On the grapevine I had heard there was ‘a very good scene’ in Oslo. That suited me fine, as Borås was on the way up-only 80 km east of Gotenburg. Out there first before a natural balance would restore itself. I don’t know exactly what I had expected, but still it was disappointing, although that night I spent the night in a house with seven girls and one other guy. I can hardly remember that night, but the next morning all the more. I was up early and wandered in curiosity through the silent house. In the kitchen I saw an unknown foreign object. I picked it up, figured out it had to be twisted, and wondered why. A bit later the girl, whose parents, again, were on holiday rallied us round and said that in half an hour she expected her grandmother, so we had to make ourselves scarce. Hardly had she spoken when a bell rang out. Everyone cavorted in a giggle frenzy to hide under the sofa and behind the curtains and the home girl staggered in confusion to the front door, only to return in relief from nothing. Still the question remained what had rung out. Soon it became clear: I had re-invented the egg-alarm.

In fact Borås was a downer. It was an ugly town with sparse green where the sun was curbed by high spasmodern buildings. Also the alleged availability of female splendour took away the challenge so I continued to Oslo.
The city was magnificent and alluring in a way I had not seen before. Seen from the camp site it looked like she had been washed in by the sea and descended between the mountains. It was half an hour’s walk to the centre, half of which along a steep shortcut. I remember being upset when for the first time I saw the winos outside the main railway station with their liquor bottles hidden in brown paper bags.

My father had lost a brother in the war and therefore raised me in Kraut-hate. So I was pleasantly surprised by Christian Zerbe aus Duisburg, a perfectly likeable guy who soon made me suspect that there must be more nice Germans around. Together we made an excellent street chalking of the rising sun and made the newspaper the very same day, in which my name was split up as ‘Plo-eg’. Here too the slogan ruled ‘as long as my name is spelt correctly’, for the next day we were sent away by the police at once. I started exploring Oslo and environs, in which particularly Vigilands park made a lasting impression. Through the enormous stone sculptures the power of Viking visions flowed like a mountain river, hissing and pounding between man-size boulders. I also often went to Ingierstrand where I fearlessly dived from the 10 metre platform.

To be continued: 'Northern 'Light''.