Carlos, July 18

It was late and the evening light was beginning the wane, the lull in the crowd was only temporary as people went home between shopping and an evening out. Since it was Richie's first day busking in Oslo, I came down to Carl Johans Gata, to watch and encourage my friend. He did not particularly need the encouragement or the audience, but I thought it would be worth my while to see him perform. The promenade was not particularly busy and money was slow to come, but people were stopping briefly to listen and by the end of the night Richie did well enough. .

As usual, my attention wandered and I found myself observing my surroundings, watching the people as they shopped
Up the cobble-stoned street, was a man I had seen every day I had ventured to this area. Standing no more than five feet tall and wearing a yellow Brazil shirt, but barrel chested with thickly muscled arms, he leaned on his crutches. He had clearly been stricken by some disease that had robbed him of any sustained use of his stunted legs. However to imply he was standing there, begging for money, would be a grievous insult. One did not have to watch for long to realize he was not capitalizing on pity one might feel for his "disability", it was plain to see he was more able than not.

He was a busker or rather an athlete performing as many do on street all over the world. Although his mobility seemed to be in the wheelchair that sat patiently next to him, he stood rooted to the stones under his spread feet, like an old tree suited to a harsh environment, thick and solid against the winds. From crutch to crutch, his football (soccer ball, but this is Europe after all) bounced back and forth. Then he would keep the ball airborne with a single crutch. Next he would balance the ball on the end of the shaft of the crutch, carefully keeping the it centred and stable. It would stay there until he lifted it high into the air, directing it over his head. Leaning forward on his crutches, he caught and steadied the ball, then juggled ball off his head in true football style.

I stopped counting after a dozen or so bounces, but he did not stop at that. The ball never touched the ground, he never lost control, and never stumbled. He stands there all day, every day (every nice day, he doesn't much care for the rain), earning a living. He does, if only occasionally, take a break when he feels the need
His name is Carlos Da Silva and he lives in Rio de Janeiro. Speaking in perfect English, he tells me the money from busking is so good in Oslo, he flies here every summer to work. It was clear to me this man possessed far more than the physical strength required to stand all day and perform, he also had the strength of spirit that proclaimed he would not lie down and accept the his fate. Another man asked why he had the crutches. Carlos answered simply and directly, polio, when he was a child. Brushing the question aside as though it were of no importance than the colour of his crutches, he added, but it doesn't matter. He would not be pitied. I pressed him for more details of his life as I snapped photos in the fading light and he willingly spoke about his life. Never once did the ball stop.

He was anxious to get home to watch the Parapan American Games in Rio that were to take place in August. His house was only blocks away from most of the venues and he was quite excited to watch. I found it unlikely he simply watched sports, he was too well built to be some one who contented himself by sitting in the stands or on the couch. Grinning, he told me he was an avid basketball player, he had competed at various levels,and would rejoin his team when he returned home. As with most athletes, he was not limited to one sport. His other passion was distance races and his best time in a marathon was 1h:58m, placing 28 of 400. I could not hide my appreciation for that feat, any endurance race at that pace and distance is gruelling.

Incidentally, his record for keeping the ball aloft is two hours and forty-five minutes, with over twenty-five thousand consecutive bounces.

Music, July 17

After a dinner of delicious thin crust pizza, Jan (the Swedish motorcycle traveler), Richie (the Australian busker), and I (vagrant) debated the plans for the evening. I opined for staying in at the hostel where the beer was cheap and there was guaranteed to be a crowd that would provide for an entertaining evening. After the previous night's successful gathering, I knew it would be possible to create something fun, as long as we had the right ingredients. If Richie was willing to play and sing for us, I knew a crowd would gather and we would have a good night. Richie was indeed amiable to playing and with that, we sat ourselves down on the couch, beer in hand.

Naturally, people came to join us. Some were friends from the previous night, others were new and were looking to share in our conversations. Eventually, Richie sought out his guitar and when he returned, he was ready to play for us. Finding a tall stool and arranging himself comfortably, he began to play. It was a small area, so his voice carried easily around the room. It was still early in the evening and there were many people hanging about the common area. There were groups checking in, heavy packs still on their backs. One or two people were checking their email in the corner with the computers. A few others were chatting idly as they waited for a friend or were just relaxing. Many paused and listened for a moment or two before continuing on their way, but a few stayed for a while.

