Is I Magen

by Adele Palmer (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

Making a local connection Norway

Sat alone in my top floor flat, draped in a furry blanket, I watched the sleet lash violently against my window panes. I could never get used to February in the UK. Always cold and even though I was born here, I felt that I had my grandparents Caribbean blood running through my veins and I longed for warmer climes. I was idly scrolling through my social media page. There I saw a picture of me, my ex boyfriend and our new found Norwegian friends, on my first skiing trip to Norway in 2017. A smile warmed my body. Time flies. Love and good laughs. Is I magen, the caption read. I reminisced. The dark hills along the skyline, loosely covered with bright white snow were panoramic and beautifully captivating. I managed to glide to a perfect stop, looking down at my ski’s silently praying that they did not interlock and trip me up. I focused my gaze out ahead of me. The frozen sun was attempting to set and it cast an enchanting shadow in the distance, strikingly opposite to the light orange sky and darkening wispy clouds fading towards twilight. The spruce trees, although at times in an isolated position, stood solid, proud in perfect formation. The site of Norefjell was breathtaking. Living in England I had become accustomed to the cold but this was a fresh, crisp and still cold, that felt refreshing and suited its purpose as it was a skiing trip after all. ‘Knees together to slow down,’ Daniel reminded, skiing alongside me stretching out his pole to brace my inevitable fall. ‘Not too much…watch the…’ ‘Arrgh…’ I collided with the wooden hut, knocking down a few skis and poles along the way. I exhaled sharply and for the first time, feeling deflated. This was supposed to be fun. I had now begun to attract somewhat of an audience of Norwegian families politely observing and intrigued by my Caribbean grit. Daniel glided over to me and leant down offering his hand. I took off my ski gloves and rotated my right leg back towards my front and used Daniel’s strength to pull me to an upright position. ‘You have to gently tilt your feet inwards.’ ‘Hmm,’ I sounded. I turned to take a bow and acknowledge my new fans. Whoosh. I turned to my right. He must have been no older than five. A small boy, gracefully sashayed past me with the precision of a professional; expertly tilting his body from side to side to gather speed, then gently tilting his knees inward to a perfect stop. He smiled at me. ‘I can show you.’ He said innocently, proudly and in perfect English. ‘Oh thank you,’ I exclaimed but politely declined. Ten, ten, ten, an image of three judges with perfect scorecards held high entered my mind as the little boy continued to smile at me and then ski off. I shook the thought out of my head. ‘Come on, let’s try over here.’ Daniel pulled me along to a clear patch of snow. There I was, 29 years old, trying to tick some items off the bucket list before my 30th birthday and it was not working. ‘How about I try snowboarding instead,’ I pleaded. ‘No,’ Daniel exclaimed sharply although his patience had been incredibly admirable. ‘How about a drink?’ I widened my eyes and my smile. ‘How about a beer and some of Norway’s finest reindeer?’ ‘How about a rum punch and some reindeer?’ A Norwegian man and his family suggested. ‘Done,’ we laughed. I positioned my ski’s to face forward, and adjusted my sunshades onto my nose as Daniel held my hand and pulled me all the way to changing room. ‘Do you think it will take as long to take the boots off as it did to put on?’ Daniel pulled the ski boot off along with the sock with one firm tug. I reached into the side of my ski jacket pocket and pulled out the ski card and a piece of folded paper. I took a pen from the reception desk in the ski shop and drew a solid black line through, Learn to ski.