What Can Cause The Back Of The Knee To Hurt

day 30, day 28

We would have liked. At all.

There 's been more or less like this:
snowing outside. A long, long, time. There's two feet of snow, and you can make puppets. We are undecided whether to quit or not. But then someone speaks a house in the center, a jam session and something else. We do drag, and we're out in 10 minutes. In the snow. A play like children.
And so it goes to the center, near Bryggen.
A fabulous home. Huge, wood. We would have liked a lot, everyone.
The owner is a guy who lives here. He has dreadlocks down to my shoulders, I believe it is African. He invites us to climb immediately to the second floor, the party is there. They all speak fluent in three languages: Norwegian, English and English. They are very nice, and we feel immediately at ease. They dance for a while, there's good music. We eat home-made cakes, made with cinnamon as all the sweets here, and drink what you find. Then the music
ends. We all sit cross-legged on the large carpet in the middle of the room. And wait in silence. There's four guys, and the party really starts. One guitar, one bass, a percussionist. And a voice. Incredible. They play like professionals, but they do it for passion. They start with a couple of spare lenses, then the music becomes more convolgente. Rhythms away, who beat our bodies with violence. The only defense is dancing. Dancing on those tribal drums, bass on those South American countries.
They have played some songs and now the microphone goes to percussionist. E 'skinny, Bassino, and I would not bet anything on his vocal abilities.
But that's where his strength. His voice.
I remain petrified. There
Jimi Hendrix into his chest, crying her freedom, there are Dire Straits and Eric Clapton, AC / DC and Joe Cocker and Neil Young and a bit of Captain Beefheart cock!
We would have liked. Very.

cigarette break. I'm closer to that South American guy so good at singing. I ask him if he has a group. He says no (!). He says he has a "big family". They call it so. They are musicians from all over the world. A big family. And when someone in the family needs a musician does is ask. So always go around with different configurations, improvising, but by the envy of professionals.
The music continues throughout the night. And they range with other musicians. A Norwegian guy on stage salt. Sing some songs rock, totally redone, reinvented by him. Li sings in a thin voice, but intense at the same time. Makes me want to cry.
Then again, it's the turn of a Peruvian girl, songs, typical of their land. And, again, a voice is absolutely indescribable.
All the best musicians in the Bergen meeting in a house. The heat of the music, while the sloping roof windows are covered with snow.
These guys do not need to show the world their talent. He does not care. They play because they feel it inside. They sing because that's what makes them move forward. And prefer to do so in familiar places, in homes, small parties, with their friends.

I am more than convinced. We would have liked. At all.

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Post # 14, # 13 Post

Stop time!
someone stop time, please!
What I do at 4 am to dance in an empty room full of candles and just finished bottles.
And because this music? And why me?

And 'one of the rarest species. Come directly from Madagascar. Keeps them in a cardboard box with two holes on the cover. They are just below the bottles of beer. Would never imagine that they're there.

The corridor is full of people. People who smoke, racing, making love. The corridor is full of beer, too. But that remains there, on the floor, and our socks.

do not know why it has all those plants in your room. And then that box. The box of insects. I do not know. But make good music. Keep moving, swinging like a madman, without any reason. And the more I go on, the more my perceptions come back clear. And already I can feel the smells, the sweat, beer, cheese Norwegian (always!).

And from my room I can still hear the bass that make me ring the guts.
I look around. I am alone. What happened to the beer, the sweat, the Norwegian cheese?

And your socks broken?

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day 24, day 23

Last night, talking to two very nice Polish girls, I discovered that "yes" in their language, it says "no". Not deny that it has left me a little bit puzzled, so I was reminded of a story. Here it is.

There was once a country. Does not matter where, you know that there was only this country.
And in the language of that country, the word love and hate speech were written and pronounced the same way.
So when someone hears the word, could never be sure if she was loved or hated.
Over time, the growing insecurity in social relations, and the villagers spent most of his time isolated in their homes and closed without exchanging a word to anyone. The situation became so serious that the very survival of the country seemed to be questioned, since there are no new marriages and, therefore, new births.
One day, a linguist of the post, proposed to change this word, replacing it with two different words. So he organized a general meeting, to definitively put an end to this bizarre situation as dramatic.
But fate decreed that the word "change" meant, in the language of the country, including "contempt". So when the linguist said he wanted to replace the existing word, the audience thought he was despised, and went on a rampage. People began to stir against the poor linguist pulling chairs and so on, until the poor fellow, do not fell to the ground lifeless.

