The Mistletoe

I gazed out the window at the storm clouds over the Atlantic and thought, “Wednesday... if lightning strikes us, we’ll fall in the middle of the ocean.” It was a mix of fascination and terror, imagining all possible scenarios.

“Storm’s making you nervous?” my dad asked.

“I don’t know, a bit. I had a strange dream again,” I said.

“The girl again?”

“No, actually, my memory is so bad that I had forgotten about that dream. I don’t even remember the girl’s face anymore. Today, I dreamt about a plant, for the second time in a row. The plant was green, and it had these round, red fruits. The first time, it adorned my forehead like a Ravenn, and the other time, a man was holding it, touching me with it, like a blessing,” I explained.

My dad pondered on it, and suddenly something clicked. “Ahhh, I think I know. Look, when we baptized you, when you were a few months old, your mother invited your grandfather at the time, whom we never saw again. I had never seen so many ladies and young women so excited; it was quite a show, as if the old man was some kind of rock or movie star, he looked too young for being a grandpa. I think he brought one of the plants you mentioned and gave it to us; he said it was a “godfather’s blessing”. Your mom held him in high regard; she was very grateful that he had attended, and he was very polite. He also brought us a drink typical of where he came from; it was delicious,” my father remembered nostalgically.

“What plant was it?” I asked with curiosity.

“Mistletoe. Your gramps name was Baldwin. He brought us mead, supposedly very typical in Scandinavia,” he said enthusiastically. “He made a kind of Ravenn with the plant for you and kissed your forehead. Then he said, ‘Watch out, this child is going to be very handsome.’”

“Weird story. So, it must be some memory stored in my subconscious...” I summarized.

“Most likely,” he said. “The guy had a resemblance to your mother. He emphasized how interesting you looked, the perfect mix between your mother and me. After trying that drink, I tried to buy it online, but nothing compared. It was out of this world; Hilda said it was homemade, it would be difficult to replicate. He also gave me a sprig of mistletoe, and I kept it in my office as a decoration. Somehow, it gave the atmosphere a tremendous sense of calm,” he remarked, smiling.

“Did he tell you his full name? Where did he live?” I asked, even more curious.

“He told me he runs a company; he was an entrepreneur in the alcoholic beverages sector, and the mead was from his business. He was from Norway, his surname was Solberg, a straightforward man. We talked about many things, and he seemed to have business knowledge. I don’t know why, but no one asked for his phone number or contact. I didn’t want to either, you know how I am – if I’m not asked, I usually don’t offer. He seemed very interested in you and your future; he joked that you’d be his competition when you grew up. A friendly guy, maybe a bit vain, but I can’t blame him with all the exaggerated attention he got from everyone,” my father recalled, taking a pause as he remembered.

“Oh, I wish I could get my hands on that mead again,” my father seemed to daydream once more.

“Baldwin Solberg... from Norway, father of my mom... Why is my mother’s family so peculiar? If he was interested in my future, he should have come to see us,” I thought, feeling a bit frustrated.

Have you ever had that family member who’s cool and charismatic with everyone but couldn’t care less about you? Or uses you as a way to impress others chicks? Such weird people. Well, I shouldn’t make assumptions based on what others say. My godmother, chosen by my father, passed away when I was only two years old, may she rest in peace. She was already an older lady; I always loved her “sopaipillas”, or fried tortillas, and the “calcetines rotos”, or broken socks, a funny name for a typical chilean sweet. She made it in her wood-fired kitchen.

Maybe my grandfather is loaded with money nowadays, judging by how successful his product seemed. But at least he provided more information about himself than my mother ever bothered to share about herself. How is it possible that I know more about my grandpa’s background than my own mother? Nobody really chooses their family, but I’m tremendously grateful for the support I received from my dad and my grandparents. Anyway, I hope he is not dead yet.

Hours passed, and I started listening to music on my iPad, which I hardly ever used. I had forgotten the music I had on the device. I had a bit of everything there, from rock to pop, some electronic music – mostly mainstream or indie.

I loved those more introspective songs or those epic covers of classics in a cinematic style, as if they were part of a movie or an adventure. What would it be like to be part of a book? A character? And if everything I’m thinking now could just be part of the inspiration of some person fervently typing on their notebook, and my existence was nothing more than a concept within someone else’s mind?

Uhh, spending hours inside an airplane really sets my mind adrift. I could write this on my tablet or make a post about it on my favorite social network. Surely, with a photo of me striking a pose, it would be great to get more likes and see some comments on my new philosophical side. I’ve heard about the “brain in a jar” theory where everything in the universe and all you see is nothing but stimulations and hallucinations of the brain.

Or the infinite parallel universes; it would mean that every idea, every novel or movie, exists as reality in some alternate dimension. Even if you were to take your ideas and go through the painstaking effort of creating an entire complex fantasy world with plots and intricate characters, it would already exist in some parallel universe. You would simply be making it known to the world you live in through your ideas on paper or a notebook blog. Good material for a reel!

