Yes, it's true. Life now is, more so than it has been, outlandishly boring.
And not in the good sense.
I seem to be on brink of something, however there are no sign posts to tell me what's in the great abyss beyond. Hrm...strange thoughts keep creeping into my head like unwanted insects and my central defenses are refusing to put up any protection. They all have the underlining theme of "Fuck, just go!", which i suppose isn't a surprising theme considering im only 19 and off to America in two weeks.
I keep getting this weird urge just to up and leave, like there's something better waiting for me in the lands beyond. I know there is: i know it. But, since money is always a problem, im rather restricted for solutions to my current case of mild insanity. At these times i tend to go into overdrive and analyse everything in every way possible and take into account every factor that could affect every outcome of everything. Perhaps now you're beginning to get a sense of the insanity im feeling?
America should hopefully quench my thirst for travel, and since i've never been to America before, it should spin my mind completely off it's axis and land - i hope - back on track for some knuckling down. With the bright lights, big buildings, interesting people and fantastic coffee im hoping, literally, to be overwhelmed by everything there. Yes, complete culture shock. I love it really. Then your brain goes into an almost reboot stage where it just needs some down time to take everything in. Which, in my case, is usually helped along by a beer or seven.
Im travelling with Sinead. We spent a year in Norway together. We met through the exchange program we both applied for and the story was in my previous post so go read it. Anyway, we're quite the pair of odd travellers. I do like to be at the gate on time, however, after realising that you always do have plenty of time (touch wood)smoking is always possible. Sinead, on the other hand, has a slightly different approach. Her approach is more do a drive by on our luggage and sprint like the mother mary running from satan to the next departure lounge. I do sympathise with her because it is never smart to be late and always clever to be prompt.
On this particular journey though i will be inhaling seven siggarettes before going to the departure lounge. This is due to the nine-and-three-quarter flight we have to endure to get to Seattle. It shouldn't be too bad really. I figure im going to take a mass of chocolate, bought at tax-free of course, movies on my laptop and Sinead for some laughs and good company.
Upon arriving in Seattle, im assuming we must make our way through customs like hearded cattle, and there's always someone who moo's! Just after the rather tiring flight it's quite frankly the last thing you need. Im taking my bagpipes with me so im looking forward to explaining that to some single-celled american customs officer.
Anyway, thanks for reading this. I feel oftern that rambling online is a great way to de-stress and clam down a touch.
Catch you later! Love love XX
Monday 25 May 2009
Tuesday 12 May 2009
Voss Folkehøgskule
Here's a little summary of my time in Norway.
Pang.
Excitement concentrated into a horde of butterflies in my stomach. Sleeping the night before was about as much success as jumping off a building without a parachute and expecting a pretty landing. I had everything ready, in a material sense, but as for myself, that was a different story.
I was overcome with excitement, anxiety, nerves and fear all washing over me in a typhoon which I was drowning in. This was eased, a bit, by the fact I would be flying later in the day.
On the way to the airport I kept going over in my head what I'd packed; clothes, toiletries, violin, bagpipes, PSP, games, books, money, Passport. That's when the bolt of panic shot through me: Passport! Where was it? When did I last see it? Which bag? Funny how your body seizes up like a rusty engine at the very moment you need to be nimble like a cheetah, be able to search through all your belongings at super-human speed.
Right then, just the slightest touch against my jacket pocket and there it was, the friendly feel of my right of passage to the lands beyond, tattooed with everything anyone needs to know about "Flett- Steven Michael", including that horrendous picture which makes me shudder because cameras are always able to catch just the wrong side of me so they can turn me into the latest Igor.
Everything from arriving at the airport to when I stepped off at Aberdeen was pretty much a blur, overlapped with pure excitement and bewilderment; rabbit caught in the headlights.
It was starting to sink in when I got to Aberdeen, but only as fast as a feather in tar, getting nowhere quick. This was only made more real by the fact that I had a five hours wait to my next flight. Luckily I wasn't alone.
Her name is Sinead, a fellow Orcadian but the downside was that we'd only met once before and since we were going to be living in Norway for a year together, I felt very uncomfortable about the fact that we knew nothing about each other.
There were- more often than not- those awkward silences, you know, those painfully silent ones where your’re nearly exploding trying to find something to say. Then you end up blurting out just the wrong thing to say at an airport like "can you imagine if there was a terrorist attack here", and it's at that point you realise why you were quiet in the first place.
