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Hos Francesco
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…)
Jeg vil slette alle dine spor.
Spiste middag med Ou ikveld og det var veldig hyggelig. Begge av oss hadde masse å prate om, og det trøster meg å vite at vi er fremdeles gode venner. Jeg fortalte henne av mine skuffelser: at jeg har forventet så mye mer enn hva blei av denne sommeren. Vi har også snakka mye om ham, kärleken min, og største skuffelsen min. 最近我为他上了很大的火，但是除了 Francesco 以外，谁都每有告诉。Og det er ikke ofte at jeg få snakke med Francesco, så å kunne endelig fortelle noen andre om det var en stor…lettelse. Og hun sa til meg akkurat det samme: at jeg må komme over ham.
Det kommer ikke til å være lett, det skjønner jeg godt. Men det første–og viktigeste–trinnet er å innrømme at jeg har en problem og må vel løyse den: 我必须放开他。
Det spiller ingen rolle hvor perfekt han ser ut. Sjølv om jeg synes at han var ment for meg er det bare et ensidig forhold. Og sjølv om jeg ikke tror at det finnes andre fisker i sjøen kommer jeg til å innse at de har rett. Jeg er ferdig med å kaste bort så mye tid på grunn av ham når jeg ikke veit i det hele tatt hva han virkelig synes om meg eller om han var även ærlig med meg å begynne med. Det finnes for mye av hans tilstedeværelse i mitt liv, og jeg har blitt så vant til å tenke og drømme om han at det ikke er sunnt lenger: og hvordan skjedde alle dette? Tre samtaler og en fantasi date at jeg ikke kan tro på. Så nå slutter jeg med denne besettelsen. Dessuten er han sikkert lei av alle mine innsats i å få hans oppmerksomhet.
S’il a envie de parler à moi, il le fera naturellement. Et sinon, alors, c’est tout, ça…
Why I Travel
I think one of the main reasons I like traveling is not so much for the frivolity of adding to my list of Been-theres, but to escape. In high school, while everyone was worrying about…who knows what everyone worries about–I was secretly planning my getaway from American High. Away from Fremont and its bountiful nothingness. I never felt at place–everyone seemed to have a group they belonged to, and while I flitted between two, I was never truly part of either. It was terrible; I found myself lacking the patience–and interest–to “stick around” and truly be a part of something. It was as if I had been running while everyone else was tusling, or the other way around: everyone else was marching ahead and while I stubbornly and proudly wandered off to find some shade in Vigelandsparken.
I left for Norway, keen on establishing a new life, planting some roots, and leaving American High behind me in the dust. I figured I would keep in touch with whomever I was meant to keep in touch with.
But even across the pond, school was lonesome, and the social scene was brutal. Granted I had a great group of friends outside of school, but I saw them so irregularly that every meeting felt more like a reunion than a casual hangout.
And now I’ve come back to this half of my life which I’ve let wither for a year. A year of casual how-you-doings and how’s-it-goings. If I was untethered before surely I must be floating away this time ’round. It’s strange to look at the photo albums of my old schoolmates: they seem to have so much fun together still, going to events, doing activities, attending concerts. I would be envious, but I know that even if I had been there it wouldn’t have made a different impression on any of us. You can’t force incompatible gears to mesh. To them, I’ll just be Nobody, or maybe if I’m lucky, “out-of-it” Victor. (And in Norway: Hvem? Og om jeg er så heldig, “Greg, han som synger.”)
I’ve always wondered why it was so hard to talk to people my own age. I would say that I do well and feel more at ease with adults–hence my gravitation toward older guys–but I honestly don’t really know if they talk to me out of pity, like when Veronica danced with me in the 7th grade and made me promise not to tell anybody. (Although I can’t say I blame her, judging by the way I was back then.)
And so here I am again, planning my next escape, scared as hell for what I’m plunging into. I’m not scared of things being different; I’m scared of them being the same. That it will still be only me on this road, my only accompaniment the ground of whichever land or country I traverse. To find myself fremdeles out of place in a community where I ought to belong so well to.
If I were lucky like Katherine, hvis jeg hadde vært heldig som Pappà, I would never have the desire to leave where I’d so comfortably set up camp. Am I swatting away these repercussions of dislocation, or am I simply a fool slashing his hands in empty air? I travel to escape my loneliness. I travel to find some place I can belong to.
Si “Hei” til Kyle,
Kyle, my probable roommate for next year. I met him today. We drove out to his part of town, climbed a rock, and got fjærn in a cave. Of course, I hacked my lungs out and threw up, and later we hit In & Out in Oakland and some donut shop in Berkeley which had amazing delicious greasy somethings. God, I’m glad I’m usually pretty smart.
I think I’m going to like this next year immensely. Yay.
Penultimate
De temps en temps, Life likes to kick you in the ass hard. Yesterday was a—how to say it nicely—en helt jævla dag: a hellish blend of bad rapport, lack of sleep, and hjemlengsel. And as much as I try to make the best of everything, there are just those days where nothing goes. Men derfra finnes det ingen annen vei enn oppover, og idag gikk det bedre.
So I should probably share a bit about our current situation. The twenty of us Region 2 AFSers are currently at Holtenkilen Folkehøgskole for our avskjedsleir, a short gathering before we disband and fly back to our respective countries.
There is a dock that is a couple of minutes’ walking distance from the school. Balázs—who I was fortunate enough to room with—and I have been swimming there every day. It’s a very special thing to be out there, your head rested on the water, looking upside-down at the blue and peach horizon and the boats sprinkled along the shore. It makes me wish I had an underwater housing for my camera…or a Ziploc bag.
We went swimming today together with Doug, Phil, Anıl, and Kevin during the onset of a coming thunderstorm. Have you ever seen lightning while swimming in the ocean? Thrilling, awe-inspiring, and probably not the smartest thing to do. And when we got out we were treated to a scene reminiscent of Laura Pausini’s “Primavera Anticipada”: a display of yellowed leaves drifting off with the wind.
These precious final moments tick by:
All of Balázs’ silly shenanigans. I will come to miss him dearly. This guy is one in a million. It doesn’t matter how I’m feeling, he always manages to cheer me up. And I can tell him anything and everything with no drama or hang-ups.
Attempting an amateur photo shoot with Yanzi: jumping off the bench, somersaults across the meadow, swinging by the seaside. We laughed until our sides hurt and it was wonderful.
An ephemeral moment with Diego, enjoying “Is It True?” in silence.
Comforting Elaine, mind reeling back to all our shared moments in Horten: days together with Gayoung of Korean movies and beaches and homemade cakes.
Singing to the passing cars on E-18 and sleeping outside on a bench with a pillow and blanket, an empty vast sky above decorated with one lonely star.
Pappa saying “Gutten min.”
And looking at that, I can see that things change, and things also change back—for good or for worse. Nothing is stagnant—relationships and alliances the least of all, as I have learned. And the repercussions don’t slip by unnoticed.
The storm has not yet gone over the horizon.
