Sitting on the tram I started wondering what I was doing. My grandmother was probably still sleeping. She can be sulky or happy, you never know until you get there. Somewhere close to the bridge it started to snow. I think snow is beautiful but I wish it was warm like sand. Why can’t the snow be related to sand instead of ice? But it is beautiful. Snow was falling over the river and on a boat that was leaving the city. The sun had just come up over the horizon. I had never seen it look like that before. Mostly yellow, but a little red where the rays hit the clouds and then blue behind it.
A few people with familiar faces boarded the tram. I recognised a man — I think he is Greek and has a newspaper stand in the centre — he yawned so widely you could see all the way down into his intestines. He didn’t sit down even though there were plenty of empty seats. Then some guys got on who looked like football fans. They were wearing blue and white scarves and acted confused, as though they had been in hibernation and woken up too early. I’ve never seen such grey faces, grey like the cliffs that Dad and I dive off in the summer. I got such a strong urge just then — it’s terrible — but I wanted to stand up and start telling everyone about the slum where I was born. I almost had to jump off the tram to stop myself.
People kept getting on and off, a lot of people got off at the hospital. Most of them were women who probably worked there. And then we started leaving the city again. Because of its name you would think Nydalen — New-valley — lay in a valley, but it doesn’t, it’s up on a hill. My grandmother has tried to find out how it got its name but even though she’s asked everyone she’s never found an answer. ‘The superintendent is going crazy,’ I heard Dad say once to Mum. ‘If she doesn’t stop asking silly questions they’re going to lock her up one day.’
