Unpacked

I'm at the place which is supposed to be home for the next long time. It is strange.
I think it will take some time getting used to this. I probably already have a temporary job. I sort of know where things are. I've been out rowing on the fjord. There's a nice park for running.
I can paint the walls whichever colour I choose. There's a kitchen. The shops are weird though. They're so Danish....
But there's rye bread. The sun shines and we have rainbows and August thunder.

We'll continue in Danish over at Hjem til Aalborg.

There might come a few last updates here.
Pictures. Book progress. Stuff like that. Next adventure.

Finality

I'm leaving tomorrow. My bike's all packed in a box and I hope the girls in the lfight companies were right about me just strolling over to qantas and paying 120 aussie dollars for them to fly the big box home to Denmark. We'll see tomorrow. It's very interesting.
It's also very strange to be leaving, it felt so familiar to come back, or home to New Zealand. It's autumnal and recognisable and mountainous and might as well be Scandinavia, just with nikau palms and cabbage trees.

But I do look forward to home, to see my friends, my family, have a job, eat Danish rye bread and liquorice, hold hands with the loved one every day and sleep in the same bed every night, to not share dorm rooms with snooring strangers, to have more than two sets of clothes. It's also slightly scary. What if I forget how wonderful this was and don't go out again? If I just get a nine to five and have kids and tell about back when mum was cool and biked New Zealand and sailed to Fiji?
I don't think I will forget though. I'll probably remember so hard that there is no option but going out again.

Again, again again, I have to come back to this place.

Moce Fiji!

I was absolutely certainmy flight was on the 24th af July, so me and Lou travelled like madmen from Savusavu to Nadi via Suva to have a chance to see Alex before leaving. It's closing in on 18 hours travel over two days, one of the days starting at five in the morning.

And when I'd well arrived in the airport, changed into the travel clothes and left behind the last sunbleched washed out dress in a bin, I wondered why the only flights to new Zealand went to Auckland. It wouldn't be strange if something had gone amiss. Turned out to be me. The flight is leaving at 20.25 on July 25th. In other words; I'd come one day early. Idiot me decided to go out with a bang and got a room at Raffles right across the airport. The basic model, but still, it was absolutely amazing to have an air-con room, a proper bathroom, hot water immediately, toiletpaper and a room to myself. And now I'm wasting the day in the patio with a view to bouganvilleas, pools and gardeners fussing around. It's overcast, but that's ok. It's nice here. I'm just about to go home soon. For the moment it doesn't even bother me that I've missed most of NZ South Island. I'd honestly rather just visit my father in Norway.

Til danskerne

Er der egentlig nogen, der finder det problematisk at jeg er blevet doven og skriver paa engelsk? I saa fald maa I sige til, det tager bare en del mere tid skrive tosproget blog, og saa vil jeg hellere skrive mere paa et sproge end det samme paa to.

Just checking with the Danes if the mind the change to english. I suppose the English readers appreciate the English...

For at tage ud, skal der også være et hjem

Jeg bor i Aalborg med den yndige, der har fundet et arbejde heroppe, fordi andelslejligheden ikke kunne blive solgt. Så var det nemmere for den yndige at flytte tilbage igen. Det er meningen at jeg skal komme tilbage her og bo, når jeg på et tidspunkt er færdig med at lege kosmopolitisk beachcomber, og det er godt nok underligt. Megaunderligt, med langt, fladt e, men også ret dejligt. Der er én, der godt gider vente på at jeg kommer hjem igen. Selvfølgelig, der er også mange andre der også glæder sig til jeg kommer hjem igen, men de længes nok lidt mindre.
Vores møbler passer sammen, her er pudsigt mormorminimalistisk, alt er i brunt træ, men der er ikke særlig meget af noget. Jeg har kun medbragt det mest nødvendige og efterladt størstedelen af mine ejendele på det mærkværdige lager i Glostrup, der kan opsluge uanede mængder af gammelt tøj, ting og møbler, og nu indeholder en halv herskabslejlighed fra begyndelsen af forrige århundrede; arven efter farmor.
Her er kun lige præcis nok til at jeg også er hjemme, og det ikke kun er den yndiges lejlighed, vi deler stuerne, den ene er min læseskrivestue, og den anden er slyngelstuen med bar og sportsfjernsyn. Her skal jeg hjem til igen, hjem og skrive, hjem og finde et arbejde, hjem og blive lidt mere voksen.

Men aalborg, det minder pudsigt om at flytte til Tampere, samme størrelse by (samme behagelige overskuelighed), samme slags gågade, samme slags bargade, nogle finfine barer og spillesteder at gøre til stamsteder, selv indkøbscenterene ligner hinanden, dyre Salling og billige Friis, i Tampere fandtes Sokos (den billige tøjte) og Stockmann (den dyre dame), heller ikke her kan jeg helt forstå geografien uden at støtte mig til kystlinien, og forstæderne er ukendt land, men naturen er dejlig tæt på.
Der er dog også nogle forskelle; jeg kan for eksempel sproget og kender kulturen, selvom visse venner var dybt rystede over at jeg kunne finde på at flytte til Aalborg: "Men ved du hvor langt væk det er? Og de taler helt anderledes, og det er en helt anden kultur! Det tager mindst fem timer i tog!"
Jeg er også lidt ældre, måske lidt mere magelig, ret glad for at jeg kan tage hjem og især glad for at der er nogen, jeg kan tage hjem til. Så kan jeg nemlig også tage ud med ro i sindet istedet for uro overalt. Jeg skal bare ud på tur, jeg kommer hjem igen.