A man was running around in the restaurant with a cd. He found the personell, explained and gesticulated. Then the song "Happy birthday to you" was screaming out in the restaurant in a foreign language. Almost everyone in the restaurant started to sing along. The man went over towards a boy with a cake and some candlelights. The boy smiled. People cheered. The man with the cd and cake was even more energetic.
This hotel was full of tourists that came from a country far south. They travelled to see how the north looked like. They wandered in and out of the hotel in thick scooteroutfit and helmets. Snowscooters was parked outside to show them a glimpse of Northern wilderness.
They were many. And they talked very much. And loud. They were so different. From the personell with the silent, Arctic temperament.
We sat at the table, tired and hungry. It was strange. To come into this new country with the silent people. Who served the travelling, energetic people.
Then "Happy birthday" screamed again. In the same, foreign language. And within our dessert, the song came out loud even a third time. The man with the cd and cakes jumped around. People shouted happily. They were so many in the restaurant, that three of them could have birthday at the same evening. The personell watched them silently from the wall.
The next morning.
The air outside the hotel was freezing, just as the northern, interior climate should be. Light snow descended slowly. The car had been kept warm all night from an engineheater. I could see it was too heavy at the back. The luggage was filled up both inside the car and in the trailer behind. I moved around some of the most heavy luggage, managed to balance the weight.
The car started happily. The snow squeeked under the tires as we started to move. Then we were out on the road again. Found the even pace, mile after mile.
We didnt want to feel it. The pain. All the fuzz. Quitting our jobs. Finding new ones. We sold our house at the fjord. Bought a new one in the south. Carried and carried the luggage to transport it to a new destination. We moved. Not because we wanted. But because we had to.
Some friends of us organized a farewell dinner party the evening before. We tried to make the leave-taking as quick as possible. Nothing else to do. We left this place up north in the Arctic. To move south. Far south. But we didnt want to feel the pain.
A truck came out in the road in front of us. It was loaded with thimber. Large amounts of snow whirled up behind it. I slowed down. Couldnt see much. We went out of this foreign country. And into another. The road got broader. The traffic more tight. But the truck was still there in front of us. Hour after hour. It was like a demon that leaded the way, further and further down south.
It got darker. The weather got warmer. The road was covered with salt, to melt the snow away. Black snow and salt sticked to the front window. The wiper tried as best as it could to throw it away. More trucks appeared into the road. Everyone big. Everyone driving quite slow. And everyone whirling up great amounts of mud and dirt.
She was silent, sitting beside me. Sometimes she stroked her hand over her belly. My back was aching. My eyes were burning. I couldnt almost see the road. Still, there was nothing else to do, but to follow the trucks, further on south.