Sunday the 20th of August 1961.

In about an hour we will be in New York, but we will stay on the ship until tomorrow morning. We can see land now, and lots of people are standing by the gun-wale. In the library where I am sitting writing, there has been an intense activity of card and letter writing. The tables were strewn with paper and cigarett butts, until an old Norwegian farmer came and cleaned it up - "he did not like it being a mess". He was passed his seventies, had a big, round stomach, a blue tie with red flowers with a tennis racket tie pin. On top of his round,bald, shiny head was balancing an old, blue Beret. He had small, kind,smiling blue eyes, false teeth, a double chin and dimples. He sat himself down on a chair to tell me his life story, which was simple and moving. He had been a bachelor until he was 37. On a trip back to Norway he met a Norwegian woman two years older than him. She had a sick daughter in a tuberculosis sanitarium. He wanted to marry her, but she was so concerned about her sick daughter she would have to leave behind in the sanitarium. "If I cannot have your little daughter too, I cannot marry you", he had said, and that made her happy. He now lived off money he had saved when he was young, but this trip home his son-in-law had paid for him. His wife had been in Norway 2 years ago to say good by to country, friends and family. So she did not want to come along this time, and have to go through so much crying all over again.

People are excited when they see a bridge. Maybe I should be too, after all, I have never seen it before. But I think the americans are happier to be back in America, than I am coming here. I feel kind of indifferent. I also feel very guilty when I see how good everyone has been writing cards and letters. I grab some cards and promise myself to write when I get to the hotel. I know, I know -- I have had all the time in the world to write cards; my only "work" has been to eat, sleep, read, and party at night.

Yesterday was Captains Dinner. Grapefruit, turtle soup, turkey and ice cake. The tables were set with balloons, hats, party crackers, ribbons and flowers. Everyone at the table was in high spirits, especially Brauteseth and Prøys. Prøys tied a ribbon with M.S. Oslofjord around his fore head,and put a hat on decorated with flags and flowers. He looked so monstrously comical that I hardly dared look at him, scared to death I would choke on the turtle soup and turkey. Brauteseth served up wet and vulgar jokes and stories; his specialty. In the evening there were dancing and I was sitting at Marianne's table with Terry and his sister and Peter; and there I sat and sat, smoking and drinking Tom Collins in grand style. Sounds festive and fun, don't you think? "Deven" (damn), it is the most empty and boring life imaginable, and it sours the whole organism. I know, it is supposed to be awfully nice. --

We have stopped moving, the ship has docked. I must go up on the bridge an take a look at what kind of place it is I have come to

Friday 19th of August, 1961.

It is 5 o'clock in the afternoon, the sky is light and blue and the sun has been shining all day. People have been out on deck and photographed from all bows and sides, and we have seen land and a boat. Marianne, Turid and I have been sitting on the sun deck playing guitar, being silly and singing all day. I have just seen a film about The United States. I was rather impressed and in many ways I admire and like the Americans. We Norwegians tend to be self-righteous, nothing can compare to Norway, nothing can be as fabulous and beautiful. I believe that America will turn out to have just as majestic mountains,breathtaking scenery and much more that we don't have. So far I like what I have seen of the Americans. They are straightforward, unpretentious, easy-going and friendly. There is one person I have forgot to mention, our waiter. He is Danish, small in statue, bald on top of his head, and is very charming and pleasant, and he loves kids. At the table next to us, he has a special little friend who has the worlds most beautiful eyes. After each meal, he carries the boy on his arm over to the dessert table and lets the boy pick out what he wants. The boy usually takes an apple or an orange, but yesterday there were none left. So our waiter takes him into the kitchen. Big success. The boy's little sister, however, who does not have as beautiful eyes and who is not as cute and adorable, wanted to come,too. She pressed her little face in her father's jacket and cried softly, because it is not easy to always be passed over by someone who is prettier and more beautiful.
But our dear waiter understood her pain. He took her by the hand and together they walked into the kitchen, and soon she came back with smiling eyes and her arms full of apples and oranges.

Missoula, March 2005.
Bob has had surgery (laminectomy). He is back home now, convalescing and doing a little better each day. I have had a good opportunity to get back into practicing my nursing. It has been demanding, because I am on 3 shifts a day and no days off, and I have to sleep in the same bed with a restless patient. In addition, my editor wanted me to mail her my manuscript so she could read it before we meet for lunch in NY next Thursday. There has been a lot of editing done on that manuscript (much of it expertly done by Mirabai, though unfortunately under threat). Still, every time I look at it, I find things that needs changing or correcting. What is interesting, is that my next chapter in my diary is about my first encounter, experiences and impressions of New York, and that is what I will be doing in present time, too - visit New York.

