We got off the plane and the landscape around was very strange. Even though for us the scenary of every northen-Europe country could look the same, we had the impression the place where we landed wasn’t Sweden. As soon as we reached the airport, a man in a grey suit came and greeted us. He spoke to the teacher and asked us to join him with a big smile. We beat off our fear and went with him, relaxed. The bus we took looked more like a van than like a bus. Its scraped bodywork was dull in the faint grey daylight. The journey wasn’t very long. The road ran through many green, wavy hills, then the bus turned left into a dirty road along a high sea cliff. It really didn’t look like Sweden. In half an hour we left the sea and stopped in an empty park at the foot of a big mountain covered in snow and ice. We had expected to go to our Swedish hosts at once, but the smiling man in grey explained that he only wanted to show us a wonder we couldn’t miss. Tired but curious, we joined him again along a narrow path. While walking on the silent fields, it occurred to me that during the all travel we hadn’t met a soul about. Strange. Scandinavia is not so populated as other countries of Europe, but the area near the capital should host many and many people. I looked up and my classmates had disappeared. It couldn’t be possible. In my mind took shape clearly the big, old face of Ebenezer Scrooge saying “HUMGUB”. This was more than humbug of course. I decided to follow the path, hoping to reach them. The cloudy weather felt cold and windy. After ten minutes I was walking, the path turned right and it appeared to me, behind the slope of the mountain, an high, white fall, pouring (roaring) in the humid air. The falling water sounded like wolves howling. It reminded me stories from the Celtic tradition about little men and troll wives. I stood motionless in front of it for a few minutes. It really was a wonder, I thought. A faded wooden sign beside the path said “Skógafoss”. I was quite sure it wasn’t Swedish. Humbug was the only word I could find to describe what was happening. How could I found my classmates? Where they were? Where I was?
Than, a terrible roar covered the howling of water. It became louder and louder, the sky was more and more grey and the earth trembled under my feet.
Uno scossone alla spalla mi riporta bruscamente alla realtà. L’aeroporto brulica di passeggeri in arrivo e in partenza, ma le code che normalmente affollano i check-in si affollano agli sportelli informativi delle compagnie. Nella confusione delle voci concitate che mi circondano, seguo un braccio che mi indica il monitor delle partenze. Scorro veloce le destinazioni fino a leggere “Stockolm”. A fianco appare e scompare una scritta in rosso CANCELLED. Poco per volta i discorsi attorno a me cominciano a prendere forma. Un vulcano in Islanda … un’eruzione memorabile … la nube vulcanica … pericolo di alzarsi in volo … aeroporti chiusi in tutto il nord Europa … migliaia di voli cancellati … erano duecento anni! Duecento anni. Si è appena interrotto un dolce riposo di duecento anni fra le colline d’Islanda, nel cielo profondo del nord, sotto nevi perenni, fra cascate che ululano come lupi e leggende di folletti malvagi e troll spaventosi. Mi viene in mente una sola parola: HUMBUG.
Federica Baradello (3F)