new season

Autumn's in full swing in my new home, a season I used to love, but then started to dread in Iceland with the extreme rains September almost always brought. Here it's still that kind of weather I love- cool and foggy in the morning, then burning off to crisp sunny afternoons.

A few days ago, I went for a long trek in "our" forest. Although I'm familiar with the boundaries of this 5x7 kilometer swath of forest after the past few months of weekly explorations, I'm constantly discovering new interconnecting paths. I took one that ultimately delivered me to one of my favorite places there, a small mountain hut overlooking a wide tree-filled valley. This is one of the most populous regions of Norway, but the strategic clusters of trees and contours of the landscape all but obliterate human evidence from the view in this one special spot. Three kilometers as the crow flies from my door, and I'm sitting on a sun-warmed rock with only the sound of wind and birds in the trees. This is why I'm here.

On the way back, I passed some forgotten apple trees, so I pocketed a few of the best-looking prospects, and chose a final one to eat as I descended the hill. Another reason I'm here came to me as I bit into the perfect flesh, crisp, bright white, and that perfect, elusive appley balance of sweetness and tartness. The kind of apple I haven't had for years, and here every other yard seems to hang heavy with the season's plenty. Apple crisp for dessert that evening.

It's not all totally perfect here, as is the case anywhere. Sometimes I have this moment of suspended animation when I don't feel like I belong anywhere, to anything or anyone. I think of where I might be otherwise or what my life might have been if I'd never left. Would I feel more rooted, grounded? Would I be happier? Of course, a few moments later my breath catches at the beautiful shifting light here, I think of how I'm meeting my new friends soon, or that S is coming home in a few hours, and all's well again.

I'm learning Norwegian too, and the rhythm of language classes, of worksheets and repeat-after-me CDs of conversations is soothing and fascinating. The new vocabulary I'm learning is at times laughably predictable, a mix of Icelandic and German without all the troublesome verb complications. I've got my bicycle from Germany here, so have been able to cycle to the school on class days. It's a glorious century-old brick school with massive wooden bannisters worn smooth by years of hands sliding up and down. The first time my hand slid along the railing, I was reminded of the wood in the stave church in Heddal. It's a Medieval building where the interior pillars were worn smooth in a way that only can happen after the hands of nearly a thousand years of worshippers have passed over them.

When people ask how life is here, it seems rather boring from the outside after the past few years. I'm not flying between countries constantly, zipping to and fro on trains. Many of the best weekends are spent within a few kilometers of home, but that's why they're so pleasant. The house is properly cozy now, presided over by an antique clock from S's grandmother that ticks comfortingly, generally smelling of delicious cooking, and full of books. It's exactly where I want to be as the air starts to smell heavy with snow and the yellow leaves spiral off the trees.