I watched another episode of Fancy Schmancy Houses. Or something like that. Anyway this time the people visited Norway, with edgy homes on a rock in the middle of a fjord, or the craggy side of a cliff. One had no road access at all and another had the capacity to close up every window with gorgeous timber, like a turtle retreating from an overly curious dog. The winters there are after all fairly brutal, when darkness takes over.
It goes without saying except that I am saying it, that these homeowners have copious cash for bringing their fantasies to reality. One involved enormous cranes hoisting the lumber and concrete across the inlet, which is not a low budget technique. In some cases we met the people who live there, and heard the lilting cadence of their Scandinavian speech.
The interiors were lovely in the careful attention to panoramas over the water and shared spaces. They were recognizable, with couches, and sinks, and counter tops. Though they differed from my own as to clutter and quilts.
It seemed that for the owners, privacy was of great value. Perhaps because of demanding jobs in crowded cities they strove to design a place that would provide a safe haven. Isolation. In other words what all of us have been thrust into.
The other evening the twins and John and I retreated to our own third floor, with hot soup, sourdough bread and a gripping audio book. For awhile I tried to squint my eyes and pretend that the walls were cedar, and the floors smooth bamboo boards. The windows were black but if there had been light I would have been granted a sweet view of the trees, who seem oblivious to social distancing. Their branches intermingle and birds hop between them without so much as a pardon me.
No one will be taking footage of our living spaces anytime, but it felt cozy to me.
