MY RESTLESS EXISTENCE

I am in France again, in my house in the village of Thuir beneath the Pyrenees. I am here for several reasons - not that I really need to present any - the main one once again being a wish to get away from my hometown Oslo. My restlessness knows no boundaries, and as long as I merely exist at the best of times, I might as well be here instead of there.

View from my house - snowcapped Mt Canigou in the Pyrenees

There have been snowfalls in Oslo recently, and as anyone who knows me will verify, I'm no fan of the white stuff. When I return in a few days I will have to dig out the car at the airport car park, which reminds me that I have no shovel in the boot. That might be a huge problem.

My husband - who always loved skiing, both cross country and downhill, who played bandy when he was a young boy - gradually became tired of the winter months in Norway too. The cold, the ice, the snow, the slippery roads and not least the perpetual darkness. We had agreed that we'd spend more of those dark winter months here in France, where all of a sudden you might wake up to a day with promises of bright sunshine and warmth.

But last Sunday as I was landing at Barcelona Airport I could feel the forceful greeting of Marcel the Storm. The turbulence was indeed the worst I've been in for a while. As I neared the Pyrenees, on the plain after Girona, my little hire car had trouble staying on the road. Winds at up to 150 kilometres per hour really threaten to throw cars off the road, or overturn them. Very often roads are closed when these gusts are going on. Off the motorway and driving the 10 kilometres up to my village I had to dodge fallen branches all the way and a tree trunk here and there. Thinking about it now I could have stopped and gathered free firewood, but then again - not. This stretch of road has earned me two speeding tickets in three months - only a few lines over the limit, mind you - so in fact the fallen stuff blocking the road at intervals was good for me.

Our favourite summer restaurant La Flotille closed, abandoned, deserted

The storm died down gradually, but of course it's winter here too. I had an urge to walk along the beach today - just to feel the elements tear at me. The wind and the rain were powerful enough without lashing out at 150 kph.

And the rain hid my tears. Yes, my tears - that are still coming. I found that my stay in Australia over Christmas and the New Year helped numb me and keep the constant sorrow padded, for the obvious reason that there was such a lot going on all the time. There were people around constantly, it was so busy that I sometimes had to ask for a little bit of "alone"-time to pick myself up. I am after all an elderly woman.

It was as if my brain and my emotions had a time-out while I was in Oz. It was as if they too were on holiday. The numbness was nice in the way that it kept my emotional exhaustion at bay, the one that comes with all the grief and all the crying. I was able to discern some of my old energy again. The weather was warm, the sky was blue, my closest family members were once again gathered all around me.

BUT. There is a big but. Almost every time we gathered - for instance when we sat down for a meal, I found myself counting a chair for my husband, a plate, a glass. I feel his absence so physically that it's as if he's there too. His absence is a presence. This became very apparent during a family trip like the Australia visit because in a way it's completely unthinkable that I should've done something like that without him. He SHOULD have been there.

And he was there. So strong and clear. But my loneliness is excrutiatingly apparent too in these settings.

I know a wise old man, and I met him at a dinner party a few weeks back. A widower, he lost his wife five years ago. He's lovely and entertaining and great at including everyone in conversation - what you would call a perfect gentleman. Across the table from me he associated a piece of the conversation topic with sorrow, looked at me and said "I bet your grief still dominates your life - all you do and all you feel. It will take at least three years. Then you might begin to live a little again, to laugh a little, and your heart will be in it."

Sunset over Mornington Peninsula, Australia - Christmas 2016

And do you know what? This is also one of the reasons I'm here in my house in France - to grieve in peace. My numbness didn't last. I should have known it - it's impossible to force yourself to go numb and devoid of emotions. They will surface eventually.

I pull out a chair for my husband here too.

He should have been here.

THE LONG HAUL DOWN UNDER

I have neglected my blog for nearly three months - or put it on hold, so to speak. I have no intention of wrapping it up, on the contrary, but my life has been filled with exciting travels.

My daughter Julie is married to Josh and they live in Melbourne, Australia, and I hadn't seen them since my husband's funeral in April 2015. A rendez-vous was long overdue! My youngest daughter Sophie is living there as well, for six months, so it was time to gather the family and regroup. What better occasion than Christmas!

