The moon chased me

Down by the docks

And into every city lane

Until I cried, “Stop! Stop!

You’re frightening me now!”

He laughed then,

And knelt down

To do the laces on his shoes

Stavanger

Mooncity.

It’s a great place to watch the full moon — Stavanger, an old oil town down south on the western coast of Norway. Clear night skies, seascape, and a city that’s alive well into the night to add its lights to the silver brilliance of moonlight.

I love Stavanger. Rumour has it that it has grown rich on the oil but one sees little of that. If you are new to the city, the natives will ask, “Have you been to Gamlebyen?”

Gamlebyen is the old city which Stavangerians are rightly proud of. The stone streets and charming little houses, dating back to the 18th and 19th centuries, are a carefully preserved heritage of the city. Rows of houses painted white, with pink creeper roses garlanding their windows, stand shoulder to shoulder on the narrow streets. Tourists stroll by respectfully and peer into the windows, startling themselves at the sight of people sitting inside the houses, because the houses are still inhabited by new owners.

I once lived in one of those little houses owned by the bank and let out to writers for a week’s stay. I slept in the master bedroom. The first night passed off peacefully, and in the morning I explored the rest of the house. Though it had had as many as 20 occupants in an earlier age, the house was empty now. Behind the master bedroom was a tiny alcove-like room. The lace covered bed was clearly a little girl’s room as also indicated by the miniature dressing table and the pink curtains. Feeling like an interloper, I closed the door and went downstairs, where there was a well-stocked kitchen, dining area and sitting room, all designed to fit into a limited space without seeming crowded. The north of the house even had a small study with a telephone from the ’50s that still worked.

Every morning, I did my vegetable shopping in the square next to the harbour where fresh lettuce, beetroot and carrots and eggs were brought by local farmers. On the afternoons when I was free, I walked the streets, which seemed to have a street musician at every corner. I read stories to a highly amused audience at the children’s museum, and I walked the city afterwards, stopping by the cathedral to drink it all in. I explored the circular shopping centre, which was a maze of small lanes that interconnected in the cleverest way, so that one never lost one’s way, because there was always a lane that led homeward. But like many before me, I never wanted to leave.

Until the night when I fell asleep only to be awoken by footsteps on the stairs. That was followed by the unmistakable creak, creak of a person moving about. I bolted out of bed and locked my door and waited for morning to come. Around four am I fell asleep and dreamed of the little girl. She begged to be let into my room. I woke up again.

“There’s someone else in the house, isn’t there?” I asked my hosts the next night, when we were dining at a restaurant. “Yes,” said Elisabeth, “you’re not the first one who has seen her.”

That incident did not deter me from returning to Stavanger to spend other happier times. This is a city couched into my heart, particularly as it lends itself so well to jazz poetry. Intrepid city musician John Egdetveit and I played at vegan cafes and hard rock places where they boasted Elvis had come and gone. This was a city that connected well. People on the streets were warm and friendly, easily rendering information and little intimacies about themselves. And they loved their city. More than one local told me about the street of colours, which used to be the most boring street in town until an artist came and painted all the houses in different colours. Then it bloomed and cafés and shops sprouted up, and overnight it transformed into the most interesting and visited street.

Big ships come and go, a woman who looks like Nefertiti boards a bus in a hurry while young mothers walk their toddlers slowly, deciding their own pace at which to enjoy the city.

In the middle of the city is a lake, where a very old swan bows his head and accepts bread crumbs. On a park bench nearby sits Karen Rasmussen, wearing rings on her fingers and a magenta scarf on black fur. She is one of the city’s originals. Karen affirms that this is not a bad city to grow old in.

The municipality sensitively protects whatever it decides is part of its heritage: the concert hall, the centuries-old cedars and maples outside the mayor’s residence, the cathedral from 1125, and, of course, Gamlebyen with its resident ghosts. Here is a city that finds its way into your heart and stays there.

(Note: The poem at the beginning is from A Slice of Stavanger, by Easterine Kire. In this monthly column, writers chronicle the places they call home.)

Easterine Kire ’s last novel, When the River Sleeps, won the 2015 The Hindu Lit for Life Prize

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