OFF SEASON

Once again I'm feeling a bit restless and have travelled to Bulgaria, to close my holiday apartment for the winter. To those who say I travel a lot, I can only say, not really - I'm simply moving in a triangle between my three homes, in Oslo, in southern France and on the Bulgarian Black Sea coast.

If I believed I was coming to a warmer place now, I was wrong. One day of bleak sunshine, then steel grey skies and icy winds. On arriving late Saturday night I was dismayed to find that the management here at the resort had practically closed my apartment already - the electricity was turned off, the water in the taps totally absent. No one there to help. The whole place a ghost town, deserted, abandoned. The mythological Norse Fimbulwinter, the world as we know in the hours before it is obliterated. I was the last person alive. Nothing but darkness. BUT - lo and behold! - I am the actual candlelight girl! There is always an abundance of candles within my reach, whether I am in any of my homes or cabins, even in a hotel room you'll find me lighting a small candle that I have stacked away somewhere in my luggage. The only place I haven't lit a candle, I think, is on an airplane. This candle lighting is a way to obtain that incomparable atmosphere that we Nordic persons call COSY! A candle - or twenty - is in fact necessary for us to feel WHOLE. 

(A small digression: The outdoor bar here at my Bulgarian summer resort Marina Cape is called "The Candle Bar." For several summer seasons I brought my own candle down to the bar, then offered the staff some candles that didn't work because they were blown out by the evening breeze, then finally they provided their own small lanterns to place on every table. Whenever they see me approaching they bring a lit lantern to my table, and even when I sit at the bar one is placed in front of me, smack, before I have a chance to order my drink. Okay, my Candle Bar friends - POINT TAKEN!)

The following day I got help from the two men who work in the security booth at the entrance. No English for them, no Bulgarian for me (that last one IS embarrassing!), but sign language is underestimated. An elderly woman balancing precariously between hysteria and violent tears can also be quite effective. So can publishing it all on Facebook. In less than five minutes everything was working again, and I'd also received numerous offers of help by message. 

The above is a street in Sunny Beach. The sea is a few metres off to the left. For two months of the year - July and August - it's packed with holiday makers, segways, taxis and horse carts. The stalls are filled with clothes, shoes, jewellery, swimming gear, towels, inflatable plastic toys and souvenirs. The whole street smells of pizza, sugar spin, ice cream, hamburgers and french fries. There are fish spas, tattoo parlours, hairdressers, beauty salons, snake exhibitions. And the noise! Yes, the noise! The colours! The frenzy of northern Europeans craving a few weeks of oblivion in a sunny seaside town.

What brings on some sadness for me is just this: Only two months? Because that's really all there is here - two months of crazy partying, wild eating and drinking, reckless sunbathing. The season should be longer - April, June and September are beautiful months here, even October! And yes, there are a few tourists around, but not nearly enough to sustain the shops, restaurants and taxi drivers. There should be a golf course here to extend the season, there should be conferences at the hotels, there should be life.

But it's oh, so quiet.

Beautiful autumn colours that mirror the buildings

Having said all this, I would never want to miss out on staying here "off season." The feeling of having it all to myself, of being part of an everyday life that is not really meant for me and does not include me - almost like prying into people's lives. Because this is what happens - the ordinary life surfaces, for good and for bad. The deep poverty in places here, mostly camouflaged by the tourist invasion in the summer months, becomes more visible. The young gypsy mother I saw yesterday, on the outskirts of my own town of Aheloy, rummaging through a rubbish bin, her excited little girl waiting for something interesting to appear. The numerous unemployed men and women, many of the younger ones leaving the Black Sea Coast to go abroad in order to find jobs during winter. Oh, and the stray cats and dogs scavenging for food! They are much lazier in summer! The traffic - oh, yes - quite another story now. I still drive like a Bulgarian when I'm here - and that's not a good thing - but at least now I drive like a less stressed Bulgarian.

Walking through the nearby city of Burgas this afternoon, again I get my overpowering feeling, that sudden deep understanding, of how our everyday lives bond us as human beings. Isn't this what we all want - a peaceful existence, with family and friends, a roof over our heads, food on our table, our basic needs covered, a meaningful working day. Laughter and sorrow, ups and downs - walking hand in hand. This is what I observed: People going about their business, saying hello to acquaintances (yes, Burgas is no bigger than that), having a cup of coffee or a beer in a café, fetching their children from school. I saw chimney smoke from wood fires.

