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.

God, some days I think I am romancing myself. Does your head ever play sick tricks like that on you? “No, I don’t want you to date him because you deserve better.” Really now? Fortell meg hvem jeg fortjener då. This is all some game part of me invented to entertain the other half out of boredom and ensomhet.

There is a lyric in Nek’s “L’Anno Zero,” that has been ringing in my head lately:
Stanco di chi mi scalda il letto.
How true.

I’m back to doing what I’m so good at doing: waiting. Men jeg vil ha ham, og kun ham.

I wait for those little moments with him: sul treno, på færja, quand nous buvons, when we stay in silence.
Those little moments and little victories we don’t get enough of: comparing fingers with Mom and remarking how similar they are; that singular moment at Coyote Hills when you take in all that gold and turquoise and boundless beauty; the self-reaffirmation that I deserve better.
Life is tough sometimes–and I don’t mean homeless African orphans tough–I mean that it tears at you, makes you feel lonely, makes you feel bitter and defeated, makes you doubt yourself; but I’m confident I’ll turn out alright.

I haven’t written lately because I’ve discovered the secret joys of keeping a handwritten journal, in Norwegian. I get a kick out of writing in public and on BART now–it’s a great way to think and not worry people thinking you’re weird/retarded/queer.

Meanwhile, I got tired of watching Life drift on past my window and being lethargic and watching Friends all day (which, I might mention–gives you a false pretense of what friendship should be like…right? I sure wish I had a Chandler.) so I decided to get started on a demo album, thanks to Garageband.

Here’s to the little moments.
L’Anno Zero

Långt Härifrån

The new question these days is, “When are you leaving? Are you looking forward to leaving?” I’m always at a loss for words when people ask me that. Am I looking forward to leaving? Yes, I’m looking forward for school to end; I’m looking forward to not having to sit alone in a classroom at lunchtime twiddling with my iPod. I so look forward to having a long, intimate chat with someone I care about and someone who reciprocates my feelings. I’m looking forward to feeling welcomed again. So yes, I am looking forward to getting out of Horten.

But how I am here, I can’t really lie to myself. I’ve roundabouted. I had high hopes in coming here, to make great friends with the Norwegians, to establish myself and immerse myself in their world. I wanted to fit in. But now I realize that the life I had created for myself here is not different than the one I wanted to flee from last year, give or take a few extraneous factors. I try not to have the same expectations for Switzerland; I can’t be quite sure that I won’t.

And perhaps this is it. Perhaps I’m not so much disappointed with this experience as I am with the realization that no matter what city, country, continent I find myself on, I can’t escape the loneliness of my own existence. I guess that’s the most upsetting thing.

I said I could never understand those people who want to live in the same city they grew up in; I think I do now. It’s a blissful life that I can never lead, because the only time I feel truly at ease is when I’m moving.

我刚浏览完 бельгийский Томас 的春假照片。不知道他在 Пасха 居然也去了 Берген 和西挪威。但虽然我们俩去一样的地方，我们有不同的 опыт。你可能在那儿想，”废话！” 对，你是在根本不能比较我和他。我们俩是不一样的人，有不一样的爱好，юмор，和性格。这个我早就明白了，但是–为什么呀？

我已经对自己承认我不是一个 джок，也永远不会变成一个。不管我活多少年，我也不会对 девушек，球儿，和车有兴趣。不管我跟 Иоаким 住多久，我也不会喜欢 хип-хоп 和 рэп。但是我总是问自己：为什么不可以呢？每个人的爱好都是”学”出来的。我本来生下来的时候没有喜欢唱歌，我是”学”会爱唱的，对不对？所以我为什么不能学会去爱篮球，啤酒，《Сплетница》？为什么不能学会享受跟 Иоаким，Томас，甚至其他的 мальчики 在一起，跟他们配合？

我知道我是我，和他们是他们。我知道对自己诚实是最重要的。我知道人就是这样的复杂和不同。但我还有时候感觉这个 жизнь 太孤独了。我有时候真不喜欢走这到路。没有人可以陪我走吗？

I feel so out of touch with people. Honestly, bonding is a concept that has eluded me for years. Growing up, I always secretly wondered if I was genuinely socially retarded. (In fact, I still do sometimes, but only to humor myself now.)

See, I didn’t really have friends in elementary school. I moved to the United States when I was 6 years old. The only English word I knew then was “dog.” (I learned “cat” a couple of months later, I think.) And I couldn’t even pronounce it right. And it’s pretty hard to get friends at that age if you can’t even keep somebody’s attention.

I suppose it was quite hard on my mom too, she didn’t have any friends either. In fact, I have no idea what she preoccupied herself with in those days before she had a job and I was at school. We learned to lean on each other.

Anyway, a lot of unpleasant things happened after I moved to the US, and while I don’t blame those reasons for everything that is wrong with my life, they affected me very negatively–inverted my personality, if you will. I became very shy, very cautious, and very self-conscious as I grew up.

Our family didn’t have any play-dates, and during recess I would busy myself at the tetherball pole. I would always buy my lunch and sit with the other kids, but only to sit with them. I was the wallflower…that wore immigrant clothes. (“Why wouldn’t you want to wear these clothes? They’re top quality, and cost so much in China! The American kids at school will never get the chance to wear something like this!”) And at home, of course, there was nobody else around–Mom had enrolled herself in beauty school. I was alone every day; I learned to entertain myself.

