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…)

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…

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.

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.

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.

I don’t know why it always ends this way. I have so much trouble keeping people in my life. All it takes is one mishap and I lose that connection with them. It’s so simple. 

I know I used to call Americans flaky and superficial in the way they make friends, but I’m not really any different anymore. Sometimes I think I’m much worse, much more blatant and manipulative.

I’m defensive, stubborn, and have my head too high, I know. I hate it, and I don’t know if it’s something I can ever change, so I try to watch myself. But watching doesn’t change a damn thing if you don’t act.

I get worn out easily by people; there are disappointingly few that I can hang out with for more than 48 hours in a row. I suppose that’s why I never had a fixed group in high school, or here for that matter. I get tired of hearing about the same things from the same people. It’s repetitive. (Which I guess would be pretty ironic because I would make an educated guess that that’s what most people think about me.)

I think I treat most of my friendships as checkpoints rather than something that is constantly fluctuating. In the end, I inevitably push them away because I can’t understand how to handle the dynamic of how it shifts and changes, or it becomes too much too fast and I end up recoiling. And don’t me started on the denials. I played Peter; I would know.

Just working my brain out. It’s been a tiring day alone amidst the people. And I miss my family, which is the most probable explanation for this downpour of crappy sentiment.

Tomorrow will be a better day.

That there above is a snippet of my memorable, Italian-infested weekend! Joined Xenia, Eric, and Valerie on Friday in Oslo, where they held a free concert outside the city hall (Rådhusplassen). We had the pleasure of seeing many famous Norwegian and non-Norwegian acts, including:

Alexander Rybak, who performed something other than “Fairytale”…well, he sang that too but we missed it, much to Xenia’s chagrin;

a-ha, you know—the “Take on Me” guys. Yeah, they’re Norwegian, if you didn’t know! I still can’t believe we saw A-Ha, for God’s sake…It’s so incredibly strange;

Tone Damli Aaberge;

Espen Lind, Kurt Nilsen, Alejandro Fuentes, and the fourth guy whose name I never remembered, who performed a raw mix of “Never Easy,” “If I Were A Boy” and “Free Falling” simultaneously;

Karpe Diem, hvor er’u bor hen a?;

Lene Marlin, who might have a picture of me on her digital camera;

and my personal favorite, the Icelandic beauty Yohanna, who you see above.
I have apparently turned out to be quite the Eurovision fanatic. I’m not so sure if that is a good thing, but I’m very glad that I got the chance to see her live. It was a whole different experience actually being there; her voice filled the entire arena and sounded so ethereal.

When the concert concluded up came the fireworks by Akerbrygga, and after that we wasted some time at a nearby amusement park, staring at the Ferris wheel (it was too expensive to ride), before settling on kveldsmat at McDonald’s. There were drunk girls with tampons and cigarettes.

Took the last trikk back to Eric’s mansion-house, where we lounged around some more before retiring.

A suivre–

Today I was in Larvik for Paola’s 19th birthday celebration, which also doubled as an occasion for the Vestfold-Telemark exchange students to bid farewell. (She’s returning to Colombia earlier in order to finish exams.)

Even though the sum of all our moments spent with each other barely fills a week’s worth of time, I still feel closer to her than I do with people whom I have seen every day through the year. Time is only second to chemistry, and we have surely made precious memories out of our brief moments together: singing Laura Pausini while searching for beer in Høvik, sunbathing on Drammen’s waterline, and sharing our latest and freshest romantic endeavors with each other.

But still, it surprises me that I am left with such a heavy feeling. I guess the reality of it didn’t really strike until that moment when I was holding her and saw the bus coming from the distance. And then saying goodbye with a kiss and a wave, unsure of when I’ll next see her again—that was the toughest moment.

Paola, for en herlig person du er. Jeg er takknemlig at jeg fikk muligheten til å være venner med så søt en jente. You make Colombia shine.

As if God himself had heard my shittacular week from above and decided to divinely intervene, today was pleasantly nice. Spent the day chez Elaine with Gayoung making food, playing piano, and being silly. It’s days like these that make me go ”I’m not ready to grow up.” On second thought, maybe it’s just an Asian thing; we just don’t age as quickly as other races, physically and mentally. (And by that I don’t mean we’re mentally slow, but that we retain our youthfulness long after everyone else has matured into the seriousness of adulthood.) Think about it, it makes sense.

Anyway, it made me realize that in my passionate insobriety, perhaps I had been a bit too inconsiderate. I don’t retract what I say about the Norwegian social culture–c’est encore le goût de soufre et j’en déteste–but there have been a few people here that have made my life here very special and enjoyable, and at times, bearable. They have been so welcoming, patient, and genuinely warm, and though I don’t spend nearly as much time with them as I would like to, I cherish those fleeting moments. Breddeidrett and Historie og Filosofi with Anniken, Samfunnsøkonomi med Gulli, kveldsturer along the beach with Bjørn-Kristian, conversations about culture-shock and immersion with Gayoung, these are the moments I want to remember and take from my experience. These are the memories that truly matter. Takk.

Hell, school was long today. Jogged to the beach during gymtime. Being in Norway has taught me to be in awe of Mother Nature’s awesomeness. I never had a favorite season in California. I do today. Primavera has come. The tide was low and the water was almost still, with the waves lapping languidly back and forth along the shore. There was no wind, and the sun was bright and shining. There was a bench. There was me, tired. It was the best one and a half hours of Athletic P.E. ever.

Spent most of norsktimen and lunch with 가영. I was surprised that she’s only been here for three years. It got me wistfully remenescing my own past. I always thought of my first three years in America as a living hell: the crying, the loneliness, the bullying, the helplessness. I guess it’s because of that experience which carved out a soft spot in my heart for the newly-immigrated, or from my perspective, the newly-emigrated. I asked her if she missed Korea and if she’s been back to visit since. She said she does and that she hasn’t, and in that moment I was overwhelmed by the urge to give her a really big hug. Adapting to this second culture, it’s our perpetual struggle, and nobody else knows what it’s like.

The rest of the day snailed by eventlessly, leaving me with plenty of time to think, reflect, and ponder. Mostly about love. Nagging little thoughts such as, “God! Don’t these people feel?!” Sometimes it seems like they have no interior emotions. I see them laugh, but their laughter is superficial. I see them wrap their arms around each other, but their touch lacks true affection. Whatever happened to genuine desires, romance, courting, hmm? Where did the passion, depth, and intellectual attraction go? And when did Romeo & Juliet become a cliché? (Or has it always been?) I’m not pricing my feelings above everyone else’s, but it just feels like nobody takes Love seriously anymore. Or am I just being an unrealistic ideal romantic again?