Life has me at an emotional and moral wreck. This week has been perhaps the most difficult so far. So to reward myself…or rather, to save myself from completely imploding: I’m departing tomorrow for a weekend in Venice. I’ll be staying at Francesco’s place; it will be so nice to see him again! It’s so strange how I run to him for comfort even after my year in Norway has wrapped up. I remember being afraid of losing contact with all the AFSers I had met and befriended while in Norway, and at the time, his answer to me was: “Maybe we will [keep in touch], maybe we won’t.” While it wasn’t the reassuring response I was hoping for, it was, au moins, the truthful answer. And well, now I have my answer.

I guess I should elaborate a bit. Francesco and I met through AFS. And despite my terrible memory, I remember precisely how I met him. It was August 2nd, 2008, and it was our first day there. After the airport, the AFS organizers shipped us all to a gathering location somewhere outside of Oslo. Exchange students from all over the world, tasting our first smørbrød, sipping our first saft (and not knowing that it was supposed to be mixed with water). I remember the Italians came, filling almost an entire bus–a swarm of yellow shirts: cambiare il mondo…they read.

I remember going down to a lake and wading in the water, and approaching two Italians: one with a braid, and one that reminded me of a younger version of Bob Saget. Little did I know how often I would be conversing with Francesco and Yuri.

After they split us into our regional groups and sent us on the bus to Torpo, I found out that Francesco was my roommate for the week-long orientation camp. (Camp–it brings back so many fun memories, it’s so easy to get lost marveling about camp. It was most definitely one of the most exciting weeks of my life: meeting people from all over the world, learning Norwegian language and culture, that tinge of nervousness at meeting our host families.) And every night, we would spent an hour or two just discussing random things: life, music, “medieval” Italy and xenophobia in America. I guess it never really hit me how easily we got along with each other: so different, yet compatible. I felt at ease around him. And on the fourth day of knowing him, I came out to him. (Which, at the time, was something I had never done before. I never felt secure enough to tell a person that until I felt like I knew them. Whether it was because I wanted a change…or just the fact that I already knew I trusted him…I don’t really know. But it was a good feeling.)
And there is one thing he said to me that I will never forget as long as I live. We were discussing the difficulty of being an immigrant and visibly different, even in an area as diverse as the Bay Area, or perhaps it was because of that diversity which never truly made me feel American. Anyway, he said to me, “I think you are a real American. You are the new American.” Hearing that immediately made my eyes water; there is something inexplicable about those words. Because he said so easily what I’ve always secretly wanted to believe in my head.

And through the rest of our year there, Siljan was the place I would take a train to whenever I need to feel comforted, whenever the coldness of Horten Videregående became unbearable. And here I am again. September, 2009, in another country, taking another train, but still going to the same place. Still going to “hos Francesco.”–

–For a much needed vacation. The energy here at Panera lately has been sluggish and depressing. (I’ve been sleeping down the hill at Girasole three nights out of four this week.) And I find myself too entangled in something I shouldn’t be. Too attached to someone I shouldn’t be. So needless to say, I need this getaway. I need a break from college. And I need someone removed to focus on, to enjoy life with, to open my eyes and pull me out of my myopic vision.

I’ll conclude my post with something lighthearted and unreflective: So apparently, searching for these terms will take you to my blog: fucking in asgardstrand,  kom hit nu flossy,  la voglia che vorrei translation. (I know, right? I didn’t even fuck in Åsgårdstrand…)