DRIVING HOME FOR CHRISTMAS

I came back to Oslo on December 3rd. I was driving home for Christmas, after having spent three weeks in my house in France. Frankly I would have liked to stay longer, but I needed to get back for my family and friends. Preparing Christmas celebrations, going to a traditional weekend party in the mountains with some of my best friends, other invitations. Fortunately I do keep appointments and am eternally grateful for having them, which means I don't get the chance to hide away completely in that deep black hole, also known as my life in 2015.

I keep being both surprised and amazed though, at my ability to enjoy the little things in the midst of all the sorrow. I was determined to make my road trip a good experience, even though I pretty much sobbed my way through it. Well, I was prepared for all the emotions, and I felt I was sharing the trip with my husband, just as I anticipated I would be.

On the way back to Norway I decided I really wanted to visit a Christmas market in Germany, having been recommended this by various friends. A little bit of googling - for a town not too big, not too small, and boasting a town square and a traditional market, and in suitable driving distance from my second hotel night in the tiny south-German town of Riegel (beautiful but too small)! - landed me in Hildesheim just south of Hannover.

At Gasthof Kopf in Riegel - very Christmassy already on November 30. I ordered my whole meal in German - PROUD. 

The Hildesheim Christmas market - view from my hotel room!

Glühwein!

Oh wow. This was it. The ultimate Christmas market in an old German town, a market square surrounded by the most fabulous timber framed buildings. The hotel I checked into was unbelievable - the Van der Valk, with an unassuming entrance (if you can call an old timber framed building unassuming), and the most beautiful hotel lobby I have ever seen. "I'll give you a room with a view on the Christmas market," the receptionist said. A view! I was right IN the Christmas market! I could smell the roasted almonds, the glühwein, the gingerbread, the grilled curry würsts, the candy floss! I listened to the jingling bells, the music from the rotating tower, the children's laughter, the grown-ups chatting! The atmosphere! Oh, yes - that Christmas feeling.

I dived into it. I walked around it in awe, knowing my husband would have loved this. He would have ordered the Glühwein for me in his impeccable German. He would have said, "Let's share a sizzling hot curry würst! Even if we're having dinner later!" He was the one who time and time again showed me the "Gemütlichkeit" of Germany. Yes, I think he definitely walked with me that evening through the Hildesheim Christmas market.

Hotel Van der Valk, Hildesheim

Hotel Van der Valk lobby

Living in a Christmas market

Reluctantly leaving my beautiful hotel the following day - having been served an enormous breakfast from room service (more than enough to make myself sandwiches for lunch) - I decided to head for a detour to southern Sweden and the famous "criminal" town of Ystad. I just happened to stop outside the Hotel Continental du Sud - the oldest hotel in Sweden and an institution! Apparently it has often featured as a location in the Wallander TV series - both the Swedish and the English - and the crew and cast stay there regularly. I crossed THE Bridge between Denmark and Sweden and was again stopped by border police, extra reinforcements due to both the Paris terrorist attacks and the migration flow. The insistent police in their oilskin clothes matched the gloomy atmosphere of the Øresund Bridge, wet with rain.

One of my recurring dreams for years has been about hotels. Walking their long corridors, living in beautiful rooms, falling into soft duvets, soaking in deep bathtubs in scented foam, serving myself from minibars and not having to clear up the bottles, leaving my bed messy and unmade, strolling downstairs to abundant breakfasts. I have searched and googled for dream symbol interpretations of "Hotel," but they really only boil down to one: "You're in need of relaxation and getting away from it all." Yes! I know this is the right explanation!

Hotel Continental du Sud was almost more special than my Hildesheim hotel. I loved it! But Ystad was a dead town - literally - in early December, and I was asked to leave the pizza place where I had dinner by 10.30 pm, very politely though. On a stroll through the town's pedestrian area afterwards I encountered ONE person, and he was in fact carrying what looked like a body on his shoulder. It's true! It was rolled and wrapped up in something plastic, and well, yes... I did not turn my head to look back after I'd passed him.

Quiet quiet Ystad. Where are the criminals? 

