The Fairy Godmother

I sleep badly and wake up at eleven wanting more of it. I’d stay in that bed all day if I could, but I’m afraid of overstaying the checkout, so I get up and pack and get out.

The Airbnb never messages me about checkout. I wonder how long I could have stayed there.

I put my bags in a locker at the bus station and buy the large one when I need the small one, because I don’t realize how deep it is. I’m confused by the measurements. My fault.

On the way I see the woman from the grocery store again.

She’d walked me through her whole country in about four minutes. The brown cheese, the frozen pizza, the chocolates you can only get here. Then she said you’re welcome and went back to her shopping, and I thought, I’ll never see that woman again.

Then I go back for more candy and there she is.

I stop outside to catch her. Hey, I say. Are you the same person?

Yes, she says.

Nice, I say.

And she walks away.

What I wanted to say was, tell me about your life. Who are you. What are you doing. Anything.

I should have done that two days ago, I guess. The chance happened and the chance passed.

Then I go to that beautiful park, and I’m wearing a shirt I love that is dry-clean only and I don’t want to get grass stains on it, so I sleep on a park bench.

And a woman wakes me up.

Her name is Jolene but she goes by Lynn, because customer service people sing at her on the phone.

She wakes me up because I’m sleeping outside and says this is inappropriate behavior. Then she apologizes for getting involved and sticking her nose somewhere. And then she keeps going. Offering to buy my coffee to make up for it.

She’s about forty five. She’d been drinking. She says so. Then I don’t see her drink for two hours and she’s still drunk at the end, so I don’t know what’s going on. She has Zyn pouches and she loves them.

If she was twenty years younger and hotter I would have been in love with her. It’s so whimsical and magical and she’s funny.

She asks me why I’m here by myself.

I say, well, my girlfriend and I broke up.

She says, oh, I’m sorry to hear that.

And I say, we had fun. And it’s over.

And she really likes that answer. She says that’s the exact answer she gives.

Which I think is interesting. How you respond to stuff. There are so many ways to respond, and some of them really resonate with people.

She has no sense of shame.

And I guess that’s a great lesson, because she talks me into going up the mountain with her, on the bigger cable car this time, the one up Ulriken, which climbs about 320 meters higher than the funicular I took yesterday. She can ride it for free. So she gets me to hang out with her by taking me up there. She gets me a $70 ticket to the top of the mountain, and from there we hike.

She lived on top of that mountain for eight months, cooking for the forty men who built the cable car. She was the cook.

Her English is pretty good, actually. She makes good jokes. She says it smells like sheep. Not shit. Sheep. Sheep shit. She makes a joke about a man with wood, and how a man with wood always would.

Her daughter is twenty. Her mother died when she was seventeen. Her father is a world class darts player, and he smokes but he doesn’t drink when he plays. She makes $60,000 a year and pays thirty six percent tax and always gets a refund.

And she keeps telling me how beautiful I am, which is great.

It’s like a fairy godmother comes and says, here’s how to not be scared to talk to people, and you’re really hot. Which I need.

But she talks to everybody the whole time, and almost nobody wants to talk to her.

I don’t think it’s because she’s loud, though she is. I don’t think it’s because she’s cursing, though she is. It’s because she’s an ugly weird older woman and that is what the world does to ugly weird older women. Nothing she says is wrong. Nothing she does is wrong. They just don’t want it.

And parts of me really like her. I wish I talked to people this way. But also it’s like hanging out with my dad, who tries to talk to everyone, and I’m so embarrassed by it, because it is just off.

But every once in a while somebody really likes it. I guess if you just keep shooting, someone will be down.

She asks for my Snapchat. A forty five year old woman. I cannot believe someone is asking me for a Snapchat. I try to explain it to her. Nobody’s Snapchatting. Snapchatting is for children. Having a Snapchat is a red flag. I would come to learn that everyone in Norway Snapchats all the time. Grandmas are out here snapping with their grandkids.

She takes photos of me nonstop. It’s very cute and also very cringe. She won’t let me take one of her.

She’s an idiot in parts. She lived up there eight months, and I say the trail goes this way, and she says no, we have to go that way, and I say no, I don’t think so, and she says what are you talking about, I’ve lived here. And I say, I know it sounds arrogant, but I’m pretty sure it’s this way. And then there’s a sign that completely validates me, and she refuses to interpret the sign correctly. And then she admits I was right once we get back on the trail. I tell her, watch out for the mud. Then she steps right in the mud.

At the end we’re on the mountain and we’re going to get a burger with that view, and she says no, don’t do it here, this is overpriced and it isn’t that good. Go down to this restaurant. They’ll have a great fish soup.

Okay, I say. I’ll do that then.

She has somewhere to be. She’s been avoiding it the whole time. Her friends are waiting on her to help move something in advance of winter. One of them calls her and asks where she is, and she makes up some excuse and turns back to me and keeps hanging out. She does this for hours. Then finally she goes.

We say it was nice to meet you and we share a hug.

And then I go to the restaurant she sent me to, and it is exactly the same price as the place on top of the mountain with the view, and they don’t have a fish soup. They don’t even make it. I get a Thai green curry in Norway. Instead of the fresh salmon and halibut soup from the mountaintop.

She sends me a message on WhatsApp and a link to a Snapchat of all the photos she took of me.

I don’t have Snapchat. I don’t respond.