I was humble and grateful for being able to peer quietly for a few precious moments into Bulgarian lives.

Instead of visiting the beautiful Sea Garden in Burgas today, as I had planned, I decided on a steaming vegetable soup and a Shopska salad in the Rosé Restaurant. A good choice!  

When I returned to my apartment this evening in the unrelenting grey weather, an orange sunset appeared - all of a sudden - out of nowhere! I didn't see it coming! For a little while everything was glowing, the sky was on fire! The buildings were bathed in golden light!

Then darkness descended, like a veil. On proud, unpredictable, beautiful Bulgaria.

THE FOOT OF THE MOUNTAIN

The above was the view from my French house when I arrived here Monday ten days ago. The mountain that I see from my house is Mt. Canigou, 2784 metres high. It was long believed to be the highest summit of the Pyrenees, which in fact it is not, but because it could be spotted from all over and far away - as far away as Marseille on a clear day - this was a "fact" that stuck for ages. At any rate it's a mountain with a lot of myths, stories and folklore attached to it, not least is it the extremely strong symbol of Catalan tradition and unity, on both sides of the border. My husband and I have been up it, well, a third of it anyway, to the Abbey of St. Martin. Or maybe that's just a quarter up. All I can say is it was STEEP!

I can almost make Karen Blixen's words mine - "I have a house at the foot of a mountain." Okay then, she had a farm.

Walking in the Pyrenees is only a stone's throw away for us - situated here between "mer et montagne" - as the tourist brochures say. Here in Thuir we are by definition in the lower Pyrenees. Which means we are on the flat plain, just before the mountains rise and the terrain becomes diverse.

My house is down there somewhere - never can spot it - and the Mediterranean is visible, 23 kilometres away

We can either walk out from the house and wind our way up through residential areas interspersed with vineyards, or we can drive for five-six minutes to Ste Colombe de la Commanderie and enter straight into the numerous paths of the lower Pyrenees, with views to Mt Canigou on one side and the Mediterranean on the other side. Between mountain and sea for sure! Not just a tourist cliché!

I can think of nothing more exhilarating than to walk these red and yellow gravelled paths in early spring (or winter as we would call it further north), that is January and February. Mimosa and almond in bloom, the still snow-capped Canigou, the warmth of the sun already, caressing a pale Nordic face.

For me this is home, though I was born further north.

Vineyards at Ste Colombe de la Commanderie, near Thuir. The red earth of French Catalonia, la Côte Vermeille.

As usual it's exciting to start a blog post, because it hardly ever turns out the way I planned it. Not that I ever have specific plans or thoughts, but I usually have an idea. But my blog takes me in other directions! It has a life of its own! And this evening it took on its own will.

I am in France, yes, and if ever there's a place I'll hang on to until I get carried out, it's here.

But the fact remains - I'm here without my husband. I've always enjoyed taking a time-off here alone, and so did he, but the safe knowledge was that I'd go back home to him, or the next time we'd be here together. It was our project, our home, our nest. A home away from home, that we searched for together, finally bought and were so excited about - our mutual project. Our dream come true. When I lie alone in my bed here I feel both peace and unease, but most of all loneliness.

And that's what I was going to write about this evening - loneliness. Perhaps it's a good sign that instead I focused on the marvellous beauty of nature.

And tomorrow I'm going home. Yes, home - to my city by the sea - Oslo. My family is there. My friends.

My heart lies there too.

Indian summer all over Europe. Tonight is the first night I'm inside, listening to thunder, very close! The temperature suddenly dropped 15 degrees.

SIMPLE LESSONS

No, I have not stopped blogging! I have been on holiday for over two months, and so has my blog. Not that I haven't had access to the Internet all the time - impossible to avoid unless you're spending your time living as a cavewoman, though even then you could take your little mobile router with you I suppose - but it's been okay for me to take a break.

I moved out of my apartment the second weekend of June, and handed it over to the new owners on June 13. On June 15 I boarded a plane at Oslo Airport and flew to Burgas and my holiday apartment in Bulgaria. The reason I left so soon after the handover was that I really thought I had nowhere to stay, but angels watched over me and found me a place to rent. The angels being my friend Grete and her lovely aunt Elisabeth. So I was able to move my stuff into Aunt Elisabeth's fantastic unused apartment in a great part of Oslo, and this is where I'm staying now, temporarily. I honestly don't know where I would be without my friends? In fact, I know of many others who have offered me shelter!

