postcard from Oslo, 1973

A faded image of Akershus Castle, in Oslo, on the front. On the back, the part where people write their messages, my name appears, with a Salt Springs Road address below it. I last lived there in 1974. There are no discernible address forwardings to my current address (same city, opposite side of town), except for one Band-Aid-sized sticker with today's address affixed haphazardly and partially over the old address.

In rounded, florid cursive handwriting, likely from a fountain pen, the following message appears, in English, with several smudges and blurred letters:

"16 October 1973

Dear Paul,

Stop calling here, you drunken fool.

Love,

Marit"

I have never been to Oslo.

But I do know without a doubt who the sender is.

I met Marit in Salzburg, Austria, in July 1973. Or did I meet her on the train? I can't remember for sure. (Where is that journal I kept?) If the latter were true (the train version), how is it that I would reconnect with her in Salzburg and spend a companionable, and electrically charged, three or four days with her? Remember, we had no cellphones.

She insouciantly walked barefoot through the cathedral, sandals in one hand. I thought it was rude and scandalous of her -- which attracted me all the more.

We spent a languid and carnal afternoon in her rented room.

When I returned to the States, we exchanged letters. Her English was impeccable, better than that of the high school students I was teaching in America. She lived in Oslo. I tried to teach myself Norwegian. I read "Hunger" by Knut Hamsun, in English.

When I was drunk, which was often, I'd get the obsessive notion of calling her, when it was 5 or 6 a.m. in the morning where she was. I would anger her landlord by waking him, and her.... until one too many times and I finally stopped. Long-distance was so expensive, I easily could have flown to Norway instead. And what was it I had to say to her?

I was awful.

I must've thought I was in love with Marit, which was no excuse for such outrageous and revolting behavior. 

Is love ever a good excuse, for anything?

How did I get this postcard?

And what do I do now?