This is a story of synchronisation of separate circuits, and here end my efforts at consonance in s.
The saga begins in early May, at the aptly named Sagavoll Folkehøgskole in the small town of Gvarv, Norway, where I had been a student since late August the previous year. This had been a year of joy, new experiences and friendship, but after only eight short months this idyllic time was coming to a close. Around this time every year there is the familiefest; a feast to which all the families of all the students are invited in order to celebrate the past school year. Naturally, I communicated the date well in advance to my patient (that’s sarcastic) parents so that they could plan the beginning of our Scandinavian cycling trip around it. What a good and helpful son.
Fast forward a bit and now, a few days before “le grand départ” of my France-based family, I discover by chance in a casual conversation with Cecilie over lunch that the familiefest is in fact not the 15th of May, but the 11th. Oops. My relatives quickly become rather rushed and wrathful – gone is the helpful, trusted filial correspondent, fast replaced with the fickle, irresponsible and unreliable child who cannot be trusted with the least of chores. My position drops from a distant ideal son (Norway is sufficiently far from France to blur reality) in my parents’ eyes, but my fall is in the opposite direction in the eyes of the fraternal litter who so very sadly no longer have drive to cycle in Denmark on the way and must instead putter around Copenhagen looking at museums and talking statues. There’s always a silver lining after all.
Luckily all grievances are (mostly) forgotten and forgiven by the time my 0th cousins and their parents (my 0th cousins once removed) rock up at Sagavoll on the 10th of May, having battled their way through transport issues of all varieties. Soon set up in their luxurious appartments, I give them the tour and after a little cleaning duty (for me, not for them) we indulge in such excesses as spikeball, table tennis and board games with various others of the Sagavolliens (as Samuel calls them).
The next day is party time; dances, singing, shows, and speeches precede a delicious stew and after much socialisation, snacking and a series of posed and unposed photos, the day draws to an end and one by one the families retreat to the homes whence they came, burdened with bursting car boots brimming with personal belongings to be taken home at last – all except one family who like it so much they decide to stay. Over the next couple of days multiple people ask me if my family is staying until the end of the year; “It’s perfectly fine, but are they?”
Luckily they do eventually decide to leave after a couple of days, and I am left to continue the neverending task of writing a personal message in everyone’s yearbook; at 15-30 min a book I am seriously behind schedule!
Finally the last night comes; my room is cleaned, cleared and devoid of both my and Sjur’s presence – this last night we will be sleeping in the gymnasium in the main building, or at least in my case, not sleeping at all. I spend the whole night (literally) writing in yearbooks, packing, playing Sagaball and table tennis, running (I got restless shortly after sunrise) and dying (I was killed (in play) and transported to Severin’s bed where I lay briefly before being revived), and all too soon morning came, and people started to leave.
It took a while
Tears came eventually as Sandrr
[… predictably, Sascha never finished this post so it is published as is. -ed …]