More quiet quiet Ystad. But I do love the timber frames! 

Christmas is definitely here, in my home too. It will be a difficult time for me, as every new "first" this year without my husband. I'm still so volatile, so vulnerable, so sad, so alone. But I'm proud I did the Road Trip. It was a catharsis for me, I knew it would be all along.

I decorate my house with lights and candles, I cook, I prepare. I watch my granddaughters create their gingerbread figures. I will enjoy spending time with them and relish in their delight.

I will survive Christmas, of course I will. It's winter solstice today and gradually light will return to our Nordic Noir.

But there's no way I can simply turn on the lights inside me.

"I'LL BE YOUR EMMYLOU"

I said in my last blog post that I wanted my road trip to France at the beginning of this month to be a tribute to my husband. But the other reason I left Norway in November was because his birthday was on the 10th. He would have been 69 years old that day, and I just did not want to spend it at home. Although I call my house in France "home" too, I seem to be further away from everything here, not least those everyday surroundings that weigh so heavily on me. My daughters and granddaughters said that they would visit the grave on his birthday, and I was alone here, struggling and crying my way through the day. I wanted to be alone.

I've had a lot of time to think about grief during the two weeks I've spent here in France. Thinking about grief - well, that sounds brooding and gloomy, but it isn't really. I've said before that I need to go head on into my own grief and never - never - suppress it. That would not work for me. Going through grief and mourning is like a purge, a catharsis. Or at least that's what I thought. Well, it's partly that, but I've come to realise more and more clearly that this grief will stay with me forever. It will always be a part of me. And there is no such thing as "getting over" grief.

Birthday party 26 years ago - 10.11.89. Four best friends.

Walking in the Pyrenees, nearly three years ago

I was reading recently a blog post that was reposted by someone else on Facebook - I can't remember who wrote it, but they were thoughts by a young man who had lost his father some years earlier. His description of his grief was exactly like mine! It could in fact have been written by me. Other stories on the subject tell me that grief might be a human mechanism that is very similar in all of us. I have always thought that people grieve differently, some are incredibly open about it, others keep it inside, some strive to move on more quickly, others bury themselves privately in their emotions. All kinds of variations. But the way I've now heard people in mourning describe the waves of hopelessness that suddenly roll over you, the abrupt tears that you don't know where spring from, or what initiated them, makes me think differently. The continuous ups and downs, the valleys, the mountain tops. The immediate need to be alone, to pull away, to take a time-out. The churning of the mind, the sleeplessness, the anger - yes, the ANGER - at the person who's had the nerve to leave you! Listening to and drowning in your own never-ending sobs in the lonely blackness of night and thinking they won't ever stop until they break your heart completely. Then that very irrational feeling that the person you miss is going to come back, of course he is! That's why you can't throw away his clothes.

But most of all - the deep, intense, basic sense of loss. It actually hurts physically. Many have described this. The irreversibility, the finality.

I have tried to discover a little bit about what sets off my sudden grief attacks. Yes, you can call them attacks, though it's perhaps a negative word. But they arrive as fast and as unpredicted as strikes of lightning.

This is one: A book on my husband's bedside table here in France. When I picked it up to place it in the bookshelf I noticed the sleeve was wrapped around page 22. That was how far he'd read before his failing eyesight made it too strenuous for him to continue. Memories got the best of me and before I knew it I was sobbing. Out loud. He always had a book with him, and I remember being told to pack this one last year, wherever we went. At home he'd pick it up and try to read a few lines every now and again, but would put it away sighing, a bit exasperated - I'll have to try the optician for stronger glasses.

I did not pack it when we flew back to Oslo exactly one year ago. There was no point.

The fact was the brain tumour was by then pushing so hard on the visual cortex that blindness would eventually be inevitable. As it turned out he was more or less blind by mid-January, when he couldn't see the playing cards any more. That realisation was devastating for him, the biggest disappointment during his entire period of illness. It was a huge tragedy for him. Coming home from that final poker tournament he could only lay down and weep. Until he said - well, I'll listen to music then. Can you put on a CD for me? You choose, sweetheart. I like all the music you play for me. On second thought - put on some Johnny Cash for me.

