When we travel we always seem to think about what others have seen or said about a place. The picture postcards of the past or the blogs of now. It’s difficult not to impose our expectations or historical presuppositions on experience. And yet travel, too, is just the everyday: A good pillow; a stomach ache or a hankering for a glass of wine before dinner. Questions as tiny as ‘When will the next coffee be?’ And ‘How long will it take to get to Stavern?’ Sometimes it’s best to resist squishing a place into what we think it should be and just let it be what it is: Board-and-batten red houses like my own studio, the Poet Station; two longtime friends speaking Norwegian on a bench near a harbor; your husband’s face, tired and handsome on a train going south.
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