It's a hard life folks.

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Bergen, Paris, Valencia, Alicante and even Bergen.

The thing I miss is being able to go home, home. Being able to run the station in the middle of the night and take the first train to go away. There are already far away, and that train I've already got. What has changed? - You ask. So many things. But no one in particular. I do not feel freer. Not at all.

And now I continue to travel. Even on its own.

Traveling alone is a special experience. I said 'special' is not sad. Indeed, sometimes it's fun. You are there, at the airport, in the land anyone. Away from any legal jurisdiction. And there are many people with you, and even though nearly all have your own destiny.
Funny how the intersection of our lives will be a 2000-ton metal box with wings.

And so, on the morning of Jan. 21, for some unknown reason, Peter Cavallo is to wander in the huge waiting lounge of the airport of Paris.
the evening of the same day, for some unknown reason, through the sliding doors of the airport of Valen and take the underground train to the heart of the city.

There is barely time for a shower.

Gala dinner: three hundred people, great food but very small portions, path gras, paella Valenciana, waiters pour the wine you every time your glass is empty. And then a lot of fish. One of the most famous of the city, right under the huge structure that houses the aquarium in Valencia. A restaurant with glass walls and thousands of fish that will turn around. Certainly impressive. As the price on the other hand, which, fortunately for me, I can only guess what it was.
And here comes the first English drunk, sitting at the table with researchers around the world. A German who makes the easy irony policy of various nations, a Franciscan who speaks over ten languages, a Chinese who does not speak well either one ..
It 'started so my first experience of an international scientific conference: BIOSTEC 2010 - Valencia.



three days. Only three days. But three days really intense, full of events that followed one another without letting me breathe, packed like sardines in a can.
And I felt like a sardine, canned, packed in a stylish dress that I'm not accustomed to wearing, and that makes me look awkward and ridiculous. But it was the only shield, the only screen between me and them. Between me and an audience of hundreds of researchers, who listened to my words in a language that is not even mine.

And then the new city, the palaces huge / huge / gigantic / unreachable, architectural structures to Star Wars, a major contrast with the former Valencia. How far will you go to see it through?



But bulerias continues, and my evening is lost in a typical kitchen - family, paella indescribable, local wine, which helps your thoughts. Ingrid is a graduate student in French medieval history, speaks Italian as it was her first language, but I'll take it around because he does it with a English accent. Beautiful evening, once again I feel really at home *.

back to the hotel, but I'm not going to sleep. And then I get lost in the night life with a Romanian boy who shares the room with me. The last hours of the night run away like drops of tap water left to lose. He, the Romanian boy, speak English very well. I, however, I speak better "itagnolo" good Italian that I am not ashamed to pull off.

6 am. 6.30 on my phone, my timezone. My roommates are sleeping. I would like. But there is no time. They range in Alicante. You point the finger at Bergen.



* Just a clarification. I often say to feel at home, but when I'm really at my house I do not feel "at home". So my words are not assigned to a feature space, but try to associate this phrase to a state of mind: feeling understood, being at ease.

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Post # 12, # 11 Post


not write for a while. I have a toothache. And you know, when you have a toothache is a different story. Live, I mean. You do not think of anything but when will this pain, what intolerable that hammer drills your thoughts.
And you can see it well in what you write. I reread the post yesterday and I thought, 'Shit, I can read my toothache. "
So for today I will limit myself to just tell you that last night I made the first musical performance here in Bergen. In the club's dormitory. We had a jam session and I sunato with Peruvian guitarist, a keyboardist and a Chinese Norwegian musician.
was not so much that I played in public. It made me feel good. I also forgot toothache. To a little.
Ah, for those who just was curious, I came out two wisdom teeth. That's right, both together. Ouch.

