Fast forward, I’m standing still

Every Sunday morning I lie in bed and do absolutely nothing until my back gets stiff and tells me it is time to move. Even though I dream of eggs and bacon and the blackest black coffee, my kitchen is always empty and I leave the house empty.

And then I start walking. Somewhere along the way I get a coffee, and continue walking to whatever sounds my iPod chooses for me. Today I was exceptionally happy with its choices. Last Sunday I walked East and South, today it was West and North. If not along the Hudson River, at least parallell to it, exploring every little corner of Tribeca. And every Sunday I am amazed by the places I find, that I haven’t seen before, even though I’ve been here for months. The boutiques and cafés spring out from nowhere, the choices are endless. When I reach one of the many city parks, randomly placed at a cross roads, Neutral Milk Hotel’s "Oh Comely" is the perfect choice for watching the pigeons fluff their feathers to protect themselves from the cold wind. And then I walk again. Past the boutiques, past the warehouses and then to boutiques again. After a good hour of walking, I turn around and go back.

Even though choices are limitless, for Sunday brunch it is one out of two. Petit Aubelle today. Tin-Tin, eggs and coffee. And I rediscovered Paul Auster, the New York trilogy this time. Chapter two of City of Glass is the perfect second chapter. Poor Peter Stillman.

And now, I’m back where I started. In bed, doing nothing, but this. Waiting to share my solitary Sunday with solitary friends, and a dash of Brazilian jazz.  

I’m sitting in my bed a Saturday night. Flannel pyjama pants and a long sleeved t-shirt. Socks. I have my comforter doubled-over on top of me. Still, my fingers are icicles when I type. And it’s not even winter yet. Maybe my friend was right - I must be the coldest Norwegian in history.

See, Norwegians aren’t supposed to feel cold. That is the one thing foreigners know about the country - that it’s freezing cold up there. I hate to tell them that they’re wrong, but my town never gets as cold as New York can get in the winter. (Can I dispel one more myth? Real viking helmets don’t have horns.) On the other hand, both me and the Chinese fish merchant at Jubilee can vouch for Norwegian fish being the best in the world.

I don’t know why I’m so cold. I don’t think exposure necessarily makes you more tolerant. I’ve seen Indians sweat and complain more in the heat than I do, and I never really questioned that. Or perhaps I just haven’t had cold weather for two years now.

I’m not complaining about the change in season. I like being able to bring out my winter coat and my boots, even if it means foregoing pretty summer dresses and sandals. And even if it means sweating like a pig 30 minutes twice a day on the New York subway. (And at the same time shivering away all day thanks to the AC at work). Oh, and the colds! The coughs and the sneezes and the cracked lips.

But, no, I’m not complaining. The cold weather gives me an excellent excuse to spend Friday and Saturday nights inside, watching movies and drinking wine. The wine warms me on the inside, while I can put my hands under his shirt and warm my icicle fingers on his back. And when he’s gone I put on a giant sweat shirt and sleep the rest of the cold day away, dreaming of Christmas and ginger bread men. On the weekends I am the warmest Norwegian.