Then, Richie launched into Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah. For the next seven minutes, as he sang the verses and choruses of the poetry, every one was quiet. The crowd that had been busy was now still, stopped dead in their tracks, arrested by the words and the music. Computers sat idle as their users' attention was diverted. For those seven minutes, a room full of strangers were quietly joined in spirit. It was only when his voice faded, did people return from where ever the song had taken them and back to their tasks.

Intermission: Kebabs at the Kebab House Rules. If ever there was an international food, kebabs would be it. So good.

The night was well into its prime by now, but not yet old enough to pass on. Returning to his stool, our Australian busker treated us to more music before passing the guitar on, happy to share. It was picked up by a man born in Toronto, but who had lived his life in Spain. He spoke very little English, but was eager to strum on the guitar for a while. Working his way through Hotel California, we worked our way through our libations.

A man walked into the hostel. Well into the latter part of his life. He was soft spoken, and well seasoned. He wore a faded tweed jacket and clothes that had seen many miles, but were well sewn and would see many more miles. It was easy to see he had, also seen many miles, but was not at all faded. With shaggy grey hair and stubble he carried himself like a man who had seen much and was slow to judge. He checked in, then joined our circle, eager to play his harmonica and sing with Richie. I learned his name was Jan Williams and he had spent 30 years hoboing around the U.S. He grew up in Norway and had a place in the northern islands now, but I never did learn why he was in Oslo. It didn't seem to matter though, he was here and was a friend for the evening. As the guitar found itself back into the hands of its owner, Jan had sat down and began to play. For a while, he and Richie sang the blues, and we listened.

Again the guitar changed hands, first to Jan then to the Spanish man. Each took a turn playing and singing a little. The simple joy of making music and sharing was enough. The guitar was in the hands of the Spaniard, who played lovingly, when the man from Gambia entered. He was another man who had seen many miles and been to many places. He spoke little English and was dressed in a rich purple, traditional robe. A matching cap sat neatly on the top of his head. I don't know how the three of them communicated, neither the Spaniard nor the Gambian man spoke much English, but some how they communicated and they began to play and sing in harmony. Jan had removed a cooking pot from his bag and was tapping out a rhythm to match the Spaniard's. From the three of them came the music of Miles Davis in true jazz fashion. Impromptu and improvised.

This was my night.

Letting the crowd come, July 16

The hostel in Oslo had a small lounge area, but it was part of the open space that also contained the reception and the T.V. Music was usually playing in the background, often battling with the T.V. for auditory supremacy. None the less, there were always people around, drinking from the bar, using the computers, or otherwise hanging about.

The coveted place though, was a spot on the large, arced couch. Occupying a spot here placed you in the middle of everything. With the intention of meeting people, I sat myself down and looked for a likely victim who might indulge me in conversation. It was still early and the only people close were two German girls who were sitting quietly, but after a couple failed attempts to start a conversation, I returned to my book. I remained seated, there wasn't anywhere else I particularly wanted to be and I did not have any desire to hide out in my room, nor was I in the mood to wander the city any further. I had spent the day on the waterfront, some distance from the hostel. Reading alone, but surrounded by people was my preference, for the moment.

I had read very few pages before a Swedish man sat down and began speaking to me. I obliged happily, he was older and not nearly as cute as the German girls, but he was interesting to talk to. Like the man I had met in Lillehammer, he was traveling through to northern Norway by motorcycle and was looking to get out of the rain for a couple days. At least he ended up staying there for a couple days, I am not sure how long he intended to stay. We chatted for some time, from one topic to another, with one beer to another.

Empty beer bottles began to collect on the table, it seems alcohol is always the precursor to any sort of gathering. We were joined by some young lads who had been skateboarding and were quite ready for a rest. Two of them were from Stockholm, like the man traveling on his motorcycle, and the third lad was a Parisian. They were in town to make a skate video of some sort and were sponsored by various companies.