The thing about airports is even though everyone is in the same place, at the same time, they're not really there. You can see it on their faces. They look of home or away. They're thinking about their house, or friends or about where they're going and what they're going to do there. Then I start imagining what they're thinking "did I pack my camera?", "I did turn the oven off", "It's just a present, maybe I shouldn't have wrapped it before the airport". One thing that always got me were the security announcements, especially the one "Aberdeen Airport thanks you for your co-operation", well, I'm glad the Airport is happy, although after that point I start feeling as if the airport is alive and begin thinking what it must be like to be an airport. Kind of boring really, but this thought passes quickly when Sinead says something, it's something relevant that we can both speak about "So, what instruments do you play?"
I can't believe it, a choir in my head erupts into a chorus of 'Hallelujah!' So we get chatting about what instruments we play and what kind of music we play and so on.
The conversation is embedded with a few obligatory jokes about kilts and "True Scotsmen", followed by some warming obligatory laughter. It was kind of fake laughter in a way but nice to know that we weren't completely different. This kills about half an hour or so.
It's strange when you first meet someone, how you look at them like they're a shell, nothing more than this outside image, knowing nothing of what's inside. Then, with the slightest comment, the shell is cracked and torn and cast aside to reveal the person underneath.
We spent the rest of our time there slowly prying information out of each other, scared to ask too much or too little until we notice we can go to departures.
Pang.
There it was. Another bolt of excitement racing through me as I realise this was me leaving home for four months, not back until Christmas. We made our way through the security checks and to departures, one of the most restless places in the entire world. Everyone's reached the point of "just let me get there or I swear I'm going to disembowel everyone in sight", or at least that's what I imagine they're thinking. I was more a picture of calm, on the outside anyway. Inside, I wanted rip my hair out.
Nothing very interesting happened between sitting down and getting on the plane. The whole journey on the plane is still pretty much a blur. I'd done it twice before so it was the usual; pre-packed food, bi-lingual service- with a smile of course- and the less than adequate seating if your taller than five foot six.
We landed, my feet thanking the solid ground as we stepped into Bergen Airport, collected our luggage and caught the next bus to the cit of Bergen.
These buses were always over packed and very uncomfortable, with everyone glaring suspiciously at everyone else with that more than obvious "I know you want to steal my bags" stare.
As we stepped off the bus in Bergen my feet took back their gratitude. It was pouring down. Something Bergen is renowned for.
We made our way to the train station, I knew the way, Sinead followed at my side. I felt slightly protective of her, even though we didn't know each other, we did know each other more so than anyone I could have stopped on the street.
We ordered our tickets- a mixture of dodgy Norwegian and saying "til Voss" a lot- and made our way onto the train. We found some seats, together of course. Something in all that business about sticking together for safety, then again, it's not like we were going to sit at opposite ends of the train.
Our excitement was simultaneously thrown into full gear when the train pulled away from the station. Suddenly that feather was a brick and the tar was water. This, thankfully, sparked off conversation about what we were going to see, who we'd meet, what we'd do. We got onto the topic of money and how ridiculously expensive Norway was, and then,
"Tell me 'bout it!"
Sinead and me looked at each other with confusion as this American woman started talking about how her money was "worthless here".
Thus, we had the introduction of Patty, or as she said it "Paddy". A police officer from Los Angeles or in her words "a Cop from LA". This made me laugh because whilst I was thinking about learning a different language, I never realised the difference in my own language when travelling to different countries and meeting different people. This, over the next year, was to be made much more clear. Funny how the cultural and colloquial difference of four completely different people from around the world would give way to friendships that would last forever.
Patty was headed for Voss too, but that's where we parted ways as she was going for an adventuring holiday. As we stepped off the train, some familiar words started ringing in my ears.
"Orknai! Orknai! Orknai Øyane!"
There was an old man shouting something about our home islands so we decided to approach him.
"We're from Orkney", I said.
"Oh. Good. Come with me", he said and we followed him to a rusty red van. He opened the back and we deposited our luggage and he went onto explain that there was only enough room in the front for one of us and the other would have to sit in the back with the luggage.
I, being the gentleman I am, sat in the back, clinging to a fence that was clearly meant to keep dogs out of the front of the van. I knew it was dogs because the smell was so overwhelmingly pungent.
