The return of the guest bed

With all of my earthly possessions safely tucked into my father’s van I set sail for Norway yesterday. A journey that in the end took me almost twelve hours due to several detours along the way.

My last trip through Denmark this time around took me some places I hadn’t been before and I actually enjoyed being able to see things I hadn’t seen before and visit these tiny little places I’d never even though of visiting.

The most beautiful thing we saw was still the ocean. I’m an ocean person, have I told you this? I guess it’s an effect due to growing up on an island. If I don’t live somewhere where I can easily get to the ocean I get claustrophobic. So, I loved being able to walk up an almost empty beach somewhere on the Danish east coast, getting my feet wet and collecting shells as the sun set. I brought several back home with me; a little piece of Denmark to remember my last day as a Dane by.

It’s odd how attached you can get to things and, no, I’m not talking about physical things. I’m talking about other things. Like the language and despite how silly I think it sounds it’s still something that makes me feel at home; like the opportunity to go out to buy ice cream in the middle of the night or go see a movie in the theater before lunch; like the streets and the buildings I’m so used to seeing that I keep forgetting that they’re typical Danish that I won’t find anything like it in Norway; or, in the physical department, the key that’s hung on my key chain for so long I can’t even begin to grasp the full extent of consequences that comes from handing it over to someone else. Some doors will never be opened for me again.

It was quite nostalgic, leaving my home for so many years, but I was well prepared. I’ve known this day would come and in the end I didn’t even shed a tear. It was necessary evil, one I needed to go through to get to the next part of my life.

No, neither the loss of a home or the gain of a new one is the reason for this rant of mine. The reason is the transit station. I have returned to my parent’s home and once more found the guest bed made. It’s not the bed itself that offends me (actually it is but that’s another matter), but more what it represents. It’s in the name, isn’t it; a guest bed. My problem is that I’m not considered a guest. I should, I haven’t really lived with my parents since I was sixteen, but still I’m treated as a ‘child of the house’ every time I walk through the front door.

That the guest bed is a fold out bed in the study is the other problem. I’m not considered a proper guest so I won’t even be given the real guest bedroom. Okay, so I might have been offered the guest bedroom, but that room comes with terms and conditions, that in case someone that can be considered proper guests comes along I have to give up the room and move into the study. By that, I am offend. When will my parents acknowledge the fact that this is not my home, has never been my home and never will be? I have never lived here and I don’t have a room here. My entire childhood is wrapped up and tucked away in boxes in the attic; my childhood home was sold years ago.

When I walk though that front door I feel like a guest and I expect to be treated as one. This is not my house and it is therefor not my responsibility; I am not a resident. If I am expected to sleep on the guest bed I demand being treated as a guest. It shouldn’t be so hard to understand…