When I come home to Ålesund, there is always this strange feeling that consists of several that hits me straight in the head and sends me off to some kind of coma I don’t seem to be able to wake up from until the end of whichever vacation I am on. Obviously, I have been missing my family and friends, and can’t wait to see them, and I want to work in my amazing job and want to do everything that I used to do when I was younger, like reading the Harry Potter series on rainy summer days, having ice cream on the pier with my best people and eat Laban Seigemenn and Nonstop in front of a film.
Then it slowly comes creeping, that cold, misty feeling of I don’t want to be here. At all. I want to go back to my crazy, happy, unreal sitcom-life in Falmouth. And the other day, I discovered why.
To me, Ålesund is Azkaban. It feels like some kind of prison where I am not allowed to think any happy or creative thoughts, because the dementors will feed on them and make them seem to me, invalid and ridiculous. Obviously, this is mostly my own fault, and something every sensible person would grow out of, but I haven’t been able to do that yet. Ålesund is just not the place for me. And until I learn to conjure a proper patronus, I will blame the waffle-jacket wearing, right-wing voting, fake-blond-slick-hair, art and culture hating dementors that live here for my misfortunes. Oh, and some of the fire-alarm-button-pushing tourists as well.
And with this I think my blog is re-opened.