Text and images Britt-Arnhild Wigum Lindland
The walk took me to new corners of the city. Paths where I had never walked. Just before coming to a dead end this small, unusual, utterly chraming house was waiting for me, with stories to tell. The house used to belong to the railway company, now it is transformed into the world's smallest theatre, Stillverk1
The morning was still young and fresh, the sun shone playfully and I stopped to have a conversation with this small house.
Thanks for stopping by, the house said,you see, it can be quite lonely standing here day and night with no one to talk with. There used to be a little girl coming to keep me company, but while we played she realized she missed one of her ballerina dancing shoes, and she walked out in the world to search for it. Now and again she comes back to tell me about her adventures, but it is a long time since I've seen her now
The tales the tiny theatre told mesmerized me. Not only the tale of the little girl. There were other tales as well. A penguin travelling the world searching for a lost dance step, a dishwasher coming occationally to unload her clean dishes, the moon beams playing hide and seek at nights, a silver hair lady walking by trying to come to terms with her wandering thoughts, a few lost bookpages searching for a writer.....
The little green house kept on with its tales, I might look small from outside, but come here one day when my door is open. My inside is bigger than the king's castle, every nook and corner filled with tales. I can see that you have walked far, your feets are tired. Please sit down and rest your back against me. I will cherish you. I will lift you up. Bring out your diary, I know you have one in your backpack, and a feltpen. Let the sun kiss your eyelids while I write you a story.........
A long time later I opened my eyes, the sun had walked a long way over the horizon, my diary was back in my rucksach, and I was in desperate need of coffee.
It wasn't untill I came home and opened my diary that I found the new tale, and the lost red shoe.
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Today's travel tale is from Syria
Well, you all know that my most challenging moment come when I try do decide which books to pack for my travels. So it was also the days before I left for Syria. I have been buying quite a few books from and about Syria lately. Pile them together with the once I already had and it was easy to see that I could not pack them all. Add that the program for our week was filled to the brim already without reading time, and you can ask my why I bothered to pack more than one book.........I don't listen on that ear. Books are more important than clothes and toothbrush, aren't they? And we still had hours on planes and in airports.
Again and again I looked through my books, picked out one, two, three, decided against the first, found another one.........and knew that there was still a book I needed to buy for the trip - Arabian Nights, or 1001 Nights as we call it here in Norway.
The Middle East has a rich tradition of telling stories. A tradition I am afraid we are about to forget in the western world. The author Rafik Schami masters this old art today. He was born in Damascus in 1946 but went into excile in Germany in 1971. Damascus and Syria are still in his heart, and his books are like colourful jewels ready to wear on nights with friends. Arabian Nights.
In the Great Mosque in Damascus a man sat on the floor, the center of a group of people. Women to the left, men to the right. A storyteller I said to myself, and walked closer to get a photo. I imagined myself sitting at his feet, listening to his stories.
"Shia Muslems", the guide told me. "They come here almost every day to listen to religious educations".
One of the books I brought with me, a book I always bring with me when I travel, was The new Testament. Back in my hotel room I sat down close to the feet of Jesus, listening to his stories.
I want to be like Martha. I want to be like Maria (Mary). I want to prepare the meals. I want to sit down near Jesus.
