I am standing in front of a pastel version of The Scream at the Munch Museum in Oslo, and what I first see is an oddly shaped human-like subject gasping with delight at a shifting landscape before dusk. 

I look at the colors, the bold lines, the intriguing central figure, and the two others at the left corner behind. The whole piece captivates me in an unusual way. It brings forth some strange admiration, unusual beauty, peculiar oneness. I see this fuzzy figure, its open mouth holding back a voice, perhaps silenced or toned down, but surely not a scary shriek. It’s not that. It’s something else, something I can’t quite explain. 

Perhaps its jaw drops at the sight of the colors stretching over the Oslofjord. Perhaps it notices the passers-by and through them the passing of time and with that the change of the day, and with that…What would a person carry within, with that face, at sunset, at such a place?

What an astounding stream of thoughts, I think. The piece of art itself is not what surprises me (how many times has one seen motifs of The Scream!) — it is my interpretation that is unexpected. It’s empty of the projections of angst and despair that surround every read of The Scream. 

Perhaps it’s not despair, I think. What if it’s delight?

This ticklish thought stirs my curiosity and doesn’t let me leave. I continue to stare at The Scream in the dark museum room for some time. It is approximately 2 p.m. on a Thursday, a few hours before my scheduled flight from Torp Sandefjord to Skopje.

***

The Torp-Ekspressen bus pulls over at Oslo Sentralstasjon, and I see my friend waiting for me on a bench inside the building. I already feel her beautiful energy even on the other side of the glass door. Moni has this magnetic aura that leaves people who meet her wanting to be her friend. I felt that way when we first met on Cape Cod a decade ago and luckily for me, I am now one of her many many friends. Moni does have so many friends all over the world and here in Oslo, where she has been living and hosting people like me for about two years. 

As we ride the metro from the bus station to her apartment, we start talking about everything and beyond. Our conversations rarely take a pause in my week-long visit. We have so much to share — so much to cry about, to laugh about, so much to reflect on and so much to hope for. We both can start and extend talks that bring a geyser of emotions and then move on to venture and explore.

Moni introduces me to the city she loves. In Oslo, she shows me buildings, squares, nature bits, food spots, islands, beaches, viewpoints, forests, lakes. She introduces me to people, very cool people. I (finally) meet Moni’s sister. I meet her Oslo friends. I meet people that her friends bring to the gatherings we plan as we go. They all show me how they gather and how they have fun and I love it. I note that nothing we do has been preplanned ahead of (weeks-long!) time. I love that even more.

The summer is warm. The days are long. Oslo is laid-back, slow. 

So much shared time! I am content and calm, and I once again realize that I have treasure of people scattered around the world, living rich lives and inviting me in them, showing me around and letting me be part of something. I have had a heightened crave to be a part of something. 

My time in Oslo is a delight.

I see stunning city sunsets at 10:20 p.m.

I walk, take the metro, take the bus, take the tram, swim, run, hike with my friend. We talk and we keep quiet. We are comfortable either way. 

I participate in conversations about politics and culture, literature and education, countries and lifestyle, work and leisure. None of these conversations were scheduled or timed. None of this felels rushed.

I am invited to people’s homes. I am asked questions. People get curious about me. Tell us about this season of your life, they say. What’s life in the US like now? What do you write? Where are you going next? When are you going to come back? Their curiosity is genuine.

Then a few of us take the metro and take the bus and take the tram and sail on a boat, eat fruit, make barbecue. 

We make plans. We change plans. We romanticize the moments that are being lived, each of us gazing at the shifting landscapes, gasping as if seeing the sunset for the first time. Quiet or loud, either way.

Delight. 

***

The dark museum room is almost empty of people now. I lean a little closer. 

So much held in a painting. So much stored in a piece of art. So much carried in the heart of the creator, no less in the heart of the beholder. 

Are you seeing through me, little odd figure? Are you trying to tell me how it must be nice to be seeing the same landscape as you, but with people instead of alone, to witness and be witnessed, to reciprocate curiosity, to start friendships and, for a while, to release anxiety?

Are you trying to tell me that one could scream from despair and another from delight, and that I may have been you and you may or may not have been me (I wonder what life you have lived!) and that what I notice in you, in this painting, may have more to do with me than to do with how it’s supposed to be read, how it’s supposed to be?

All I am trying to tell you is that from the other side there is more than one way to see.