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day 14, day 13

The pen is strange movements on the paper. Doodles, nothing concrete, or at least that's what I think. See the ink roll up on itself, just doodling to a careless observer. But it's my fault, I do not have access to that world semantics behind the incomprehensible symbols, symbols that Solimar is writing at the time.
There is only a promise, but after all is important. I taught him to play guitar, he will teach me Arabic.

yes because then, finally, the guitar I bought. Just in that shop, the one with the halls filled with antiques made in bulk. But I did not have enough money to even buy a carry case, and so I go around with the guitar bustaccia wrapped in a black plastic fastened with scotch brown. It does not have a beautiful appearance but at least does his duty.

During this time I stay all night long to talk with Solimar, my roommate. He asks me advice on the Italian girls. On how to behave, how to appear. It 's funny, and it is even more because I am certainly not the best person.
And I do the same with him, I ask the women of her country, their traditions. So forgive him if my clothes are impregnated with the smell of Indian food.
But why the fuck leave the stove on all day? I'm not sure but I cook every two hours. That's right, every two hours ago a small meal. Fried, of course, and with so many spices, so that the house smells like an Indian fast food open 24 hours on 24.

Tonight I also saw the club's dormitory. He sat with other people while I was dancing. I think I did just sucks. A dance that is. I understood from the fact that the girls were laughing and mimicking my moves awkward.
But while I continued to dance careless, a bit of alcohol, a little bit because it really does not interest me much about what others think of my way to dance and move.

Meanwhile, tonight, in the the dim light of the kitchen, barely illuminating the wooden table, Solimar teach how to tell a girl who has "beautiful eyes". And who will go through these corridors will hear a jumble of Urdu and Italian, two languages \u200b\u200bso far, making a fight between them in room 352, which is also 350.

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Post # 10, # 9 Post





Now someone will be happy .... :)

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day 12, day 8

I opened the kitchen door. Titian had a large pan of dough in hand. It 'started well tonight.
The room was overcrowded. Eighty, maybe a hundred people from all over the world, all gathered in one room. All in one kitchen.
seems strange. Yes, think about it, everyone has made thousands of miles, they came from everywhere, and finally, at the end of their journey, they find themselves in a kitchen. The terminus of their routes, the goal of each of them, a sacred place, connected to the most basic needs.
And now the kitchen is raised to the nth degree, is exploded in several dimensions, embracing the infinite planes, from a family gathering place daily crossroads of cultures and countries, people and stories of distant, almost becoming a caricature of kitchen itself.

E 'Thus begins the' international dinner, an evening full of lights and colors, different accents and faces, smiling faces and fun, bored faces, staring faces, faces drunk. Each with its own cultural Baggage, each with its most precious thing: their own food.
Now imagine a large table full of colors in each country, full of fruit and exotic spices, oriental food and western dishes. And you do not need to do is reach out to step into a culture, within the tradition of a place far away, unattainable, that only at that moment, in a totally unique, and essentially becomes virtually possible.

Now I have my belly too full to talk about other things, to tell you that I met so many people, I've heard stories absurd that the kitchen was on fire, there were cookies on the table that terrible in the dough was put salt instead of sugar and challenged you to eat them, that the German beer mixed with sprite, and that many The first night here, they cry.
I hope to meet again the people I met tonight. If so, I will tell you. As always, that you care or not.

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Post # 8, Post # 7

Today I did not like writing. Will be pictures to speak for me ... Ah, for those who wanted to, there is also this shop ...

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day 7, day 6

I knew I was missing something. As a child, I mean. A toy, a brother, a mood, a feeling. Something. But until now, had never managed to explain everything.
Today, after a long search, I know.
I was on top. The city is barely seen, the white roofs of the houses blend with the trees and the rest. And I was there, waiting for the right time, time to throw.
The descent is not scary when you're already running, but first, from that height, fear and even makes it a lot.
Then the moment arrives, and I launch. And flight down, I was never as fast or as I have ever heard. Yes, because the speed is a sensation. And then through people, trees, hills. Fast, fast, fast. With my sledge.
E 'was there that I understood. Just as the snow went to my mouth, and my back hurt.
was what I always missed. And I was happy. Like a child. Like a child with his sledge.

