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November 26, 2002
norwegian wood
In my closeted, paranoid mind, Norway seemed to be the safest place to go out and test the waters of the gay lifestyle. Twenty years old, I had spent the first part of that summer in Germanyís Black Forest studying intensive forestry management practices and technique. The rest of the summer was spent ìdoing Europeî with my Eurail pass. Amsterdam, London, Stockholm, Switzerland and everything in between.
I fumbled my way around Oslo and finally found ìDen Enke Sorteî ñ The Black Widow bar. It was the same as all the other gay bars I had seen that summer across Europe. Martha Wash was belting out through all the disco speakers in the Black Box tune ìStrike It Upî usually followed up by The K.L.F. track ì3 a.m. Eternalî. ìMove Every Mountainî by the Shamen will also take me back to that time.
Norway was funny, because everyone there looked like everyone from my hometown in Western Wisconsin. I spotted a brown-eyed man with a mouse-colored flattop propped up against a cushioned booth across the room. Masculine and rugged like I already knew I liked them, he wasnít like the other gyrating, slim boys on the dance floor. My Blue Collar senses were already in effect, as later my suspicions were confirmed. Kurt was a postman.
At the encouragement of an older gentleman who had taken up cheerleading for the union of Kurt and myself, I managed to get home with the guy. European apartments were so, well, European in style and design. Spartan, angled, muted colors, neatness. The rack of books on his shelf appeared to be some kind of series. Kurtís English wasnít too good, and I had no grasp of Norwegian, but I managed to figure out it was a series of mystery novels where the protagonist investigator always possessed psychic powers. CoolÖthis guy was kind of a geek. Always a plus in my book, even at that point in my life.
He had cable radio, which was soo modern. I had never heard of it before, but we listened to classic American ballads all night and into the next day. We had a lovely Scandanavian smorgasbord for breakfast, with fish spread and other gooey delights.
I told him about the rest of my trip, where I was looking for the home of my ancestors. He suggested going to the village of the same name as my grandmothersí maiden name, a few days away by train. The route would take me through Otta and Lillehammer. Hitchhiking along the final leg of the route, I would never taste a better roadside raspberry in my life.
It was a cinematic good-bye at the train station, I was crying as my car pulled away. A few days later when I reached my destination, I would eventually be struck by a fever from lack of rest and good food. The fever eventually broke, but my feelings for Kurt would remain for the rest of the summer. It was the first time I could account for actual feelings towards someone, the first time I was actually able to say I was gay.
Posted by jimbo at November 26, 2002 4:55 PM
Comments
I so wanted to fall in love with a man when I lived in Europe...but I was too afraid. I tip my hat to you.
Posted by: Michael at November 26, 2002 2:10 PM
Well, does a 48-hour period of smittenness count as love? It was a start, anyway.
Posted by: jimbo at November 26, 2002 2:52 PM
I guess that is my problem! What I meant to say was have sex with a man...what I said was fall in love. Kind of explains my sex antics.
Posted by: Michael at November 26, 2002 5:59 PM