We drove for about five minutes until we pulled to a stop outside a wonderfully red building. The air was so fresh. It filled my lungs refreshingly and they felt anew. I looked around and there were two and three story buildings, all joined together it seemed. They all had a rustic feel about them, they were all painted a rich red colour and had white contrasting windows. Trees were everywhere, more than I'd seen in my life, all still bursting with leaves, autumn's touch not yet un-gloved. It felt like a wonderland with the maze-like buildings and the wondrous trees. I couldn't have had any inclination as to the friends, relationships, fights, tragedies, laughter and tears that would happen here, and more importantly, the home this place would become not only to me, but to my many waiting friends.
This truly is a wonderland:
Voss Folkehøgskule.
Pang.
Excitement concentrated into a horde of butterflies in my stomach. Sleeping the night before was about as much success as jumping off a building without a parachute and expecting a pretty landing. I had everything ready, in a material sense, but as for myself, that was a different story.
I was overcome with excitement, anxiety, nerves and fear all washing over me in a typhoon which I was drowning in. This was eased, a bit, by the fact I would be flying later in the day.
On the way to the airport I kept going over in my head what I'd packed; clothes, toiletries, violin, bagpipes, PSP, games, books, money, Passport. That's when the bolt of panic shot through me: Passport! Where was it? When did I last see it? Which bag? Funny how your body seizes up like a rusty engine at the very moment you need to be nimble like a cheetah, be able to search through all your belongings at super-human speed.
Right then, just the slightest touch against my jacket pocket and there it was, the friendly feel of my right of passage to the lands beyond, tattooed with everything anyone needs to know about "Flett- Steven Michael", including that horrendous picture which makes me shudder because cameras are always able to catch just the wrong side of me so they can turn me into the latest Igor.
Everything from arriving at the airport to when I stepped off at Aberdeen was pretty much a blur, overlapped with pure excitement and bewilderment; rabbit caught in the headlights.
It was starting to sink in when I got to Aberdeen, but only as fast as a feather in tar, getting nowhere quick. This was only made more real by the fact that I had a five hours wait to my next flight. Luckily I wasn't alone.
Her name is Sinead, a fellow Orcadian but the downside was that we'd only met once before and since we were going to be living in Norway for a year together, I felt very uncomfortable about the fact that we knew nothing about each other.
There were- more often than not- those awkward silences, you know, those painfully silent ones where your’re nearly exploding trying to find something to say. Then you end up blurting out just the wrong thing to say at an airport like "can you imagine if there was a terrorist attack here", and it's at that point you realise why you were quiet in the first place.
The thing about airports is even though everyone is in the same place, at the same time, they're not really there. You can see it on their faces. They look of home or away. They're thinking about their house, or friends or about where they're going and what they're going to do there. Then I start imagining what they're thinking "did I pack my camera?", "I did turn the oven off", "It's just a present, maybe I shouldn't have wrapped it before the airport". One thing that always got me were the security announcements, especially the one "Aberdeen Airport thanks you for your co-operation", well, I'm glad the Airport is happy, although after that point I start feeling as if the airport is alive and begin thinking what it must be like to be an airport. Kind of boring really, but this thought passes quickly when Sinead says something, it's something relevant that we can both speak about "So, what instruments do you play?"
I can't believe it, a choir in my head erupts into a chorus of 'Hallelujah!' So we get chatting about what instruments we play and what kind of music we play and so on.
The conversation is embedded with a few obligatory jokes about kilts and "True Scotsmen", followed by some warming obligatory laughter. It was kind of fake laughter in a way but nice to know that we weren't completely different. This kills about half an hour or so.
It's strange when you first meet someone, how you look at them like they're a shell, nothing more than this outside image, knowing nothing of what's inside. Then, with the slightest comment, the shell is cracked and torn and cast aside to reveal the person underneath.
We spent the rest of our time there slowly prying information out of each other, scared to ask too much or too little until we notice we can go to departures.
Pang.
There it was. Another bolt of excitement racing through me as I realise this was me leaving home for four months, not back until Christmas. We made our way through the security checks and to departures, one of the most restless places in the entire world. Everyone's reached the point of "just let me get there or I swear I'm going to disembowel everyone in sight", or at least that's what I imagine they're thinking. I was more a picture of calm, on the outside anyway. Inside, I wanted rip my hair out.
Nothing very interesting happened between sitting down and getting on the plane. The whole journey on the plane is still pretty much a blur. I'd done it twice before so it was the usual; pre-packed food, bi-lingual service- with a smile of course- and the less than adequate seating if your taller than five foot six.
