In the years since I last posted here, a lot of new features were added to my life. That navy blue eyed sunnmøringer I mentioned before became my husband. We celebrated our wedding with our family and friends deep in the best part of his home region, a tiny village on the shores of Hjørundfjord. As we said our vows, our infant son lay sleeping strapped to the chest of my college friend's husband.
When we returned to Oslo, it was to our brand-new apartment that we had just moved into a few weeks before. As a new build, it didn't come with so much as a lightbulb or a closet, and since we moved in early May it was months before we realized we really needed more lamps. The boxes I'd packed up in February when I moved from my studio apartment took almost a year to unpack. By that time I was heavily pregnant with our daughter, who joined our family three summers ago. Last year I applied to be a Norwegian citizen, which was approved only three hours after I delivered the required documentation to the immigration directorate.
Since then, I've tried to write a post saying I've finally found my home, since it seems that with all the family happiness one could hope for and a country that has welcomed me as a citizen, I must have a home now. Something has never quite felt right about where we live though. It's brand new, bright, and as city apartments go it is spacious, but we bought it before there was even the dream of children in our lives. Those children continue to need more and more equipment- helmets and skis and skates and LEGO bricks galore and sixteen varieties of outdoor clothing, all of which has become harder and harder to store in this space.
But mostly, I've had this feeling of something being missing, that something I had in abundance when I lived in Iceland. I miss seeing the weather sweeping across the sky, I miss taking a moment from my work to look out the window and remember where it is I live, the place that still makes me weep when I spend a morning skiing alone in the majestic trees. I miss being able to see the tiny changes in the landscape as spring unfolds, to smell the earth waking up as the snow melts. I miss the quiet of an early morning and the space to see sunset skies.
So, yesterday we put this place on the market. We bought a house a month ago in what seems like a remarkably spur-of-the-moment decision in retrospect. We'd both agreed it was time to return to our roots as small-town people and in the absence of any other activities available during the Easter week, we did day trips around the Oslo area. One town really struck us as the perfect balance of coziness and connectivity to the city, access to necessary services and the nature I crave in abundance. We did a search for properties available and found the kind of house I've always loved from afar here, expecting that it was just not the kind of home within my reach. My practical father-in-law read through the inspection report, a process I expected to reveal the fatal flaws of the hundred year old house, but all he did was make approving noises. New roof, new windows, properly drained foundation, replaced electricity and insulation.
We went to see the place and I did my best to conceal my immediate love of the sweeping staircase, the double doors opening out to the majestic view of fjord and sky, the upstairs conservatory with even more of the glorious view. But my husband knew how I felt when he saw my face, and he saw all the potential such a home could offer too. A week later, the place was ours.
Since then, I've had several rounds of panic over this sudden change of life plans, but somehow every potential hiccup has been smoothed out. We found a delightful new daycare/school for the children that had space despite us applying outside the main enrollment period. We have visited the town multiple times and explored the charming boardwalk area and downtown. We found where everyone goes for ice cream on sunny days, and beachcombed on the rocks of the beach that's a few hundred meters from the new home. We even got a chance to introduce the children to the house, where my son gravely asked where he would be washing his hands when he got home from daycare. My daughter has spent the days we have visited introducing everyone to her favorite dress and generally spreading the sunshine she has become famous for.
And now that the hardest part of preparing our current place for sale is over, I'm starting to allow myself to dream of mornings drinking coffee as I watch morning develop over the fjord, of afternoons gardening in my own yard while my son digs in his sand box, of my daughter riding her bicycle to the sweet park a few blocks from the house. I want to cook meals together with my husband in our seaview kitchen, invite friends to the terrace for cake and coffee. I'm ready to be home.