“Wow, how cool would it be to greet your favorite character and warn them about the dangers ahead in their storyline. Tremendous spoilers!” I laughed, absorbed in my own thoughts, limited only by my iPad.

I took my tablet and began writing these ideas in my notes app. I thought they would really make good material for a new post or a new video. Recently, a new platform came out where you can create “reels” or short fifteen-second videos. I got hooked, spending hours and hours watching content, and I could spend an entire day without eating just watching them. I created an account and transferred my data from my official social network and others where I do streams and such. Perhaps expanding there would attract more visits. So, using this notes blog, I could potentially create some videos and launch my new account with good content.

Unbeknownst to me, we heard the flight attendant and pilot announce that the plane had finally reached Europe, and we would disembark to catch a connecting flight from Spain to Austria. We got off and hurried with my father, using the internal metro to customs and joined the queue for transit.

“God, how long is this taking?” I complained to Dad.

“Son, it’s only been about fifteen minutes. It might take longer,” my dad confirmed.

“Don’t we only have an hour for the flight change?!” I asked, genuinely worried.

My father was equally concerned but seemed to hide it. We should have planned a flight with a longer layover between planes.

It was my turn, and I passed through very nervously. The customs officer gave me a smile, stamped my passport, and let me through. Then it was my father’s turn, and with a serious face, he was bombarded with a barrage of questions.

“Why are you going to Spain, sir?”

“We’re heading to Austria; Spain is our connecting flight,” he said.

“Do you have enough money to stay?” she asked.

“Yes, here’s what we have,” my father showed her our account.

“Do you have hotel reservations?” she added, checking the account.

“Yes, here’s the reservation,” my father calmly handed over the booking.

Looking at the passport and flight ticket, she said, “Do you have any health insurance in case of an accident?”

“Here it is, miss,” my father took out the documents and handed them over.

I took a deep breath and thought, “What an annoying woman,” impatiently. Finally, I spoke up. “Miss, the gentleman is my father.”

She looked at me, and I looked at her, frustrated. She took all my father’s documents and returned them, saying, “Well, it seems to be all in order. Have a very good trip.”

We sprinted like crazy, my dad running alongside me carrying a bag on his shoulder with one hand and holding documents with the other.

“Son, do you need help?” my father pleaded as we ran.

“Dad, there’s no time for niceties. If I carry both pieces of luggage, we can run at your full speed. You know this is almost nothing for me; getting there is our goal.”

My dad, laughing, said, “I see no flaws in your logic, son!”

We managed to arrive on time at the plane and departed from Madrid to Vienna. The flight was very short, and the airport was smaller than in Madrid. We managed to retrieve our luggage; I took both bags, and my father checked the map. We needed to take the metro, arriving at the train station. He had everything precisely calculated so that we wouldn’t have to pay for hotels in Vienna. We bought a lot of fast food to go, and we boarded the train; it would take us from Vienna to a remote village in Styria, where we would then have to catch a bus.

During the train journey, while devouring five hamburgers and downing two cola bottles, I admired the beautiful snow in the Austrian landscape. Traveling by train really had its advantages.

“How beautiful the snow is!” my father said, looking out the window. “I imagine your mom missed it when she was with us.”

“Yeah, she missed it so much she left us behind to take a dip in it,” I added sarcastically.

“Miguel! Always with your comments and jokes. Someday, your humor could get you in trouble, son. Not everyone takes humor the same way,” my father said.

“I couldn’t care less about what others say,” I said with my last hamburger in my mouth.

My dad laughed and added, “I’m just saying that here you’ll encounter people with different humor and culture. When you speak, think first. It’s like going to the bathroom; if you’re going to take a dump, you need to lift the lid and sit down first, otherwise, you’ll make a mess everywhere. Understand?”

“Hahaha. Dad, please! Can’t you see I’m eating? And you call me the inappropriate one!” I laughed while protesting.

After finishing my sodas, we got off the train and retrieved our luggage. My father spoke to the office clerk and indicated a bus that would depart in a couple of hours. I took the opportunity to use the bathroom, as I couldn’t hold it any longer. I returned while my dad was eating a sandwich and had his coffee in hand. It was almost dawn, and we boarded the bus with the rest of the people. Some seemed to be heading to the same place. I kept taking pictures of the landscape, thoroughly enjoying myself. However, I noticed that as we approached the destination, the snow seemed to disappear. I mentioned it to my father:

“Dad, have you noticed there’s no snow where we’re going?”

“Yes, and there’s quite a bit of fog. It might be a problem for our walks in the forest,” he thought.

An older man overheard our conversation and mentioned that besides loving Spanish, and having lived in Spain for several years, foggy weather wasn’t usually a big deal as long as we stuck to marked trails. It shouldn’t be a major problem; we just shouldn’t venture into the forest. Through the window, I noticed a raven flying alongside the bus, following us throughout the journey. My adventure was starting to take on an increasingly strange tone.

“Solberg.. My mother’s last name is Solberg, and she is norwegian.”