We landed, my feet thanking the solid ground as we stepped into Bergen Airport, collected our luggage and caught the next bus to the cit of Bergen.
These buses were always over packed and very uncomfortable, with everyone glaring suspiciously at everyone else with that more than obvious "I know you want to steal my bags" stare.
As we stepped off the bus in Bergen my feet took back their gratitude. It was pouring down. Something Bergen is renowned for.
We made our way to the train station, I knew the way, Sinead followed at my side. I felt slightly protective of her, even though we didn't know each other, we did know each other more so than anyone I could have stopped on the street.
We ordered our tickets- a mixture of dodgy Norwegian and saying "til Voss" a lot- and made our way onto the train. We found some seats, together of course. Something in all that business about sticking together for safety, then again, it's not like we were going to sit at opposite ends of the train.
Our excitement was simultaneously thrown into full gear when the train pulled away from the station. Suddenly that feather was a brick and the tar was water. This, thankfully, sparked off conversation about what we were going to see, who we'd meet, what we'd do. We got onto the topic of money and how ridiculously expensive Norway was, and then,
"Tell me 'bout it!"
Sinead and me looked at each other with confusion as this American woman started talking about how her money was "worthless here".
Thus, we had the introduction of Patty, or as she said it "Paddy". A police officer from Los Angeles or in her words "a Cop from LA". This made me laugh because whilst I was thinking about learning a different language, I never realised the difference in my own language when travelling to different countries and meeting different people. This, over the next year, was to be made much more clear. Funny how the cultural and colloquial difference of four completely different people from around the world would give way to friendships that would last forever.
Patty was headed for Voss too, but that's where we parted ways as she was going for an adventuring holiday. As we stepped off the train, some familiar words started ringing in my ears.
"Orknai! Orknai! Orknai Øyane!"
There was an old man shouting something about our home islands so we decided to approach him.
"We're from Orkney", I said.
"Oh. Good. Come with me", he said and we followed him to a rusty red van. He opened the back and we deposited our luggage and he went onto explain that there was only enough room in the front for one of us and the other would have to sit in the back with the luggage.
I, being the gentleman I am, sat in the back, clinging to a fence that was clearly meant to keep dogs out of the front of the van. I knew it was dogs because the smell was so overwhelmingly pungent.
We drove for about five minutes until we pulled to a stop outside a wonderfully red building. The air was so fresh. It filled my lungs refreshingly and they felt anew. I looked around and there were two and three story buildings, all joined together it seemed. They all had a rustic feel about them, they were all painted a rich red colour and had white contrasting windows. Trees were everywhere, more than I'd seen in my life, all still bursting with leaves, autumn's touch not yet un-gloved. It felt like a wonderland with the maze-like buildings and the wondrous trees. I couldn't have had any inclination as to the friends, relationships, fights, tragedies, laughter and tears that would happen here, and more importantly, the home this place would become not only to me, but to my many waiting friends.
This truly is a wonderland:
Voss Folkehøgskule.
Back....again......
Well, hello there big wonderful world!
Yes, i am back, although to whom it may concern i am unaware. I often think that blogging is slightly pointless because who is actually goign to read it? However, this is ofcourse contradicted by the comments that have been left on my blogg from people i dont know...SOOOOOO, thanks for the comments by the way! I do appreciate it when people put up with my random ramblings.
Anyway, life has been qutie eventful since i last posted, which i believe was sometime last year. I updated my profile picture so whoever happens to wander to my little spot of the net they can see what i look like.
So, since last posting i have moved back to scotland, got a job, made friends, lost friends, been back to Norway for a class reunion, christmas, birthday, exams (im tkaing higher english in a night class), visit from norwegian friends and a tattoo. Yeah, quite eventful...
Well, i suppose i could tell you about my tattoo - which i will post some pictures of when it's stopped scabbing - that i got last week. It's of two dragons i found on deviantart. Great website actually! Lots of really talented artists. Anyways, since i live on a small island of which attractions are getting blindingly drunk or sleeping a tattoo artists visiting is some-what of a second coming - and im not talking about that guy you met last friday. Hehe. So this guy, Max, comes here a couple of times a year and he makes his business through word of mouth. So the Word reached me, along with a phone number, and i made an appointment. I took my desired design to him and after a couple of complementaries and jokes he got to work. My dad deecided to join me too. He's a bit of a tattoo fanatic and covered head to toe in them. He's getting one too but not until Thursday. Anyway, swaying slighty off course here, hehe, i do that.
