The Girl Who Ate Everything

The ol' weegie red, white, and blue.

Norway, here I come! For the fifth time! A number of visits previously reserved only for cities possessing Disney theme parks or my grandparents, now expanded to include the city where my boyfriend lives.

I've been to Bergen so many times that, for better or worse, I've grown comfortable spending my vacations there as a useless heap of laziness. I've seen most of the tourist spots; I've hiked along Mount Ulriken, which I'm still surprised didn't result in me passing out or rolling down a rocky hill (or one then the other); I've been pushed closer to death than I'd prefer by eating hot dogs; I've witnessed the natural splendors of a fjord from a boat filled with more Asian tourists than I'd ever seen anywhere else in Norway; and eating out isn't a priority when my friends can provide me with such great home-cooked meals (also, I'm cheap and eating out is mostly expensive). Of course, I haven't done everything; there are some big gaps in my trips that I hope to fill someday, mainly, I have yet to experience the national pastime of skiing and I've never been to a local concert (the latter really irks me because a handful of my favorite musicians are from Bergen, but I'm never there when they're performing). But overall, my main reason for visiting Bergen is to see Kåre and hang out with our friends.

David, Tristan, Kris, and Fletcher Jones.

The first time I visited my friend Tristan's childhood home in Louisa, a small town in central Virginia, back in 2006, I was intimidated by the prospect of meeting his dad, David. I don't remember what Tristan told me about his dad to fill me with fear, but David wasn't like any other dad I'd met before. He seemed to be the opposite of my dad: a straight shooter, a bit gruff with hints of jokey, sage, humble, not exactly reserved but not chatty either, impressively mustachioed. We didn't talk much; I mostly watched from the sidelines as he picked on his sons. (Good entertainment, that is.)

My most memorable exchange with him during the trip came the morning I was leaving. Before getting in the car with Tristan, I spotted David sitting on a chair on the front porch. I moseyed over to give David a goodbye hug; in return, I received a warm, intimidation-obliterating hug, the kind that made me realize David was, in addition to everything else I already mentioned, a big ol' teddy bear of a guy. A teddy bear with an impressive mustache. If David had been testing me during the trip, the hug made me think I had passed. He definitely passed my hug test.

David Luis Jones, January 6, 1947 - May 30, 2013

David Jones died of a heart attack on May 30. He was 66 years old—he should've had a few more decades of peaceful farm living to go. If there's to be a silver lining, judging from the full-capacity turnout at his funeral and the heartfelt speeches given by family and friends, he lived a full, happy life.

Even though I didn't know David very well, his death has rattled me more than any other. It took me a while to realize the sting of his death isn't just a product of his absence, but the devastating effect it has on the family who lost a husband and a father. David and I may not have had much in common, but one thing I'm sure about is that we loved the same family. There's no other family besides my own that I'm closer to than the Joneses, and it's hard to imagine any other family could take that role. During the few days before and after the funeral, thinking about the pain they were all going through—Tristan, his younger brother, Fletcher, and his mom, Kris—would send me into tears. Realizing I'd never see David again just felt cosmically wrong.

I headed down to Louisa about a month ago for David's funeral. From 2006 to 2011, I visited the Joneses' home once every year. (Regretfully, I haven't blogged about my trips there since 2009, although I doubt this surprises anyone because I'm the embodiment of slow.) I wish it hadn't taken David's funeral to get me down to Louisa for the first time in two years, but I'm grateful I got to see old friends and be a welcome presence, even if I couldn't do much to help besides be there. (Tristan's childhood friend Nathan, on the other hand, is a saint. He flew in from California, gave a moving speech at the service, and was an all-around dependable, comforting friend. Tristan better stay friends with him forever and beyond.) This most recent visit just cemented the status of the Joneses' home as one of my favorite places on earth. The Jones family is a uniquely warm, welcoming, fun family, with the house, farm, and animals to match. I'm incredibly lucky to know them.

In remembrance of David, I'm recounting some of my favorite places and activities from my visits to Louisa over the last seven years. They're mostly not related to David, but I'll fondly remember him as a part of every visit.