The German girls were content to stay and, to my surprise, participate in the conversation. I think though, much of their participation was due to the charismatic Australian man who joined us. I learned he had spent the last 7 months living in Ireland, busking for the post-bar pedestrians (read: very drunk Irish) and was now traveling a little throughout Europe. His singing and guitar playing were sufficient to finance not only his travels and accommodations, but it was enough that he was able to save up a very large nest egg for his eventual return home. He later confided in me how much he had been able to save, let me just say it was enough for me to be quite jealous and wish I had the ability to sing (read: sing well) and to play an instrument. I suppose it is up to all of us to find that talent we love and use it constructively. Maybe not to be rich, but at least to find some measure of happiness.

The night passed easily as the crowd that had gathered grew and dwindled, as the conversations ebbed and flowed. I found it to be a nice alternative to spending a night out in a club or bar. For once, I was not wading through cigarette smoke and straining to hear people speak.

Hungry for Paper, July 16

I was craving a book. I needed to read. My conversations with Guro rekindled that desire to devour written words, pages at a time, until my eyes hurt and my mind forces me to quietly ponder new perspectives and ideas. Buying a book though, can often be an overwhelming and trying experience for me. Presented with choices numbering in the thousands, I often leave a book store empty handed, unable to decide on one book that I feel I have connected with. Today though, I was on a mission.

In any major city, there will always be more than one book store that will have an English section. In Oslo there were several and I easily found one with a large section devoted to my native tongue. I quietly perused the selections, letting my eyes rest on the spines of the books, contemplating author and title. Atwood, Ondaanje, Hosseini, Herbert. Celebrated and acclaimed authors, some I have read, others I will read later, and of course there were those I wished to reread. For a long while, I stood, randomly selecting sections to read titles, until a name became clear to me. Coehlo.

Coehlo, the author of The Alchemist, perhaps the most personally inspiring book I have chance to read. The Alchemist was given to me by my friend, Nadya, just as I was leaving Ottawa for my adventure. Although a small book and simply written, it reverberated through me as I placed myself in the story. I would happily read more of what this man had thought to pen, perchance there would be more inspiration to be drawn from his books.

From the book store's selection, I chose two books that intrigued me the most. A novel about madness, accepting it, and living in a world that strives for normality (Veronica Decides to Die), and a collection of Coehlo's thoughts, essays, and short stories (Like the Flowing River). Indeed both these titles gave me much to reflect upon. The former led me to be more accepting of the little bits of crazy we all have, hidden or not, and the later influenced my decision to be more faithful in keeping my journal up to date and to allow myself more freedom to express my thoughts. Some of those thoughts will remain in those journals and it will be many years before I allow them to be seen by curious eyes. Others, I suppose I will freely express as I feel necessary.

All in due time though.

Platonic is an Ugly Word, July 14

Do you remember what your mother told you when you were little; Never judge a book by its cover? Every once and a while we get a reminder to the truth of this. Mine came, not as real surprise, but as an interesting addition to my previous observations.

After a day of doing very little and accomplishing almost nothing (it was raining and I was tired), I went over to the Princess of Culinary Delights for dinner. Since we had met, she had divulged some personal details that were, I hesitate to say surprising, but were definitely unexpected. Of course, you will want to know what they are, but I think in the interest of tact and respect, I will leave you guessing. Well, just so I am not a complete jerk, I will give this up: Princess of Fashion and Style is also a law student. Yes fellas, I can arrange introductions.

Onto my original point then. When I got to her place, one of the things that caught my attention was the floor to ceiling bookshelf overflowing with books. This was actually the fourth thing in the list of attention grabbing items. The first was the amount of her shoes I had to climb over just to get in the door, but after shopping with her, I wasn't particularly surprised by this.

As I perused the books, I was surprised at the number of authors and titles I recognized, and by the number of books I had read. For some one who was the first person I met in my travels beyond Canada and a random introduction at that, we certainly had a lot more in common than I had anticipated. We lost the evening discussing the things that interested us and recommending books to each other until neither one of us could stand any more tea and our yawns became frequent. By the time I reached my hostel and was in bed, the sun was coming up.

Leaving Los Rena, July 13

With the morning came the obligatory hangover which, admittedly, could have been a lot worse. I was some how smart enough to hydrate myself during the night and the effects of the alcohol withdrawal were somewhat mitigated. Jo Ann wasn't quite so prudent. Neither one of us felt much like moving though or at least moving quickly. By the time either of us had rolled out of our beds, it was well past noon. God bless our inn keeper and his 2pm check out time.

