Notes from Nowhere

miðvikudagur, september 21, 2005

Five hours in Bergen

'Flying, never landing/ in moto perpetuo/ terra incognito'

To go is to live, but arriving is joy. Huge journeys, migrations, across seas, skies, mountains, hope and despair find their redemption in arrival.

Following a trail of recommendations I find myself in a funky little cafe, all round red melamine furniture, Studio One sounds and Talking Heads, and a friendly young woman named Guro. My petitioniarys are strangely met by this hungover architecture student, working in an empty bar in 'The Wettest Town'. I offer my performance to the Cafe Legal, this one night only, and play her my work as an example. She likes, but we are alone. We drink coffee and talk about music, Norwegian style and social planning, and are interrupted only by a guy putting up a poster for a Japanese band playing 'Naked Rock, Naked Soul' early next month. Naturally I tell him that the group I work with is planning a short tour. Naturally, he enjoys the work, and we swap details.

It was in chatting with Guro, because in her friendliness and openness, in her coffee, I found my arrival.

Later I walk with her through this vibrant city to the Cafe Opera, where the 'best audience in town' gathers for a variety of acoustic artistic entertainment each Tuesday. Yet later, I go to the mountain to find suitable accommodation, but I know that Bergen is not mine tonight, it is too big for my heart. I turn for the night train to Oslo. Bergen deserves my time, my attention. The lights, the architecture, the Kunstmuseum, the seven mountains and seven fjords demand a return. And I would love nothing better than to devote to her another migration, another arrival, another chance for redemption.


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