cont.
These are grand days for the lady. She is playing the superior, all knowing, upper class lady from America; she is completely Norwegian, but has probably lived in the USA for a few years. She uses a "veiled" r when she speaks Nå-å(r)sk. I can imagine she was a cleaning lady or a waitress in a cheap Cafe once, though she looks much worse than that. Her daughter is typical American. Rather beautiful, with a silly dreaming expression.
Turid thinks this trip is the pitts, she wants to take a plane and fly back home. I think this life is rather empty, but I don't think it is the pitts. I like Turid. She is very o.k and likable. One night, we talked until 2:30 AM. and she came across as very sympathetic. She is extremely beautiful to look at. Men give her long looks when she passes by. She is elegantly dressed, her hair is chestnut brown, she has peach complexion, and green eyes. It is strange that she is not conceited; she is sweet and straight-forward.
Marianne, however, I cannot quite figure out. She reminds me a lot of Carroll Baker in Baby Doll. She has a beautiful face, but her behind is way too broad and heavy. She has talked and bragged a lot about herself to everyone. I honestly don't know what kind of person she is, or how much of what she is saying is true. She says she has a very high IQ and has been psychoanalyzed many times. She is rebelling against society and her family, and she pretends to be a beatnik. She has told me she is going into the Diplomatic Service to be a Diplomat like her father. I like Marianne rather a lot, regardless of all her bragging. She is sweet and the three of us have a lot of fun together singing, being noisy and silly. Marianne has a guitar, and I have sore fingertips from playing. I wonder if the reason I am kind of week for her, is because she reminds me of Erland. They have a lot in common, especially that they always have to brag about themselves a lot, even though it is completely unnecessary. They are both so sure of themselves, and at the same time, they come across infantile, insecure and helpless. I cannot make sense out of either one of them, but they have someting that appeals to me, even though I don't know what it is.

Missoula, February, 2005. Got the result from Bob's MRI, no cancer. We are both relieved, but poor Bob is still bedridden with terrible pain. In addition to two herniated discs, he has arthritis, degeneration and stenosis of the spine. I am taking him to a neurosurgeon on Tuesday, and he will be going to a pain clinic for an epidural, when they can fit him in. I shall go and watch a movie now. The choices are: His Girl Friday with Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell. Mrs. Miniver with Greer Garson. Luther with Joseph Fiennes or Dressed to Kill, a Shirlock Holmes Mystery with Basil Rathbone.

Thursday August 18, 1961
I have already been 6 days on this ocean liner. The day starts with breakfast at 9. The choices of food are amazing; delicious cold cuts, egg prepared anyway you want, fruit, porridge, pancakes --- but I chose to eat Jarlsberg and Norwegian goat cheese.
After breakfast I stroll up to the sun-deck and make myself comfortable in the deck chair. The stewart, or whatever they are called, tucks me in with warm, woolen blankets. Usually I read, embroider or just watch the other passengers until lunch time at 13:30. Yesterday we had smoked salmon and scrambled eggs, and I ate until I was ashamed of myself, and yet, I still wanted more. But I was punished. I lost it all. We ran into high wind, and the boat rolled, stamped and tramped around, and the high wind turned into a storm. Marianne, Turid and I were all miserably sick. But by the time evening arrived, Marianne was all well and disappeared with her guitar, and did not come back to the cabin until the wee hours of the morning. Turid and I went to bed, and I slept for 12 hours. Today I feel much better. The ocean is beautiful and calm. But this experience made me completely lose my taste for cigarettes, and that is just as well. I had begun to smoke too much, just because I was bored, because it sure does not taste good.
This is a luxurious life. Sumptuous meals, cheap drinks, dancing and entertainment in the evening. Tuesday we had a cocktail party, movies and
orange-dance and package-dance, with champagne as the prise for the winner. Marianne and her partner won a bottle. Turid and I eventually sat down at the table with Steinar Brauteseth from the Norwegian Broadcasting corp., Alf Prøys, teacher and logoped, Aksnes, another teacher and later in the evening we were joined by Gunnar Ringøen, the brother of a girl I went to nursing school with.
Brauteseth and Prøys usually share Turid's and my table. They are both cheerful and pleasant. In addition to the four of us, there is an older lady from Bergen. The poor thing, she has been sick just about every meal. There is a Miss from Canada who sits next to me. I would guess she might be a teacher, but i don't know. She is in her late twenties, very near sighted, has long, black hair on her legs and (snøvler) speaks through her nose, as if she has a cleft palate or something. She is friendly in her own way, but hardly ever speaks.
At the end of the table is a Norwegian-American Mrs. and her daughter. The mother looks ravaged, and it does not help that she wears black mascara under her eyes. She walks around with a sour-angry-haughty, a little resigned, weary of life and foolish expression.

To be continued tomorrow. In Missoula, 2005, on a Thursday, it is almost midnight and I am tired. Because of his non stop pain, Bob is restless at night and that effects my sleep too. So I'll call it a day, read a little, and go to sleep.