Ok, I know, you're tired of hearing about more of this fine city. But Bergen, like the rest of the world I believe, has its sides negative.
For example, life is dear. Indeed, more. The bus pass costs more than € 40 per month, reducing students mean. And the supermetcato you have to buy the brand meanest, the risk of poisoning every time, because you just can not afford to buy more. Not to mention the spirits then. A beer in a pub can cost € 10. Yes, that's 10 euro a fucking pint. E 'for this reason that we took some important decisions in the last week.
I, Cap, Dario, Andreas Trystan and we are doing our beer. 22 liters of beer made at home with our own hands.
rest in cap room, and gurgle all night waiting to finish the fermentation.
E 'and the only solution here, as already mentioned, we are not the only ones to do it. Granted, the quality is not chissacchè, but it's still beer after all.
There are others. Downsides of mean. But now I'm too busy to be positive ones, sorry. Maybe in a few months I can speak impartially about this place, and find that, after all, is not so different from all other cities.
Let a positive side now.
Bergen is truly the city of music. There's music everywhere, and everyone seems to know how to play. Last night, for example.
I was in this little place near the fish market, a pub with wooden tables and uncomfortable chairs in dim light. My kind of place, in fact. And a trio playing classic jazz in a truly sublime. Suddenly a band that begins to approach. It must have been a guy in his thirties, tall me twice, fat and sweaty, holding a beer mug anointed of his sweat. We remain in silence, watching the scene. So this guy grabs the microphone and do what ever you do not expect me to do a character like that. Sing. But not as drunk or as any other normal person. No. Does it divinely. With a voice that recalls the voices of the black American jazz. Fuck!
We remain stunned. All of you.
With me there's a English girl of African mother. He writes in a notebook. This music is the helps to wander with the imagination, helps to produce thoughts. It does not want to miss out on these thoughts. So writes, writes, and the pen moves to the rhythm of the music, slipping on the keys blacks and white keys of the piano, slipping between the fingers of the bass, hopping from one plate to another battery and rocked by the voice of angel fat and drunk. And then there
Pavla on my left.
It 'just came and started talking to me about a wonderful thing ... I describes the day of his funeral. A huge lawn, gypsy music, people drinking and having fun. Shit is just as I wish it were mine. And then his naked body in the ground. Following an ancient Indian ritual. A seed in the mouth. In a tree becoming.
you imagine? Being there, lying on a bed of ground, under ground covers, in short, the ground everywhere. And insects, and other things. And this little seed in your mouth, slowly, day by day, grows. And your body are its roots. And his body is your new body.
say it's like being reborn. As if your soul transmigrate into the tree.
do not know if I would do it too. Put a cactus plant that then?
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