My Bathtub's name was Engavaagen. I lived there for nine months, six years ago. A day doesn't go by without me thinking of it.
When I was nineteen my parents told me that they could either send me to a university for a year or abroad. It wasn't a difficult decision. My parents weren't very well off, but they somehow sent me to one of the richest countries in the world; Norway. My parents were of an evangelical Christian persuasion, so they sent me to a sort of religious international boarding school for young missionaries. The boarding school was just outside of a small Norwegian town above the arctic circle, a stone's throw away from the shores of a fjord. You could walk to the tip of the peninsula and look out to sea. The islands dotted the horizon and the mountains circled round you.
Part of me thinks it is wrong to say that Engavaagen is my Bathtub. As I watched Beasts of the Southern Wild I was saddened to know that there is no place like that currently in my life, no community. Engavaagen wasn't mine, it didn't "make" me . . . not like it made the Norwegians who grew up there. But I loved it, I loved it. I walked and walked and walked around it and loved the sky and the sea and the islands and every inch of it, as though it were a person and not a place.
I was sent to Engavaagen to grow in my faith and to get closer to God. God and I are no longer on speaking terms and I have no religion to speak of, but Engavaagen remains. After I left, it hurt to even look at a picture of it or talk about it very much. One day I'll try to go back, but plane tickets to Norway run about $2,000 these days. A vacation like that will be beyond me for at least five more years. I might not be meant to go back.
Now I live in Portland, Oregon, and I think my task is to carry and plant Bathtubs and Engavaagens wherever I happen to be. Or at least, not to pine for something far off and ignore the place in front of me.
— Marylin H