So we - the four of us still living in Norway - set off on December 20 - on the horrifically extensive travel from Oslo to Melbourne. I had chosen the quickest route, via Dubai, but it's still a mind-blowing distance - 24 hours approximately and the crazy jetlag to boot. As the air steward said as he was serving the meal a couple of hours before arrival in Melbourne: "Good morning, good afternoon, good evening, whatever. Here's you breakfast, lunch, dinner, whatever." (It was 9 pm local time, 11 am our left-behind time). Knowing you're going to be cooped up in a very limited space for that long means having to place yourself in a sort of Zen mode - and tell yourself this is something you just can't do anything about - there's no escape - and you have to forget all about claustrophobia and all other types of anxiety. Alcohol helps, especially a Bloody Mary or two, and so does a pill. For me at least. We all have our different survival methods.

I couldn't believe our luck when Julie told me she'd managed to get hold of a rental flat next to her and Josh's place, in the same building, in the beautiful suburb of Toorak. This made everything so easy for us while staying in Melbourne. The proximity, the leafy flowery walkway between the entrances, the huge sun deck and the Christmas tree made us feel we were at home, and the long travel and the ten-hour time difference were suddenly peanuts! For the time being anyway, until I woke up on Christmas Eve with the mother of all colds. And I am never ill, so I felt it was very unfair that this should happen now! I was very anxious about it being a three-week type of flu, but with the aid of paracetamol and rest I was back on my feet again in less than a week. Yes, I know I tend to exaggerate my pains and woes when I get ill, and I become exceedingly grumpy, but imagine my worry at being bed-ridden for weeks in Oz - definitely not a fun option. 

Possums started circling our Melbourne rental flat as soon as dusk descended, and remembering Dame Edna Everage's cheerful and endearing greeting to all her guests and audience - "Hello possums!" - I had thought this was a cute animal. No way. The growling, the wheezing, their presence everywhere - especially in the tree you just walked under - it's all quite disturbing. And some of them are huge! 

Gradually I learnt that the most dangerous animals in the world live in Australia. The reptiles. The insects. I lived in Africa as a child and thought I was pretty confident about all creatures great and small, but some phobias definitely found their way into my head Down Under. Especially when the shark alerts suddenly became a daily occurrence as we moved down to the coast after Christmas. 

Hairy beast!

Hairy beast II. No no, this is not a possum! This is Julie and Josh's sweet cat - Miko - but she likes to sit in the trees at the entrance, just like the possums. 

Shark alert in Anglesea. The helicopters indicate a circle round the area where they spot the shark. Many spottings this holiday, and several beaches closed. As if the Australians care…. 

Friendly guys? Not always, it seems. They are very strong. 

Once again I'm reading the great travel writer Bill Bryson, whom I recommend as a must for everyone who loves travelling and becoming acquainted with a country from the inside. He's very witty and capable of noticing some of the less appealing sides to a country and its people, and elegantly ironic about it he is too. All interspersed with descriptions of easily attainable historic events. I'm glad I picked up this book when my Oz stay was actually coming to an end, because by then I had so many references and observations of my own and laughed out loud at the recognitions. 

This is a little excerpt of Bill Bryson going boogie boarding with his friends Deirdre and Glenn, an aquatic pastime that my granddaughter did several times: 

"'What about sharks,' I asked uneasily. 

'Oh, there's hardly any sharks here. Glenn, how long has it been since someone was killed by a shark?' 'Oh, ages,' Glenn said, considering. 'Couple of months at least.' 

'Couple of months,' I squeaked. 

'At least. Sharks are way overrated as a danger,' Glenn added. 'Way overrated. It's the rips that'll most likely get yer.'…. 

'Rips?' 

'Underwater currents that run at an angle to the shore and sometimes carry people out to sea,' Deirdre explained. 'But don't worry. That won't happen to you.' 

'Why?' 

'Because we're here to look after you.'"

We happened to have the exact same conversation with our new Australian family. 

