It’s July 3, 2012, and I’m traveling back home to Norway. I’ve left the Netherlands behind. All around me is chaos: the rhythm of footsteps, carts, suitcases banging against the floor, conveyor belts, and countless televisions displaying flight information. Oslo Gardermoen, the international airport. I’ll be staying here tonight to continue my journey north tomorrow. I’ve hidden my luggage in a quiet spot behind a row of offices that are closed due to the time of day. I unpack my sleeping bag and set up a sleeping area. My bags are between me and the railing, an anti-theft measure. I repack everything I don’t need, and armed with a towel and a toothbrush, I head to the restrooms on the opposite side of the airport’s second floor.
I empty my bladder into the urinal on the wall, wash my hands, then my face, and start brushing my teeth. While I’m brushing, I wander around a bit, and a man comes in. His demeanor speaks volumes, but I see more. The way his skin shines with an oily sheen, his disheveled hair, his careless dress, and above all, the melancholy deep in his azure eyes. An alcoholic, drunk, of course.
I always feel a connection with “the alcoholic.” I don’t judge them too strongly, and I approach them as if nothing is out of the ordinary. So I greet the man, and he greets me. He relieves himself behind closed doors and then comes to wash his hands in the sink next to me, looks at me, and asks where I’m from. A brief introductory conversation follows in English. He’s from Finland and is a tinsmith, a dying profession. Handiwork at great heights, sometimes in the construction and finishing of roofs. A not-so-well-paid job, but good enough to make a living. Especially now that his skills are becoming scarce, which means higher wages.
He asks me where I live, where I’m going, and what I want to do in the future. I tell him about my work in Norway and my farewell to the Netherlands. I also tell him about my dream of having my own business. A place where people in need of peace, tranquility, perhaps some help, or even therapy can go. Where they can work with their hands, with wood, stone, earth, and water, retreat, and reconnect with the world and themselves.
A silence falls, and the man looks at me with that melancholy in his eyes. His demeanor and behavior change from jovial drunk to wounded animal. In the village where he comes from, many people are addicted to alcohol, and a lot of aggression, too, he tells me. With a grim expression, clearly expressing anger and disgust, he tells me about how he, too, was beaten by his father at home. The drunken Finn takes my hand and squeezes it firmly. He looks me straight in the eye, and the melancholy, anger, and disgust suddenly vanish. The passion in his irises radiates a life force normally hidden behind that melancholic aura. He praises me with his words, praises my dream, and tells me I should do everything I can to make it happen. That I’m a good person and that he wishes me everything in the world.
Finally, he adds, “I’m just like my father, but I don’t do it.”