Around this time last year I learned of the Norwegian Easter phenomenon that is Kvikk Lunsj. It seemed that the country went wild, yearly, for this… what was it? I’d never heard of it.
The name threw me at first. It’s a lunch thing? Like maybe an energy bar?
It’s been a while since I worked in education (teaching composition to mostly indifferent first-year college students), and even longer since I was a student in the full-time sense, so today when I think about education I think about language. You see, about a year ago, having begun work at something called the Norwegian American Weekly, I started learning Norwegian.
Because most of the postcards at the Munch Museum were prohibitively expensive:
Dear Sis, I should have known better, but he seemed so nice & charming when I met him at the bar. He drank aquavit, which is disgusting, but he was paying so I had a few. I really am a mess! Now my passport & money are gone, & all I have left is this sketch he made of us. And I’ll have to give that to the police. Oh, I should have known better; his pickup line was, “Anxiety devours the soul.” I just thought he was artistic! Please send money (& better taste in men!) And don’t tell mom and dad. Love, Salome
And, in case you ever wondered what happened after The Magic Fish ended:
Dear wife, Or ex-wife, I suppose. They say there are many fish in the sea. And there are, but the only woman I want to reel in is you. You were greedy, yes, but it was only the lure of fishy magic that left you restless. I am sorry that I could not provide what you wanted. Please return to me. Our shack feels like a castle when you’re in it with me. What are the odds of there being two magic fish in the sea? I don’t know. But for you, my love, I’ll fish until I find out. Love, Your humble fisherman
Want your very own postcard story? You can buy one here.
I really am having a jolly time writing postcards to and from a variety of things.
Dear anyone: I don’t know why I’m writing this. There’s no postman here to carry this card, & he’s not coming. We can’t even get to the nearest “town”—if anyone’s alive there. The virus hit Nordkapp hard, & the world (if it’s out there? Are you?) has forgotten us. But let’s not dwell on that. We’re safe for now, hunkered in this odd chapel under the rock at the end of the world. We have plenty of candles, & enough food for a few hungry weeks, courtesy of the cafeteria & gift shop (& other sources, but let’s really not dwell on that). We also have plenty of souvenirs. Would you like a stuffed baby seal? A magnet? A keychain? Will these sweaters & animal skins keep us safe and warm? We miss you, other humans The Survivors (for now)
Want your very own postcard story? You can buy one here.
I haven’t always loved postcards. In fact I’ve downright hated them, for reasons that I now see are unfair. So, I’ve written a conciliatory postcard . . . to Postcards.
And now I’ve got the Beatles’ song, “Dear Prudence,” in my head. And the Internet here is so slow that I fear uploading any more photos will take approximately the time it took some glacier to form this fjord we’re in. So look for more postcards soon!
Want your very own postcard story? You can buy one here.
Dear mom & dad, I found the church where you were married. Just like in the old photograph, the roof like a staircase leading up to God. The happy couple radiant in black & white. Flowers, & the imagined sound of church bells. When I was young you told me, “Leave the past be.” But I’m only human. When the machine fired up, how could I resist? A simple trip, a chance to stop a war, to save lives. It worked. So here is the church from the old photograph. I do not know what became of the happy couple, the flowers. The church bells are not ringing. I really hope you receive this postcard. Love, Your son, the time traveler
Dear mom, Jeremy isn’t coming home. First, dad dared him to wear a sparkly pink hat we saw. He said he’d pay 1000 NOK if he wore it for an hour (about $167 USD). So of course he put the hat on. But then people started shouting & running. There was a monster in Trondheim! I never saw the monster, but I heard something about snakes. We ran & hid in an alcove off the ground. I closed my eyes. When I opened them, Jeremy had turned to stone. The doctors say there’s nothing we can do. And dad refuses to pay, saying that the hat is no longer pink or sparkly. Anyway, I’ll be home soon. Love to the cat! Emily
Want your very own postcard story? You can buy one here.
As part of the beautiful blending of travel and Clarion West Write-a-thon, my 100-word postcard story project continues. I must be quick, as internet access is fleeting here in the scary world of my imagination.
Want your very own postcard story? You can buy one here.