"White Nights of Summer" Norway by Faracy

My maternal grandfather was a fiercely proud Norwegian, and lifelong member of Sons of Norway. I never had the slightest interest in going to Norway, and in fact for most of my life didn't want anything to do with my Norwegian heritage. Let's just say fate interceded on my behalf, and ironically on May 17th (exactly two years after my grandfather died) I found a 35 Euro ticket to Oslo.

The following poem might particially explain the strangeness of it all.

Coincidental Saudade
"Me,
Ukrainian-American girl in Spain
staring at the IKEA billboard
in the direction of Portugal
wrote a book of love poems
for a Portuguese man in London
but fell in love with an Englishman
from Russia at its reading

Me,
on a bus towards Granada
now home of said Englishmen away in Russia on vacation,
met a girl from Norway
fresh out of Portugal
who lived in London,
to whom I gave the last copy of my book
before she moved to New York

Me,
Who got inspired one night to go to Norway
17th of May, Two years after Grandpa died, Norwegian Independence Day
found a 35 Euro ticket
Malaga-Oslo-Bergin-Malaga for the middle of July
but didn't know how I'd manage in such an expensive country
for two weeks on limited Euros

Me,
who joked about the IKEA sign sending me subliminal messages
got inspired one night about her secret Norwegian heritage
and two days later encountered a man from my grandfather's city
who I couldn't get out of my mind,
even while staring at a reproduction of Dali's San Francisco
in the bed of an England educated Spaniard
after being awakened by the sound of his Ukrainian cleaning lady
whom I surely had more in common with

Me,
who ended up telling this Norwegian the graphic details of one night stands
and sobbed to him broken-heartedly with unrequited love poems for the Slavophile Brit,
put names in a bowl of water beneath my bed on Sao Antonio's Eve
and woke to find his name floating open on the top
after he "surprised" me with a song he'd made to cheer me up
based on a poem I'd written for someone else

Me,
who wrote morbid letters to the Brit
while on a train across Norway
about fearing I'd need the slums of Lisbon
after this trip
to feel like myself again,

Me,
who wouldn't allow myself to fall in love again
finally fell on a white night
conveniently on his birthday
in his bed, in his city, in his arms
my city I suppose
where I stayed
for nearly two weeks
sleeping the sleep of a child
and feeling more at home then I had in years

Me,
who fell sicker than I had in years upon my return
in a new house without a view of the IKEA sign
but ironically on Calle Ciudad de Sueca "city of Sweden street"
lost all will to live
and though body recovered
mind did not

Me,
who told Alastair the Brit in Granada
about what had occurred
over Russian beer on a park bench outside the hospital
trapped in "Lost in Translation" and "Groundhog's Day"
directed by Werner Herzog
before blowing him a kiss goodbye
and putting him on a train to Barcelona
and back to England
after telling him I lov(ed) him
with a collection of poems

Me,
who found myself in Lisboa one month later
with my mother
but without my soul
could feel nothing but hollow
lighting candles to Sao Antonio and my holy Sao Francisco,
until my last tendon of saudade bid be farewell
with the stars

Me,
sitting on my terrace in Spain
writing in English
about a Portuguese sentiment
for a man in Norway
who I may or may not
ever see
again. "