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Post # 6, Day # 5

I can not freezing to death.

I can not freezing to death.

I can not freezing to death.

keeps repeating itself. As if that were true.
I do not have gloves. I have no hat. I do not have the scarf. Not I have the tights. I have no socks and shoes. But I can not freezing to death.

I wonder what the hell am I doing at two in the night, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by snow, ice climbing a narrow road, without knowing where to go, nor where they came from.
not be able to find those eyes that I'm in the eastern night.

I can not freezing to death. No. Then I enter a club. Warm.
People seem happy, the music is good. The girls are really very blonde.
With me there are other guys. We are all descended from Fantoft to go to town to try something different tonight.
With us is Mike, a tall guy with long hair that almost conceal his ice-colored eyes. E 'pale face and seems to be indifferent to whatever happens.
was walking in the room with the air dizzy, stumbling among the people. Then he stops.
began to talk to a girl in perfect Norwegian. I do not understand exactly what it says, but certainly something very funny. She makes a big laugh. Mike continues to speak, and she smiles. It 's his time. Everything is going according to plan. Then she says something. Wait a bit, but Mike does not speak. Remains motionless. Silence. She tries again, but nothing. Mike does not open his mouth. He does not understand. God only knows why, but he can only speak, Norwegian.
And it does so with all. He began to talk, they laugh, respond and then poof, he's dumb, or trying to steal their words, that he will repeat once again what they said. Nothing. The scene goes on for some time. From my perspective, it is something extremely exhilarating. Sip a beer while I enjoy the show.

It 's late, we decided to go home. Here the night means they cost a lot and are not included in the normal subscription, but we do not like to pay 80 crowns for a ride. But there is a solution. Mike knows it. It just says to follow him, to trust him. So we arrive in front of "Ali Baba", one of the many places where they sell kebabs at night. Wait a few minutes and approaches a car. Mike shows off his new Norwegian monoverso, but this time do not answer, fortunately. The type of car it is only nod to climb.
E 'an illegal taxi. I find that there are many here. It 's the cheapest way to travel at night. And it works. It takes us just below the house, our home, Fantoft.
in Norway did not think things work that way. But really, the whole world is country.

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Post # 5, # 4 days

Tonight I want to start from the end. Because I believe that, in a sense, corresponds to a beginning.


# Part 2: Kitchen parties

I open the kitchen door. On the other hand a girl fiber, dyed-black hair that fall on the forehead, and improfumata all dressed up. And
'she came to our party, but it seems very busy, so we decided to go in his kitchen.
The elevator stops at the eighteenth floor, but the last, and the nineteenth, there coming. You must climb the stairs. And while the salts along a small window, a slit on that snowy world that's out there, that world that seems so distant from that height dizzy.
And so I find myself drinking white wine, clear as water. You can not buy wine that is water. They did some Germans. They bought the material, they spent a day in the kitchen and then they waited. And now we are drinking. That wine is water, but water is not, as the room starts to spin.
Here in Norway is the only way to get an alcoholic drink without spending a fortune. We must make one yourself. And so many of the dorm kitchens are transformed into real distilleries for students.
Sho, the Japanese guy sitting to my right, is already drunk and falls asleep in his chair. The party continues
kitchen.

It 's a tradition now here at Fantoft, parties in the large communal kitchens on each floor of the CD. They call them "kitchen parties". Rather than go out in the cold, you stay in the dormitory, wandering from one kitchen to another. As spectra have no desire to sleep. As souls who haunt the depths of the student.

If you're walking through the long empty corridors of Fantoft night, knocks on the door of a kitchen. A coincidence, no matter. There is always someone to welcome you. Someone with a large white face and red cheeks for alcohol. Some blacks with big eyes, deep as night. Someone who is working on his beer or he is doing his wine. It does not matter. What counts, in the long empty corridors of Fantfot, is that you will not feel alone.



