Leaving one home for another

I moved into this apartment exactly two years ago.

Having just come back from a seven months backpacking trip I was in need of a place to hang up my hat and drop down my bags. To call somewhere home.

Still broke from travelling, I borrowed money from my mother to pay the deposit and moved in with two Icelandic girls, right on the square of Oslo’s most hipster area.

We spent the summer in parks and bars.

A lot has happened since. I now have two Norwegian room mates, an Australian boyfriend and more money in the bank.

Tonight is the last night I will enjoy this space as it is. Tomorrow I start packing.

I feel like every item has a story:

The sofa my Italian girlfriend helped me put together. The bar table her friend, another Italian from the bakery downstairs, helped me put up. The armchair, the coffin, four sets of chairs, the ridiculously heavy mirror…were all carried home by hand. My boyfriend helped me take down a wardrobe and put up shelves. Friends from my home town brought boxes of my favorite books and photographs from my mother’s house.

Little by little, this place really turned into a home.

And it did me well. 

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