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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