yes, thanks dad.” -Bye! “Bye!”) woke me up for some seconds, forcing my thoughts to the mission I was on (moving to a new city (Paris), learning a new language (french)), but by the time the bus was rolling towards the train station I was gone again, into the land of No Thoughts-No Fears.

I remember nothing from the airports (Gardermoen – Charles De Gaulle).

I remember flying in over Paris. It was around noon, I had a cup of crappy air plane coffee in my hands, and from where I was sitting (window seat), our eyes met. Paris’ and mine. A city I had never been to, never longed for (my plans were to go to Strasbourg, but I changed them in the week before the application deadline), was there some 1000 m below me, returning my look. And then it happened (and you will need this song in the background now). My roots started to grow. From me, through the cold, hard air craft construction, they playfully grew their way through the light layers of pale midday clouds, they hit the first 6-story roof tops, they grazed the Eiffel Tower, landed gently on the streets, dived into the Seine, and continued down, down, they found their way through the dark catacombs and even further down before they settled into the warm soil of Paris. Freeze mode & fright turned into capture mode & curiosity. And impatience, it felt like it was the root’s tug between Paris and me that pulled the air craft down to the ground.

On the RER-B, on the line 7, all the way to rue Mouffetard and the Young&Happy hostel (!), where I checked in and payed for two nights, the roots tugged at me, all the way to the Sorbonne office, where they had “just gotten in a new offer for an apartment, if I would look at it before 15H since the owner was leaving the city, why, it’s just round the corner” (which was what I understood of that 20 min monologue in french), and then down to the beautiful 30 Rue Lacépède, (neighboring L’énvol Quebecois where I would do some concerts in the year to come), where I met monsieur Mamet and got the keys to the hot tin can on the sixth floor called Chambre 10.

During my year in Paris I climbed those worn down steps at least 4 times each day. From my window view, which in the fall was from Chambre 12, a bit further down the hallway, my roots would still tug at me. Gently reminding me that anchors are there, whether I see a Bonnie Prince Billyish darkness or burn in concentration. They gently tug at me while I don’t believe in anything or anyone, or when I trust the world, they’re there when I try to settle once and for all (yet again..) that putain/merde I can go where I wan’t to go, my roots reminds me that Paris will still be there under my feet. Go run around. You still have solid ground to stand on.

 This is not a recap of my year in Paris, nor of the year in Oslo since I came back (which, when I think about it, is as loaded with new cultures, territories, languages, misunderstandings and great moments, good people, and challenges) this is a short sum up on roots and to go where you want to go.  Monday (2011), I was talking with my grandmother, mentioning the jewish saying “trees have roots, people have feet”, and she laughed and said my dad had once said he believed me to have air roots.

That might be right, I like traveling, I like it when something new demands all my attention. But I do it like I do if I am to jump from something high (ehm, never above 5 m..), I make the decision in advance, then I stop thinking and just walk fast til’ I’m in it and take it from there.

My roots have seeped somewhat back into Oslo soil. And as I sit here writing, outside in the back yard of my friends apartment, which until august  is my home, a window in the building next door is open and I can hear someone playing Valse d’Amelie (Yann Tiersen) on what sounds like a charmingly old piano. The overly parisian piano waltz turns my roots into nerves, making me become aware of the sense of familiarity and home music gives the world.

In Paris.

In Oslo.

Please, stop playing that waltz, s’il te plaît. It makes me start crying. It’s not even 12 o’clock, and I’m outside, with good coffee, with a summer ahead and a quite stable mood, so I can’t be sitting here whimpering in memories of the past and hopes for the future. Crap. Or at least close the window.

I wont be closing the “Jen-i-Paris”-blog. I’ll come back. From time to time. But I will be starting a new one, “Chambre 12″. On all the different tugs of things I notice when I imagine myself sitting in front of that view. I still feel the tug from Paris, but alot of good things holds me here as well. And things tug at me towards disaster areas, refugee camps, towards helping out so people can go where they want to go, think and speak freely, act, get education, so they can create. Cause I know that’s what I hope people can help me with, when I need it. So that I can create what I can. Music, the only language I ever knew how to speak freely. Music is a mobile home, the only place where I feel the tug of everything equally – cause I am in place.

Happy anniversary Paris, today or yesterday.