As we began the arduous process of packing our bags, Jo Ann realized she didn't have her camera and had no idea where she could have lost it. I had a vague notion it could be at the bar, but neither of us could remember using it there. Although she was concerned she had lost it, she didn't seem able to muster up the energy to get too worked up over the potential loss.

Bags packed, we left for the lobby and our gracious host who didn't seem to be in nearly as rough shape as he should have been after having to get up at 6am. He readily agreed to watch our bags for us as we opted to hunt for the camera and maybe get a little bit to eat.

The camera was indeed at the pub, but our memories were still fuzzy and we weren't sure how it got there. I still had that odd recollection of seeing it on our table. We had to wait to get back to the hotel to use Jo Ann's lap top before we could see the photos and whatever damning evidence may be on it, the screen on the camera was broken.

As we flipped though the photos, we laughed at the highlights of the previous evening. The video of the kid driving his POS Citroen or whatever while playing his 50 Cent excessively loud as he drove around the block repeatedly gave us a chuckle. Nothing like a skinny white kid driving daddy's grey sedan through the main street of The Middle of No Where, Norway while listening to his hardcore, gansta rap. Small fish, my friend, very small pond.

We particularly enjoyed the photos of us and the hotel baron as he and I were involved serious discourse. We eagerly showed him the photos, as we sat in the hotel lounge, he said he was as equally oblivious to the camera man as I was. Finally, coming to the end of our photographic and video record, we were ready to view the file that had piqued our curiosity the most. The last file on the camera was a video file. Neither one of us had any idea what was on this video nor did we know who was the artist. Well, imagine my surprise when I heard my own voice in a drunken monologue describing our night out, the surrounding area, the proximity of our hotel, then exclaiming "VIVA LA NORWAY". This is why one should not do shots of tequila.

Since Jo Ann's train wasn't leaving until 5pm, I had to stay in town until 5pm. It was just as well though, according to our city guide and accommodations provider, there was a bus leaving at 5pm that would be cheaper than the train to Oslo. It was only around 3pm at this point so we had a couple hours spend. Jo Ann decided she had lost the will to live and spent the time in sleepy bliss on the couch. I watched Young Guns. Do you think they could have found a worse actor than Emilio Estevez to play Billy the Kid? Thankfully Kiefer was there to lessen my suffering.

My quota for western movies filled for at least the next little while, I tried to shake Jo Ann into this dimension. Eventually she returned from where she was, presumably a place far more comfortable than consciousness. She was a little irritated at me, she could have slept for at least another 15 minutes. I thought that was pretty insensitive of her, she didn't just sit through Estevez badly overact a ruthless, adolescent gunslinger.

Truthfully, I thought it would take her a lot longer than it did for her to get packed and ready to go, then for us to get to the tracks. After her train came and we said our goodbyes, I was left to wait for my bus. I had only about 10 minutes to wait, but I decided to check the schedule that was posted at the bus station next to me. It took me up until that point to realize that Rutebillenstajon was the bus station. Unfortunately, the bus to Oslo was at 15:00. 5pm and 15:00 are not the same, I guess I should have checked the schedule for myself before then. At least there was a train leading to Oslo that was suppose to come within minutes of Jo Ann's train.

I found a couple army conscripts that were waiting for that train as well, but before long we had decided the train simply was not coming and we would have to take the next one at 7pm (1900). There was only one obvious way to pass the time, at the pub. I nursed that beer for a very, very long time. I never did learn the names of the lads, but I did find out a bit about them and there lives.

Every Norwegian man has to do military service for at least a year, I think. These two were stationed at the base just outside of Rena, on security detail. It was a pretty boring post by the sounds of things. They weren't particularly excited to be there, even if they did get to carry big guns all day and shoot their automatic weapons at the range once a week. They were on their way home to Bergen, which is in the west coast and about 7 hours by train from Oslo. The older of the two boys was 23 and was about to be the father of a baby girl. He was on his way home to be with his girlfriend, who I am sure is not impressed he was away for so long. The other lad, well, he was around 20 and was just doing his best to pass his time while he had to do his service.

Finally, that time came and we were able to catch the train. One transfer later, I was back in Oslo and civilization.