17 July
SAS flight 4546: Oslo to Alta. I’m in a window seat. A young feller takes the middle. He’s maybe 13 years old. We take off. The kid pulls out a sketch pad and a pencil. He opens his phone to a photo of a Japanese boy and starts drawing a portrait. He starts with the eyes and works outwards. I’m fascinated; it’s so cool. I’ve been on hundreds of flights and I’ve never seen someone do this on an airplane. This young man is living proof that not every kid is hopelessly addicted to video games.
We begin our descent. I look out the window from 20,000′. I see ocean, lakes and snow capped mountains. The co-pilot comes on the mic and gives a weather report: “Light cloud and a temperature of +13c. A beautiful summer day in Alta”. I smile.
“Will you be much longer?”, the security guard asks me. “We close the airport soon”. I look at my watch. It’s 4pm. Apparently the next flight isn’t until 9pm, so they’re going to lock up the airport for a few hours and go home. “No problem”, I respond. My bike is almost fully assembled. I collect my stuff and move outside to a little patio area to finish up.
19 July, Alta.
I wake up at 2am. The sun is up. It never went down. My bus to the North Cape leaves at 6:40am. The seagulls outside my window have insomnia and won’t shut the fuck up. I roll over and try to get back to sleep but I can’t. I can’t shut off my mind. Thinking about the ride. Thinking about how my panniers are packed. Wondering where I’m going to sleep tomorrow.
That was close! We’d been on the bus about an hour when we pull into a gas station. The driver says something on the PA in Norwegian, shuts of the bus and steps into the parking lot, lighting up a cigarette. 2 punk rock girls with green hair get off, along with a guy so old he looks like he must have been one of the original prototypes when they were designing humans. I figure, ok, this must be a 5 minute break. I go into the gas station to grab a drink, purposely leaving my handlebar bag and helmet in my seat as a visual indication that I’m coming back. I step out of the gas station, cold drink in hand, to see that my bus is now leaving…without me.
I jog up along side and rap on it with my knuckles. The driver stops, opens the door and gives me an indifferent look like, oh, it’s you.
That could have been so bad. Everything I had was on that bus: my passport, my phone, my bike, my clothes. I was pissed. Not at the driver – he’s not my babysitter – but pissed at myself for doing something so stupid. If I had a tattoo gun I would have inked it right onto my forearm then and there: “Never get off the bus!”
2 Canucks in a Tent 