All these memories - and many more - come hurtling at me, just by seeing this book. No wonder a wave of grief is triggered.

Here is another lightning strike: The song "Emmylou" by Swedish band First Aid Kit. Summer 2014 - the 8th July - when we came back from church after my daughter Julie's wedding, and the marquee was looking so beautiful and the sun had come out and the sixty-six guests were mingling on the lawn, relaxing, chatting, laughing - and everything was under control, except the music. But several people cooperated and cut cables to fit, dug out old loudspeakers that worked - and I found myself letting them do that - letting go of my own control freakiness. And then suddenly the music started and the sound was perfect - flowing through the garden and over the trees at our summer house. Seeing everyone so happy, my husband having a little rest before dinner got started. Smelling the barbecue of "waiting sausages" - a new term introduced by us Norwegians to the delight of our Australian family and friends. Well, you have to eat something while you drink and mingle and wait for the party to start, don't you?

The first song that came out of the old B&O loudspeakers was "Emmylou," a haunting, minor tuned ballad of dedicated, unconditional love. Between Emmylou Harris and Gram Parsons. Between Johnny Cash and June Carter. Crossing my mind at that moment were two thoughts: -I have never really listened to this song properly. -Next summer our lives will be changed. I will be alone.

The sorrow every time I hear this song now is almost unbearable.

My grief is so huge it sometimes overshadows everything else. Most of the time actually. But the other day I decided to go to the nearby town of Collioure, where my husband and I have spent so many happy days. Except that every time I pass a certain restaurant I recall that we had a fight just there. (Or a "discussion" as we would call it). With our children present. Of course I don't remember what the fight was about - it's nearly twenty years ago. I don't think my husband ever recalled it at all - he was great at putting things behind him. This is one of the lessons I learnt from him.

Put bad experiences and disappointments behind you. Hold on to the good memories.

This is what I try to do, my darling. But the good memories get mixed up with my grief. It's a difficult mixture to deal with. But it has to be my journey.

Collioure January 2013

Collioure Friday

Suddenly this terracotta stone appeared at my feet on Collioure beach. It's almost heart-shaped and will be brought back to my husband's grave. It's the colour of this region's earth. The houses. The roof tiles. The crazy sunset over the Pyrenees. 

NEXT TIME, SWEETHEART!

Wednesday two weeks I ago I packed my bags, stowed them into my car and drove it onboard the ferry that crosses the Skagerak at 1400 hours precisely, from Oslo to Kiel in northern Germany. I spent twenty hours on the ferry - which is more like a small cruise ship than anything else - and I had a great time. I treated myself to a 75-minute massage, did a little bit of shopping, watched a show called "Cool Britannia" - yes, you guessed it, all about British pop hits - had a Bloody Mary with the show and a Dry Martini before dinner, ate a fabulous meal in the à la carte restaurant, then went to bed in my cabin and slept well.

Prawn starter

Halibut/salmon main course

At 10 a.m the next morning I drove off the ferry, accompanied by my own loud sniffles and some heavy sobs, and this is the way I continued through Europe on my road trip, destination my house in Thuir, France - all in tribute of my husband, and his and my frequent drives across the continent. Except that now I was on my own - and in the driver's seat all the time.

I drove nearly 500 kilometres to a small village called Michelsrombach, just off the motorway, not very far north of Frankfurt. I asked for "ein Zimmer" at the friendly Hotel Rhönhof, which turned out to be just the kind of place we have stayed in on numerous occasions, and I felt at home immediately. The schnitzel, the bratkartoffeln and the gemischte salat tasted deliciously, and the schnapps was already on the table. Suddenly I found myself speaking German!

My husband was always very set on reaching our destination when we were out road tripping. He'd easily cover 1000 kilometres in one day, only swapping seats with me for about a quarter of that distance. One of our internal jokes was me complaining - "I want to see Strasbourg, darling! I want to stop in Lyon! Can we spend some hours in a city on the way? Please!" Every time he replied - "Next time, sweetheart - next time. We should get moving now, shouldn't we? Better get to the house in France!" Always my restless and impatient husband.

