Well that’s disappointing…

The Oslo House of Literature may not become the writerly hangout I was hoping for.  I’d nested in on a comfy corner table, ready to get some work done when I was told to vacate the seat as the area was only for people who were going to eat (my expensive coffee did not qualify).  I haphazardly gathered my things, went to the other side of the room—more cramped—less table space—less conducive to writing and looked around, trying to puzzle out the now mysterious laws of etiquette in the now alien place—unsure of how to get to work, let alone explore all the wonders I thought were on the upper floors.  What I thought was paranoia blossomed into unwelcomeness.

I watched the waiter fix up the still undisturbed, would-be table, as if a plague rat had died there and liquefied.

No wonder the same waiter gave me the evil eye during my whole first visit.

Maybe all the bindings on the wall were just decorations.  Maybe this is really a House of Dinner—the books more a theme than a function (the way a Rain Forest Cafe allows you to feel like your in the jungle without any actual heat or having to be around animals—you could see books while you eat without having to open them or see the unsightly way they are birthed or the smelly creatures that make them).  I chugged my coffee (a double shot—and now I’m jittery like Rikki-Tikki-Tavi on crack), exited like a piece of riffraff, and walked back to my apartment…which brings us to now.

I’ll have to keep searching for a proper away-from-home writing nest, but for now, I best just get to work.

Pity, as I was looking forward to writing out tonight.