21 Jul 1985, Posted by Scott An Chora in Travelogue, No Comments.
07/21 Vigeland Garden, Oslo Norway
I situated myself behind a cup of coffee in the middle of Oslo’s train station. It was early and I was in clear view of all the entrances and exits, so there would be no chance of Jim missing me. I had already gathered up the necessary supplies to prepare that night’s dinner for Solsberg. After about eight-hours of waiting, I was getting fidgety, actually angry, but assumed Jim probably had a bad connection and was on his way, so I held tight and caught up on my journal. After a few more hours I lost my patience and called Solsberg’s house. Her mother explained that Jim had already picked up his gear early that morning and confirmed that my message was given to him. In an angry tone, she suggested that I pick up mine gear also, as if another day on her doorstep would reclassify my belongings as garbage. Well that didn’t make sense. The first thing I did was check the train schedules and wondered how Jim could have avoided Oslo station but I didn’t really know where he was coming from or going to. I still questioned the circumstances that derailed our dinner plans and where was Jim? I waited another hour with numerous ideas passing through my head and was getting angrier by the minute.
When I reached Solsberg’s house I found her mother, my bags, the guitar and adding insult to injury, every item Jim had taken procession of in Victoria station. In Jim’s world selfishness trumped responsibility. Jim also left a note that specified where he was going. “That fucking asshole”! It was impossible for him to leave from here at eight in the morning and go where he had stated in his note without going through Oslo’s station, unless he took a helicopter. He had either not looked to see if I was waiting, or had avoided me all together. I couldn’t believe he left me holding all that shit and Solsberg nowhere in sight. What the fuck was going on! Her mother’s attitude didn’t change when I gave her all the food I was carrying and she practically slammed the door in my face. When I finally reached the local train platform I began discarding those things I wasn’t willing to carry into a garbage receptacle. Two gentlemen, like vultures, waited for me to step away from the garbage can. When I reached Oslo station I spread out the rest of my belongings in order to separate it into two categories. Items that would stay with me and could fit within my book bag and those that would be wrapped up and sent home. I actually had to explain to a few people passing by, that nothing was for sale. I had balanced the desire to continue on without Jim with getting answers and decided to seek answers first and boarded a train to Stavanger.
On the inbound train I kept reviewing all the facts related to the “I ditched you incident”, over and over in my head. I kept coming to the same conclusion. What in the hell was I doing going to Kistiansand? I should have just headed in my own direction and only kept Jim’s note for my scrapbook. So when I arrived in Kistiansand I walked through the rain with only two objectives, heading towards the local post to discard the extra weight and to the local tourist office to leave a note for Jim. The note in short said that at such and such a time I was boarding on such and such a train and if you’re there you’re there, if you’re not you’re not. There were probably another couple of choice words that better expressed my disappointment. The people I met at the local post office were extremely friendly. They kindly helped me wrapped extra reinforcements around my package in order to make sure what I sent would make it home in one piece. Good riddance, I won’t miss either of you.
I sat myself down outside to a cup of coffee and waited for my train. Eventually Jim wandered up with a pair of girls that couldn’t have been older than fifteen. He kept running at the month about his sexual encounters. I suggested that if “those were the type of girls you were encountering, then you shouldn’t be hanging around or somebody’s father would be hanging you from a tree”. It used to be all black and white and we had to figure out the grey, or get high and watch it, but now he wants to redefine the black and white when it doesn’t suit him. “Fuck you”. I have been down that road before and I knew where it ends. Jim kept trying to persuade me to follow the children into Denmark. Besides the word jail bait, I wasn’t about to spend extra money to travel outside my rail pass. I had to explain to Jim that since he wasn’t giving me an explanation or an apology I would do “a” and if you want to do “b”, do “b” and that’s the end of the subject. I just hated being drawn into a situation I didn’t sign up for. I’m going to travel the fastest way from here to Copenhagen and if that meant through Stockholm, then so be it. I didn’t say another word. Jim ended up following behind quietly, giving me a face and an attitude intended to make me think it was my doing that had disrupted his love life. “Dude, look around, nobody put a ring in your nose. I don’t want to hear it anymore!” I just stayed to myself and ignored him the entire ride into Stockholm. We had a short layover in Stockholm; I fed pigeons in a park and then back onto the rails. I wandered around Copenhagen to grab something to eat and then rejoined Jim for a train ride into the rural side of Denmark.
We came across a small hostile on the outskirts on Nykobing that was basically a campground with scattered bungalows. Since we were not sporting a tent we got ourselves a bungalow. That night we gathered up a handful of beers and wandered into the adjacent forest. From the darkness we watched the clouds overtake the landscape of stars and as our own bladders filled, we too were overtaken by the night. I was awakened by the rain’s rhythm on the roof of our small cottage. Then almost like thunder a pair of very wet boots entered through the door. Two wet bikers asked if we minded them spending the remaining portion of the night in the other beds. “If you’re paying, what can I say?” I got the feeling that it wasn’t the first time they attempted free loading. We woke to clear skies, eggs, sausage, cheese and a cute young woman with broken English that made her even more attractive. We landed seats on a local train that made a stop at every cross walk. The constant stream of local faces and the beauty of those small stops actually incited me to slow down and take a deeper breath, so we took the ferry across to Frederica and made reservations at a local hostel in Skandenburg. That choice established an aggressive timetable. We needed to make up some distance.