So this road trip was my "next time." He was beside me in the passenger seat and I said - look! I'm stopping in Strasbourg. I'm stopping in Lyon. This time you have no choice, my darling!

I spent one night in Strasbourg. I spent the next night in Lyon. I drove fearlessly right into the centres of two of France's largest cities - with a little help from my friend in the Sat Nav box - but she's more often than not a nuisance in places where streets and traffic patterns often change. I think she needs to be updated, though, so it's not her fault she gets some frequent verbal abuse from me.

Strasbourg is - just as I thought - a total mix of French and German architecture, food, culture, language, situated as it is practically on the border between the two countries. After a quick look at both the city map and a recommendation of restaurants on the Internet I made my way to nearby Petite France, the beautiful old part of Strasbourg. It was dark by then, but I was "herzlich willkommen" or was it "bienvenue" in a traditional restaurant on the canal - Maison des Tanneurs.

The waiters carried out enormous pans of sauerkraut, sausage and chunks of pork meat, and it seemed to me I was the only one in the restaurant ordering something completely different - chicken in Alsace wine sauce. But to be honest - the grey heaps my fellow guests were digging into had no temptation for me. Another time maybe. (Actually it reminded me quite a bit of our Norwegian Christmas food, but I swear I make it look more inviting when I cook it)...

Maison des Tanneurs

Munster cheese from Alsace, shaped as a heart. Appropriate for an elderly woman, dining alone

The following day I covered 500 kilometres again, to Lyon. Driving the motorways in France is NOT cheap, but they're so much better than in Germany - where you don't pay tolls. The motorways there need constant roadworks, with the inevitable "stau" as a result. Queue.

I was lucky this time and only got caught in one "stau," but there were several in the opposite direction. Worse though is that the tarmac is so badly worn in some places that you think there's something wrong with your car all of a sudden - it rattles and shakes as though it'll come apart. And you shake with it! In France though the roads are smooth as silk, but easy to drive very fast on. I was jolted back into reality when I suddenly spotted my own registration number up on an enormous flashing screen above me, mounted the full width of the motorway - DL 95316 trop vite! Too fast! Shame on you! Well, it didn't of course say "shame," but wow, was it an effective message! God knows I've had my share of speeding tickets. Road safety in France is huge and a good investment in saving lives.

 

Lyon - at the Presqu'Ile, where the rivers meet - Saône and Rhône

I wish I'd have spent longer in Lyon. "Next time, sweetheart!" There was a bustle and a "savoir-vivre" there that I sensed straight away. It's the gourmet capital of France, or even Europe, and I noticed quickly that I had the famous Brasserie Georges right next to my hotel. Not that I think it's particularly renowned for its food, a lot of sauerkraut again here, but it's the atmosphere! Well, passing by at dinner time I decided NOT to try to ask for a table - the place was packed with people inside and outside, and the human noise was mad, the lights were bright and glaring. I opted for a quiet meal in my hotel restaurant. The hotel had a jazz theme decoration and was in fact very trendy. And the hamburger was excellent!

But I can't really believe I had a hamburger in the BIG GOURMET CAPITAL. Well, somebody's gotta do it...

Benny Goodman watching over me

Mademoiselle Simone Jazz Bar

I arrived at my house in southern France on the fourth day of my road trip. I was so pleased. I was home. This is my home. It's not even my second home, I think - it's becoming more and more my first one. This is what we were planning, my husband and I, to spend more time here.

I see him everywhere here, I think of him in all the rooms, on the terrace, in the pool. (Which is now covered, but day temperatures are way up in the twenties, so a dip would be nice)!

I see him removing the weeds, painting the gate. Cooking, relaxing, reading. He would have been so excited to see how Jean-Marc has dealt with the weeds and the bamboo - just shutting them down! Covering them with pebbles! And he would have been pleased to see that the palm tree seems to be surviving the murderous butterflies - the little monsters have been killing palm trees all along the Mediterranean coast.

Contrasts: Oslo harbour when I left, the beach at St Cyprien on Sunday

But then suddenly disaster descended upon France. I will need to write about that, soon.