Dad says he still remembers the first time he saw an orange...
Text: Ida Frisch
Illustration: Siri Marki
It was at the vegetable shop on the corner of Platous street. I used to shop there throughout the first half of my twenties. "My diamond," the guy behind the counter called me. Round, green plums with salt, injera packed in large transparent plastic bags, eggs on trays, the smell of meat. I was madly in love with a skinny, blonde boy from Bergen. It ended with him dumping me, but we managed to eat overripe mangoes in bed before it was all over. The taste blends with the hopelessness.
I was sad for a long time, "my diamond," the guy behind the counter said. I roasted eggplant with salt and oil in the oven, my father came to visit and made lamb meatballs that were far too spicy from the halal butcher. At some point, the heartbreak passed, mango season came again, and I eventually moved away from Platous street. I packed the last of my things into the blue bags from the vegetable store—I had far too many of them, "my diamond."
Later, on Toftes street; the Persian café on the corner, sweet mint tea and cakes, the blue steel bike, and the cold rain all autumn, falafel, and my eagerness to make hummus at home. I convinced myself that I liked it, but I just had little money. All the cheap pints at the bar under the bridge by Grønland, we sang karaoke and stole a road sign. It was clichéd and real, bad coffee at Stolen café by Sofienbergparken, and the shame of actually liking to walk on a slackline.
Frogner, Skillebekk; the attempts to get clear skin, we bought green powder mixes from the health food store on Frognerveien, it was incredibly noisy in all the rooms, we rolled rice paper around thinly sliced vegetables and told each other that things would get better soon. I was in love again and received a vinyl record that said "I love you." The guy at the register in the second-hand shop always said, "Have an elefantastic day." A wooden elephant stood behind the counter; they closed the shop not long after.
Gamlebyen, behind the church there, we bought ice cream from the guys with the ice cream cart on wheels, Sandwich Brothers. I remember the woman with the bike helmet who screamed so much. Those were the last warm summer days, and I thought the city would always frame me in, "my diamond, my diamond," and I hope I always continue to get lost. I hope we continue to move around, feel at home in new street names, learn the names of those behind the counter, say hello in Arabic, thank you in Eritrean, thank you for the food, thank you for the bike lanes, thank you for the queues outside the concert halls, "my diamond, my diamond."