My apartment is in Marina Cape on the Black Sea - the promontory on the half circle (the marina) 

My lovely temporary apartment in Oslo

Most of my belongings are in storage - furniture, books, clothes - well, you name it, but I'm amazed at how I managed to sort out the things I knew I'd need in the short term. Packing alongside the removal guys in June, in beautiful warm weather and with the promise of an endless summer ahead in hot countries, I actually remembered autumn and quick weather changes at the end of August. Coats, boots and woolen jumpers were stowed into black bin liners to go with me in my car, as well as my favourite kitchen utensils (my can't-live-without Bamix, Swiss made and the mother of all stick blenders, recommended by all master chefs, my one even boasting Gordon Ramsey's signature)! But I had to be nearly as quick as those efficient removal men - before I knew it they'd packed unpaid bills and important papers and my knitting! To go into storage! But they'd marked the boxes fortunately.

The strangest experience though, is that I realise that there are only very few things I need. Have I missed those that are in storage? Not really.

This thought has of course struck me before. This summer I spent five weeks in the Bulgarian apartment, which is sparsely furnished, with only the bare necessities. Nothing luxurious, except for a dishwasher and a washing machine. Hmmm… and yes, two fridges. And a TV… But we cook on a small stove, with two rings, we chop and prepare food on a tiny worktop, using the dining table to help us out, but the food we make is always delicious! Otherwise we have the sun and the sea, and as long as I have my books I'm fine. My daughter Johanne and I also brought some TV-series to watch this summer - nine weeks of just chatting, reading and playing cards might demand a little bit of change  - so we ploughed through "Olive Kitteridge,""True Detective 1 & 2" and "Bloodline 1." And some movies.

After ten days alone in Bulgaria I was joined by my eldest daughter and my two granddaughters. (My daughter's fiancé had to work practically all summer, having started a new business). What a joy to have them around! I am distracted, I laugh, I joke, I enjoy myself. We share that profound loss, which we also talk about, inevitably shedding a tear or two, but then we probably need just that. Our family bond has always been strong, but perhaps even more so after we lost one of us. People are sometimes amazed at how we can all be on holiday together for that many weeks without having any sort of big argument, but well, what can I say? Mutual love and respect, solving conflicts straight away, never bearing grudges, not taking ourselves or any whims very seriously. Getting over things and putting them quickly behind us. In fact we all have very little patience now with people picking arguments and blowing petty squabbles out of proportion. We haven't always been like this, have we? Of course we've had our share of marital problems, hard-to-handle teenagers, setting limits, finding our way out of seemingly never-ending difficulties throughout the years. 

But always - always - pulling together in the same direction.

And perhaps the willingness and determination to rise above unfruitful conflict have made up our family's basis all along - only now is so much clearer. 

What a simple lesson we've come to understand so lucidly: Life is short. Love and compassion must be inherent in our lives - here and now. There really is no time to waste.

I said to my daughter, you mustn't feel you have to keep me company all the time, you know. She replied, I like being with you. You know I do.

ON THE MOVE AGAIN

The two first photos above are from my balcony a little over a year ago. The third one was taken on Friday. Symbolic, I think, of the fact that no flowers grow in this home any more. I'm packing up and leaving this lovely new apartment, after having lived here only 18 months. This was no abiding-place for me.

We sold our house - where we had lived since we got married in 1983 - and were preparing to start a new and easier life in a completely new apartment block immediately outside Oslo, in the popular area where the Oslo Airport used to be. Lift straight up from the garage, everything on one level, bathroom en suite two steps from the bed - every interior detail designed to our satisfaction, especially the beautiful and practical kitchen, perfect for my cooking hobby. Huge balcony, with exits both from the bedroom and the living room, room for comfortable furniture and flower pots and lanterns. I'll have my morning coffee out here, my husband said.