So, Max drew out the tattoo and made a transfer, which he then placed on my arm and thus i had my pre-tattoo. It's actually almost like a small premonition, you know, getting a glimpse of what shall be. Anyways, so he got to work, ah let the searing begin.
I should mention at this point that there's not actual searing or burning involved.
So. He starts, the sensation is quite peculiar. When anyone jabs you with a needle your first instinct is to flinch away in pain, but, when it's someone giving you a tattoo, you kind of just sit there. Make no mistake, it hurts like a bitch; but after a while you get used to it. So, he's made his start, following the pre-printed lines furiously. Time is money. Although everytime he stops it gives my body a chance to regroup and tell my brain in great detail that a needle has been punctuaring my skin about a thousand times a second. I dismiss this.
For such a rough looking person im amazed by the elequence of his hand. Following the art with so much garce im sure the Queen is re taking prep school again because of it.
After an hour and a half he's done. I look in the mirror and there it is. My new tattoo. I paid him, had a few more complementaires and left with the promise of buying him a pint when i see him out on Friday night. Which i intend to honour, but not in the "come back to mine" way. Seriously people, i know i need a man but not that badly. Anyways, that would make for a weird first date.
Hey, want to mutilate my body and grab a coffee? Yes charming. Hehe.
Anyways, i think this will do for a return, i know it's not my usuall, perky writing but i will hopefully get back into the swing of things with a few more posts.
Catch you all later, luvs ya! Muwah! X
Yes, i am back, although to whom it may concern i am unaware. I often think that blogging is slightly pointless because who is actually goign to read it? However, this is ofcourse contradicted by the comments that have been left on my blogg from people i dont know...SOOOOOO, thanks for the comments by the way! I do appreciate it when people put up with my random ramblings.
Anyway, life has been qutie eventful since i last posted, which i believe was sometime last year. I updated my profile picture so whoever happens to wander to my little spot of the net they can see what i look like.
So, since last posting i have moved back to scotland, got a job, made friends, lost friends, been back to Norway for a class reunion, christmas, birthday, exams (im tkaing higher english in a night class), visit from norwegian friends and a tattoo. Yeah, quite eventful...
Well, i suppose i could tell you about my tattoo - which i will post some pictures of when it's stopped scabbing - that i got last week. It's of two dragons i found on deviantart. Great website actually! Lots of really talented artists. Anyways, since i live on a small island of which attractions are getting blindingly drunk or sleeping a tattoo artists visiting is some-what of a second coming - and im not talking about that guy you met last friday. Hehe. So this guy, Max, comes here a couple of times a year and he makes his business through word of mouth. So the Word reached me, along with a phone number, and i made an appointment. I took my desired design to him and after a couple of complementaries and jokes he got to work. My dad deecided to join me too. He's a bit of a tattoo fanatic and covered head to toe in them. He's getting one too but not until Thursday. Anyway, swaying slighty off course here, hehe, i do that.
So, Max drew out the tattoo and made a transfer, which he then placed on my arm and thus i had my pre-tattoo. It's actually almost like a small premonition, you know, getting a glimpse of what shall be. Anyways, so he got to work, ah let the searing begin.
I should mention at this point that there's not actual searing or burning involved.
So. He starts, the sensation is quite peculiar. When anyone jabs you with a needle your first instinct is to flinch away in pain, but, when it's someone giving you a tattoo, you kind of just sit there. Make no mistake, it hurts like a bitch; but after a while you get used to it. So, he's made his start, following the pre-printed lines furiously. Time is money. Although everytime he stops it gives my body a chance to regroup and tell my brain in great detail that a needle has been punctuaring my skin about a thousand times a second. I dismiss this.
For such a rough looking person im amazed by the elequence of his hand. Following the art with so much garce im sure the Queen is re taking prep school again because of it.
After an hour and a half he's done. I look in the mirror and there it is. My new tattoo. I paid him, had a few more complementaires and left with the promise of buying him a pint when i see him out on Friday night. Which i intend to honour, but not in the "come back to mine" way. Seriously people, i know i need a man but not that badly. Anyways, that would make for a weird first date.
Hey, want to mutilate my body and grab a coffee? Yes charming. Hehe.
Anyways, i think this will do for a return, i know it's not my usuall, perky writing but i will hopefully get back into the swing of things with a few more posts.
Catch you all later, luvs ya! Muwah! X
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
