Quick quotes from the Traveling Parents before we pass the torch to our eldest worldschooler who is extremely passionate about exploring and writing:
“Every secret of a writer’ soul, every experience in his life, every quality of his mind, is written large in his works.” – Virginia Woolf
You got this, kyvelo! – Turknoy Parents
Saturday, May 5, 2019; 8:00 AM.
The night before, Mom had mentioned something among the lines of waking up at 4:00 AM, and had even went as far as planting the bloody phone alarm bomb alongside my bed. Protest had been on the tip of my tongue, although I hadn’t mustered the courage to do so.
As much as this fact had threatened my usual sleep-stocked slumber, I had slept soundly nevertheless. I had managed to pry my eyes open to what I thought had been four hours of sleep, when Mom bludgeoned through the unfortunate door; halting in her tracks as I allegedly “slept” on, completely unnerved. I had been semi-conscious at the time, so I hadn’t completely deceived mother dear. Mutinously mumbling, Mom trudged back through the door, which much to my surprise, had managed a piteous “click”, as she shut it behind her.
I squirmed beneath my sheets, partially due to the psychotic steam that had practically originated from myself, as well as the fact that I had started envying my former frozen self the day before.
Fast forward, although not too much so as to deprive Mom of precious “reflection”; I had been seated at the dining table a few minutes ago, where I had went through the usual territorial dish disputes; which hadn’t been much use since Dad had knowingly distributed accordingly, wary to the single grain.
Kim had decided to grace us with his bed-headed presence shortly after I had finished, although soon enough he wasn’t far behind.
We arrived at Oslo Central Station pink-faced and breath deprived, tapping for the troublesome tickets furiously, for the train had been due to leave in the next six minutes. As soon as I had stepped foot on the train, it had heaved and huffed, gradually gaining speed as we sped through the greenery. We stumbled through the numerous occupied seats; the occupants of which made noises remarkably like the exasperated huffs originating from the train itself.
Speeding through luscious lakes, and fanciful foliage, the train rocked here and there, lulling me into a dream-lavished snooze of which I had debated on whether this infamous “Lillehammer” really had anything to do with hammers at all.
I clenched my teeth as another ear-piercing ring rang through the air. I had woken a few minutes ago, and had fruitlessly been screwing my eyes tight, in hopes of returning to thoughts of mjolnir.
The two hour train ride had finally screeched to a stop. The staff door swung open, revealing the person I guessed was the conductor. I narrowed my eyes begrudgingly, as I couldn’t find a reason as to why a grown man was in need to “toot, toot!” every five minutes. I stepped off the train all too gladly, skipping the way to Lillehammer.
That is, until I had caught sight of exactly how steep their roads, as well as their pavements were. You attempt skipping on a surface where the tiniest nudge would make it perfectly acceptable as a wall.
Map at hand, we marched up up up, family members overlapping family members; desperate for the front position, desperate for the valid excuse of “waiting” for the rest.
“Museum”. My heart skipped a beat as I saw those letters peek out of the green landscape that my skin tone had done a remarkable job of mimicking. I stumbled towards the building, eyes bulging as a bus sped past. Nostrils flared, I huffed as we stepped into the museum.
“I suppose it was worth it.” I thought grudgingly, although I dare not say it out loud in fear of being accused of sucking up. Dad drawled on about the Vikings in the 1800’s in custody of practically nothing, whilst I fought the urge to roll my eyes. Nothing, huh? An enormous expanse of green stretched as far as the eye could see, shades of mint, lime, and emerald dotted here and there. Houses clustered just above the crystal lake, although it wasn’t difficult so as to imagine it’s former pre-beach-house beauty.
I pressed a palm against the spruce-like wood the cabins consisted of, breathed the scent of worn wood. Mom had teased about taking care of time portals, although now I had the strange urge to seek one out. A river rushed nearby, it was ridiculously accessible.
Seeing, smelling, and feeling things that had such stories behind them was simply indescribable. I’m not a lazy writer, so I don’t say that to the advantage of a decrease of words, which the previous extremely detailed paragraphs should hold proof of.
I had LITERALLY trotted through time today, from Viking abodes, to the perfect, prim, and proper peoples and places of the following decades; I had thoroughly enjoyed the adventures today had held, as well as Lillehammer itself. The architectural astonishment, and the historical heaven I had experienced the moment I took my last excruciating step uphill had been one of the most memorable; despite the lack of hammers.