A week has passed since the unimaginable atrocities occurred in Oslo. I haven’t been able to post anything on Facebook or Twitter since it happened. I’ve been experiencing a constant feeling of nausea. I haven’t been able to focus. I’ve been silent. I have never, in fiction or reality, come across such unbearable evil, such repellent cruelty and disgraceful cowardice. Not to speak of the perverted nationalism.
I lived in Oslo for ten years, I call it my second home. Apparently I lived not far away from the terrorist. Oslo is a small town. We might have bought groceries at the same store; we might have gone to the same bar (unlikely though, as you don’t really see that many smug west end boys in Lacoste t-shirts at the rock’n’roll bar Last Train), we might also have been sitting next to each other in a cable car. I shiver just thinking about it.
For many years I worked at Norli, the unique, wonderful bookstore close to Karl Johan Street, and I can’t help wondering, with disgust, if we might even have sold him some questionable books that added fuel to his twisted, sick mind. I remember we had some weird customers who ordered obscure stuff, just as any bookstore. Scary thought.
Oslo is where I have many of my best friends. The morbid terrorist attack a week ago has scarred all of us, and I can’t wait to see my Norwegian friends again and heal our wounds together at Last Train with cold (ridiculously expensive) beer, cool rock music & heartwarming stories from all the good and bad times in that other city by the bay, Oslo.