Wrapping it up - banana boxes and bubble wrap

We bought the apartment while it was still on the drawing board, a plan in an office. We inspected the site and found it suitable for us. A place where we could grow old, without the effort of stairs from floor to floor. We signed the contract in October 2012. Exactly a year later - on October 9 - my husband was diagnosed with a brain tumour, malignant, stage 4. The tumour was removed, and he underwent chemotherapy and radiation, which was only life-prolonging. We moved into the apartment at the beginning of December 2014, but by then he was so ill that he was granted a temporary stay in the Hospice while I did the the actual moving with the aid of my daughters and son-in-law Josh. He came especially to Oslo from Melbourne to help.

My husband moved out on February 3, 2015, back to the Hospice. By then he couldn't walk or see, and I was practically carrying him around the apartment, pushing him in a wheelchair whenever that was possible, feeding him, helping him on and off the toilet, shaving him, showering him, dressing him. Never leaving him alone for more than 30 minutes while I did the grocery shopping. You might say that "everything on one level" was no good in any case, but better than the three floors we had before.

He never got to enjoy his morning coffee on the balcony, but at Christmas 2014 he at least had a few cigars out there with his friends. The last time he was at home was Valentines Day - when I took him out of the Hospice to throw a party for him. He spent the night beside me, but had a fall from the toilet in the morning. All he wanted was to go back to the Hospice, where he felt safe.

I realised then that that was it. I had said to the doctor at the Hospice that I was planning to have him move back home. I don't know what I was thinking. The doctor persuaded me that it wasn't an alternative, and she had also spoken to my husband at great length. "I see a man who has deep insight into his own illness," she said to me. "He wants to spend the rest of his days in the Hospice." I had no idea he had such a deep insight into his own illness - he did not discuss that with me. He was always optimistic when he talked to me. I realised later that all he wished was to protect me, to spare me the worry.

So - next Sunday - a week from now, I am closing the door on this our mutual project. The place where we were going to grow old together.

I am choosing to grow old somewhere else.

Oslo has been the warmest city in Europe these days, so I've used the balcony a lot!

Flowers and herbs in my sister Kari's garden!

ALL WE HAVE

Hospice: An institution focused on taking care of and nursing the terminally ill, also known as palliative care. Hospice institutions in Europe, in some form, have existed as far back as the 11th century, but were put into system in the 1950s in England by Dame Cicely Saunders.

In other words, a Hospice is a place you don't leave alive -  if you were lucky enough to get a room there.

Death does not frighten me any more. When my husband was at the Hospice for nine weeks before he died I needed to ask his nurses about death. I spent so much time there - day and night - and I watched those coffins being transported out. The first time I witnessed this I was told to stay away from the corridor, and especially to keep my husband away. By that time he was blind, so he wouldn't have seen anything anyway, but as I was to experience myself only a few weeks later, it was important to have the corridor and the moment to ourselves. They actually do a small quiet ceremony, light candles, let us say our goodbyes by the coffin, before it's taken to the cemetery, with us following the hearse in our own cars, magnetic plastic crucifixes on the car roofs. All other traffic stops in respect.

The first time I watched a coffin being transported away from the Hospice, I was sick - literally, for a day. But it drove everything home. He is not actually here on holiday, even though he's allowed to do everything he pleases! Drink his favourite liqueur in the morning, have wine and sandwiches in the middle of the night, ask for a hamburger whenever, have friends over all the time. And the same applied to me. I could do whatever I wanted, bring take-aways, drink wine, use the kitchen, join the nurses, spend time with them. Four days before my husband died my sister Kari and my brother-in-law Bjørn walked over from their house and we partied next to his bed, and he was most certainly a part of the party!

Still. It is death row.

The flag on half-mast, the hearse backing up to the entrance. Fortunately I did not ever get to know the other patients. Eleven rooms, eleven people dying of cancer. My husband - always the sociable one, the mingler - he was mostly without other Hospice companions in the common room. They were all at death's threshold, in their beds, not wanting to participate in anything. I have nothing but respect for this.

Yes, I asked the nurses about death, and how they coped. How they dealt with seeing patients dying, human beings they'd become acquainted with, perhaps started to become close to. I received answers, and they were all valuable to me:

We see death as a release, a comfort - after a long time in pain.

We cry too.

We become very fond of our patients.

We see some unbelievable courage.

We get to know and love some incredible families.

It's our job.

We get used to death. Everyone will die.