# Part 1: Where do things lost and never found

The white snow reflects the sun hurts your eyes.
The city is in the morning more beautiful than ever. Especially Bryggen, the old part. A row of wooden houses in 1200, which seem to resist the cold weather much better than my foot, while freezing in your boots.
We climb up a hill, at the risk of slipping on ice. We are on the walls of the fortress, where you see the commercial port. Even the ships are covered in snow. We continue to a bridge, which seems suspended in the air. The mountains are all around us. Around us. We have.
slipped down, and we end up Ovregate, a wide road that seems to continue for long.
That 's where we find it.
A small shop, or so it seems. We decide to enter. I understand now that
it is a magical place. It 's the place I have been looking for. It 's the place where the objects end up forgotten, lost and never found.

Sometimes you stop using an object for a long time. You almost forget its existence. Then one day you wake up and wonder what happened to, where he went.
And so you start to look for. And you look everywhere, in the remotest corners of your home, under the couch, on the furniture. But nothing, can not find it anymore.
E 'perhaps there that reappears in that shop of Ovregate, as through a dimensional portal to materialize in this tiny shop, the narrow aisles, with a density of objects that rivals the population China.
to visit all need to take off with his hands among the junk, stepping over something, struggling between old magazines, broken vinyl, dusty clothes and hats, and beautiful wooden toys.
Among the many trinkets, there is one in particular that caught my attention. It 'a bass guitar. It 'full of dust and has written on the headstock erased by time. I would like to know its history.
The type of the shop asked me if I want to buy it. Costa twelve hundred crowns. "Not now" - I say. Not now ...

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Post # 4, # 2 days

white



calm



pointed roofs like in fairy tales




paradise.



The first thing I saw was the snow.
entire city covered with snow. The roads, cars, lakes, even people.
There was snow everywhere.
and immediately began to snow even in my thoughts, and so the roads, cars and traffic in my house are gone, in yards and yards of white snow.

I met the first Erasmus already at the airport in Oslo, where I waited for the flight to Bergen.
I sipped a cup of tea 'hot even on a plane by 50 seats, one of those old-fashioned, with the propellers.
And the windows you could see the fjords. The fjords. Fuck.
What incredible sight.
E 'as if God had designed the mountains with a trembling hand, for fear of dirtying the waters north of the perfect world. And the result is a sinuous, low lying areas that dance on the beach, playing touch and then get follow.
I no longer breath.

And then the city, white, wooden houses, lakes, mountains.
a crib. A children's story, the kind where you live happily in the land of fairy tales.
And then the first red-tape, which are many here in Norway but also very fast.

So I have a room to Fantoft.


Fantoft means Paradise. But from the outside may seem a heaven for beggars, one of those havens of second-hand, where God only comes to visit on Monday and the angels are made of cardboard, attached to the walls dirty.
But it's a great haven, home to many sinners. Thirteen single rooms, all decorated in wood.
A cozy place, ultimately.

The type of the keys gives me the 352, 350 which is also said to me, but I can not explain why. He says only that there was half the casino. What perplexes me and makes me a bit of fear.
I open the door, which is also 352 350. I smell a sting on the nose with violence. It comes from the kitchen. Yes, because the rooms are singles, but the kitchen is shared, shared with another tenant.
Fried, Indian food to be precise. My roommate was Pakistani.
He welcomes me with a big smile and I prepare a cup of tea. Hot tea after a day of standing in the ice, there is something better?

Let's talk a little bit, he studied computer engineering. Did the master here, right now is writing the thesis.
It 's a smart guy, he sabotaged the sensors fire of his room to smoke whenever he wants. He offers me a Marlboro. I accept it gladly, even if they are not smoked.
We spend a great evening together, even in the company of another friend of Pakistan and some girls. I cook a couple of traditional dishes, delicious, not too hot for that ..

Today, universities.
Introductory lectures.
In an egg-shaped auditorium, all Wood, supported by tall pillars. Appears to be floating in the middle of the lobby of the Student Center. In perfect English
explain how the universities here in Bergen.
I know many boys, some Italians, many foreigners. They come from all over the world, China, India, France, Spain, U.S., Netherlands ...
are all more than ready to begin the semester here, all smiling and eager to meet new people. But all very tired for the journey they have faced. Day
intense, but rewarding. Finished with an Italian dinner that I cook and a friend of Bologna to return my roommate.
The beer costs so much. Everything costs so much. But I do not care. Here I really feel in paradise.