I think that fostered a lot of my traits. I learned to like being alone, and to this day I still do–being around people for an extended period of time still tires me out. By myself, I could be myself. I could sing as loud as I wanted, I could cry at cheesy lines in movies, I could walk around and not worry about how big the slits of my eyes are right then and there, and I could dream. (And dream did I ever! I was the hopeless romantic. Too much time alone and your mind starts creating hallucinations on its own.) I learned to be individual, and to like what I like and not be influenced by what other people think I should like. (My favorite music artist in junior high? Tori Amos.) But I also learned to appreciate friendship and togetherness because I so rarely felt it. I loved watching Friends because in a really twisted and pathetic way, I didn’t have any and they relieved me of my loneliness. And I still like romantic comedies the best–but for other reasons now.

There’s lots of bad things that came with the solitude: I was very out of touch with my contemporaries–and walking around with dyed bangs and a tweed jacket sure didn’t alleviate me from my condition–which brings me to my current déjà vu. I’ve always found it so difficult to really get to know a person. In fact, I downright dread it when people ask me, “So, what do you like to do?” Well, I like singing, learning languages, trying new foods and drinks, and having the occasional frolick with men twice my age. What about you? Sports, chicks, video-games, cars? Cool!

I’m going to do a little thought-trainhopping now by asking this: Have you ever wondered what exactly keeps people together? I’m sure you’re friends with your friends for different reasons: similar interests, similar experiences, or maybe just because you live close to each other. It’s kind of scary to think about how fragile a relationship can be. Sometimes, I feel like it’s not enough.

Well, if you read this far, congratulations. I don’t think I had a point in writing this post other than to just get some personal history out. I don’t remember when it became so much harder to express myself. Blogging much easier back in junior high. I was angsty then. Now I’m just humdrummy and–well, as of right now–in dire lack of sleep.

Wow, this week has been hard. I swear, all I do is complain nowadays, and while that in no way is an accurate representation of my experience here thusfar, denne uke har vært forferdelig!

Had a blow-up with Mom over the phone. It started as an argument about withdrawing from the ATM but escalated into a flurry of rage, tears, and even a suicide threat. Though it ended on a mollifying tone, it set the pace for the rest of the week.

I’m also reminded of the fact that this experience–going on exchange–doesn’t just affect me. While I’m off trollying around and licking poles in Norway she’s still living the everyday life at home…except with one less person in the household. I used to assuage myself by thinking that it would’ve been just the same if I had gone off to college, but at least then she could see me during vacations and holidays.

I know that my life is just beginning, and I know that I want to see the world and experience life, but I still feel guilty for leaving her. It’s a different situation than it would have been if we had been a three-member family. Even though she has a boyfriend now, I’m not blind to the frailty of “long-term relationships”–she’s on her third one now. I ultimately hope that he’ll be the one to take care of her and keep her company, just as I hoped that the last one would do, and the one before that. (She’s also considering break up with him.)

I know she wouldn’t like the thought of anyone pitying her, me included (or maybe me especially), and I’m not. I just want her to be happy. And though she reassures me she’s fine, even the toughest of people can feel small and alone without somebody at their side.

So anyway, after that tearful phone call, my eyes never unreddened/unpuffed themselves and now I realize that I have pink eye.

And the thought of school doesn’t do anything but exacerbate matters. I spent pretty much the past four days doing nothing but cramming to finish up an English presentation on Chinese minorities. (Did you know that in addition to provinces and municipalities, China also has five “autonomous regions,” each named after the most populous minority nationality in that region?)

I’m in no way giving up or calling it quits, but things could go just a tad better, you know? Well, at least Ungkaren is on TV tomorrow.

Anyway, påskeferie (Easter Break) is coming up and we’re headed west to Bergen to spend a week with Mamma’s sister Irene and her family. I’m looking forward to seeing western Norway again. And hopefully, I’ll be able to come back with a better grasp of that darned Bergen dialect. (Who knows? I might even begin to understand Leif and samfunnsøkonomi.)

Marie made dinner today; it was Asian-inspired and delicious. It reminded me of the bay’s diversity. I miss the cuisines. Chicken satays and tom yums, sushi and udon soup, Denny’s sandwiches, Chili’s fajita quesadillas, and whatever they have at Applebee’s. I miss how everyone comes from different places, speaks different languages, and have different and exciting stories. I miss the suburban feeling of Fremont. Horten is so homogenous…

The radio was on when we were eating dinner today. I was stuffing chow mein into my mouth and Daniel Powter’s “Free Loop” came on the air. I used to like that song back home. I used to eat this food back at home…

I am sick of being here. I am tired. I want warm sunshine. I want to check out the hot bartender at Starbucks and throw peanut shells on the floor at Texas Roadhouse. I want to be dozing off in the car as we drive down to Half Moon Bay or Santa Cruz. I want to hear people speak Tagalog and Spanish; I want to say “gracias” to Mexican busboys; I want to wear shorts and sandals GODDAMN I want to wear shorts so badly!

I want to go back to a school where at least I had people to hang out with during lunch instead of sitting by myself facing a fucking computer screen like I’m doing now. I want to be in a class in which I can understand and not just nod half-assedly at whatever English term the teacher spews up every fifteen to twenty minutes in thinking that it’ll benefit my comprehension whatsoever. I want to walk with Katherine from her house to Borders and talk smack about how “she gave a blowjob to HIM? Twice?!” and our latest successful and disastrous romantic and sexual endeavours.

QUI PEUT PRÉTENDRE ME CONNAÎTRE ICI? Or rather, qui veut? They care so much about the Look of life, but they don’t Live it. It’s an image, it’s contrived, it’s dull and it’s mimicry. And I don’t know why it’s attractive. I hate it.

I’m frustrated and I’m sad. And I’m probably wrong. I need something new in my life.