Pragmatic, realistic, yes, but also comforting. How is it possible that I think back to those nine weeks at the Hospice as good? The positive vibes, the including atmosphere. I looked forward to going there! To spend time with my husband, of course, but also just to be there! To roam the corridors, restless in the middle of the night - when he was asleep - being asked by reading, knitting, dozing nurses if I wanted a snack - sit down, talk - would you like a glass of wine?

How can you ENJOY being in a space of death? I found it so comforting.

And in the end my husband's coffin was taken out too, and pushed into a hearse. Beneath the half-mast flag.

Death became so close. Almost like a friend. We're here to be born, to live and to die. This is all we know. This is ALL we know. It is what we all have in common, if nothing else.

What frightens me more is life, and how to live it decently. Knowing and hearing what other people say about my husband - and only recently someone I don't even know spoke of him to my daughter - I realise that he came very close to living an exceptionally decent life.

We all strive towards it, I have no doubt. We do our best, and how can we not?

As death, life is all we know. All we have.

THE WALL

And so I hit rock bottom. I walked head on into a brick wall. I fell into a hole so black that it was like being buried alive. If you don't want to know, then this is a warning: Stop reading now. Because this is bleak. But my blog is not a pretend-blog, and one of its pillars is honesty. I might as well not write if I can't be honest.

On the one year date of my husband's death - I don't want to call it "anniversary" because to me that word implies celebration - April 6, I invited my family for dinner. My daughters, granddaughters, my husband's sister and one of his closest friends. It was a nice gathering, good food, warm conversation. But I felt uneasy, restless, fidgety. I was both looking forward to everyone leaving and dreading the moment they were gone.

I tried to go to sleep in the small hours, but instead everything broke. I did not recognise myself, my reactions were new to me. I pushed everything off his side of the bed - I leave clothes and my books there, it seems less empty that way - and for the first time in one year I lay on that side. His side. I melted into him, and I thought my crying would never stop. Not crying, but howling. I drowned. I fell. I died. My heart was wrenched out of me.

I spent the following day - April 7 - in bed, stuffing myself with sedatives. I was an exhausted zombie with a puffy face. Did I have a face? Was I obliterated now? Was there anything left? Any pieces to pick up?

I got up at 8 pm, I think. Watched some TV, I think. Went back to bed. I think I did. And I think I slept for ten hours. Did I? I can't be sure.

But Friday the 8th was okay. It was quiet. Like a calm after the storm. Fortunately it rained and rained, kept pouring down, wouldn't stop. Great. I couldn't have faced sunny weather. Best friend Grete invited me for pizza in a lively Italian restaurant, where all the waiters speak Italian and prefer to take your orders in this beautiful language. We, fortunately, were with Grete's son and his gorgeous Italian wife, so we could bask in her glory. This kind of experience helps heal me. Gives me a break. Soothes me.

Now, two weeks later, I am still quite zombie-like. I feel I merely - and barely - exist, but at least I try to lead my other "normal-life." Which I have done all the time. "Chin up"-kinda thing. While my other totally fragile and vulnerable self trudges along in circles in that dark pit, trying to make heads or tails of this complicated business we call life.

As always the analytic side of me pops out - explaining to the rest of me: It had to happen sooner or later. You've been through one year, seen all the special and difficult days come and go, thinking, NOW. Now I've been through them, the climb is upwards from now on. Then you realise, no. Those days will come and go, again and again and again. And yet again. And then once more. Year after year. Until one day comes - maybe - when everything has softened, memories are milder, contours mercifully blurred.

Again I find comfort in my friends and family. I am lucky. My sister Kari and one of her sons coming to good old-fashioned Sunday dinner, saying, you can stay with us as long as you like when you have to move out of your apartment (yes, I sold it). A coffee (or two) with a friend, who just listens to me. Two hours sitting cross-legged on the grass at my husband's grave with Grete yesterday, getting sunburned! (And I hate the sun these days)… Talking about things so existentialist, so profound, that the only way to break through is being a small baby bird knocking its beak through the eggshell. If it's able to. So fragile. Yes, Grete - your metaphor.

A long email from my Irish soulmate Addie, my sista from another mista. My brother from another mother. I know what she's going to say before she says it. She comforts me endlessly, she never tires of me.

And then, last night, hitting the neighbourhood café and bar for mussels and wine with, yes, my lovely neighbour.

All surviving techniques.

This has been hard to write, I know I'm exposing myself.

But it has to be this way or none at all.