I'm full of admiration for the brave Aussies and very happy they're now part of my life and can lead me through all perils, known or unknown.

OBLIVION

I may seem to be doing all right, but it's really only on the outside. When people ask me how I am I usually reply "fine," which of course pleases everyone. Nobody likes to see people unhappy, because it disturbs their world.

I have changed.

Recently one of my friends told me she was glad I was getting back to my old self. I will never get back to my old self - whatever that was, I guess it was a more cheerful person - but I find I'm sick and tired of telling people I'm far from "fine." I need to pretend everything is going better, both for their and my own sake.

One friend wrote to me about something and by the way said he hoped I was doing well. I nearly started crying. Of course I am not doing well, how could he even think that? Maybe I'm getting good at pretending - or maybe he genuinely believed I was no longer grieving. That I'd "moved on."

You're expected to be moving on after a certain period of grief. At least I think that's what's expected. Therefore I move on. On the outside. On the inside my life is still turmoil, sadness and not least excruciating loneliness. I deal with this in several ways - all survival techniques:

Oblivion: Sleep. Even with crazy disturbing dreams sleep is often better than staying awake. Meeting the day and facing ordinary everyday duties are such enormous hurdles for me that the oblivion of sleep is constantly longed for. Procrastination is my middle name these days - I can't seem to focus on anything that involves the slightest challenge. And my deep sadness is kept at bay by sleep.

Some days I hardly get out of bed - I call them my "non-days."

Distraction: I read, I watch TV, I knit. I have read an enormous amount of books these past nineteen months after my husband died - I practically plough through them. I get absorbed by them and they give me a welcome break from my churning thoughts and racing mind. The repetitive act of knitting relaxes my exhausted brain.

Beuatiful, haunting and frightening novel covering several themes, among them the massacres in Bosnia in the nineties. Highly recommended.

"Marius"-jumper no 8

"Marius"-jumper no 9, in the making

Isolation: I have always been good at keeping in touch with friends. Now I'm not. Well, that's not quite right - I kept inviting people round for meals and managed to do this for quite a while after my husband died, although now I haven't for some time. But friendships need to be nurtured, and I find I have much less energy for this than I had before, because this kind of activity demands a certain amount of happiness and positivity. For the time being that involves too much pretence on my part.  

Travel: I keep receiving comments about my travelling - mostly good though - and I feel I shouldn't have to defend myself against the more ironic ones. My travelling springs out of restlessness and a wish to escape from a life that is more or less just an existence. It's an attempt to go somewhere other than into that oblivion.

I get up some days - my eyes puffy and swollen with sleep and weeping - wondering if there's any point in putting on nice clothes and a pair of my beautiful shoes. To be honest I have often wondered these nineteen months if there's a point to anything at all.

I never actually believe that I'm depressed though - not now. I was certainly depressed this winter and spring, but it lifted after I sold the apartment in June. I am just NOT happy. Will I ever be happy again, that's the question. I think that if happiness is bestowed on me again it will be a gradual process.

Looking out at the autumn colours does not help. The vivid oranges, yellows and reds only remind me of that October and November three years ago, when my husband was diagnosed with brain tumour and underwent surgery. On November 1st 2013 we were told that the tumour was the most malignant - grade four - and that his illness was terminal, his prognosis death within fifteen months. He managed eighteen. I still can't get my head around the way he coped and how brave he was.

In many ways my blog post today goes against what I usually preach: We must care for each other as if we were living our last days. We never know what tomorrow brings, and our love for our nearest and dearest ones is essential and should outweigh everything else. At least my husband's illness taught me that, and as I've said many times before, I have very little patience now for petty quarrels and fruitless bickering.

One person said to me - be careful you don't worship your grief. Worship! I don't even understand the phrase. How can one worship something so exhausting? All I wish now is for it to lift, to release me, to turn into something bearable. I never asked for this life, this grief. I never wanted it, no - I wanted my life to stay the way it was.

I'm so tired of feeling low. I'm exhausted with the crying. All this sadness drains me. I use every last bit of my energy on trying to come across as "feeling better."

But I find peace in tending my husband's grave. I talk to him, and it's a comfort.

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.