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Post # 3, Post # 2

Ahhhhhhh friends.

The day before departure is the most difficult. And 'the day dell'arrivederci.
E 'on the day of goodbyes, the "you will find" even though there will never be, the jokes about stereotypes of Erasmus ...
say goodbye And as if in front of a good pizza and a glass of beer?
Even considering them the average price of a pizza is about 140 crowns (18 €!) And the quality ..... Well never mind.
So just two phone calls, an impromptu meeting, and here I find myself to greet all the people I love. Sniff sniff. And sigh, sob and maybe gulp. (Yes rereading, the last period was too diariodiunragazzostupidocheparteperlerasmussoloperfareilcretino so I toned down with onomatopoeia cartoon!)
Someone also made a gift ... an acorn, chocolates ... but the best gift (I do not want the others!) was a Saint of the Petrine center of my city, to give the Vandals last night:) So maybe
me put it in my room and we walked for a while up to try the feeling of walking through the streets of Salerno ... Absolutely, as long as I do to pass airport security with a piece of stone-pound bag.

Ahhhhhhh friends.



PS: Tomorrow will not write, I will be in Rome all day and then take the night air. And you say sti cocks. And I say sti cocks. Adieau!

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day -1, day -2

Today I was the victim of pre-shopping Erasmus.
Nothing else to say except "grueling."
Since I go to a country where the temperature peaks in January touches of -20 degrees, and (remember) living in Southern Italy, I have had to redo the wardrobe again.
And so here I am to buy winter boots / tights / bib snow / fleece sweaters / ski gloves ...
do not know if you mind that I am a male, and as such those of my kind do not usually practice this unhealthy activity is shopping.
What's more, today was also a special day. Much of the special anniversary or alignment of the planets. Yeah, today was ... the first day of sale ...! PANIC TERROR


File inhumane over the counter and the entrance to the shops, we were not even yelling at the fish market, people who take in hair to grab the last size 40 left.
But I say ... "Listen to 'for'?!?"*

Pure madness.
I saw all those people going back and forth inside a giant shopping mall. That was the new square, the new gathering place, except that most people do not aggregate, but the break-up, the windows exploded from the thousands that sbarluccicavano offers and discounts promised. Then I

wondered if even there where I'm going, people prefer to shuttle between the windows and special offers rather than experience the beauty that surrounds them. Rather than stand by and watch the fjords.



* Salerno typical expression used in the third person singular, as dispreggiativo to the whole human race

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Post # 1, day -3

I would like to get my hands on: I'm not good with writing. Not at all.
've never not been able to do with words. I was the one that took 6 - the themes of Italian, and the teacher does not even remember my name.
So do not bother if my periods are convoluted and tedious, this blog is not an exercise in style.
That said, this is the preamble:

missing three days. Three nights, to be precise. This plus-two.
I never thought to write a diary. It seemed a commonplace of the Erasmus student. It seemed just a cliche. But, after all, the Erasmus student and 'commonplace.

And then it happens that accompany Anna Sara home. And it rains. Much. More than usual rains in Salerno (the first here that you discover about me, yeah, I live in the strip of Italy a bit unfortunate that I call the "High Noon").
And there we are talking about shoes even though I hardly know how I made the shoes, and I have no knowledge of brands, models and the like. And speaking of the fact that there Bergen (here's the second clue), it rains. But it rains so much, any more than it rains in Salem today, which is so much better than it has ever rained in Salem in probably a decade ..
And then she (Anna Sara) out hunting this thing, "why do not you write a diary?"
and at that point I thought "fuck that original idea, I bet nobody ever thought which has the non-Erasmus student".
Fortunately, she keeps saying "how to Covington, but not censored due to open access to parents' and I still think (sorry, I usually do dialogues in mind as you show people a passive receptivity to the speeches almost)" is a diary erasmus censored anyway, otherwise we think of morality. "

So she goes, and I put in motion toward the house.
parking the Fiesta and think
"Shit, I almost write it really. The usual diary Erasmus.