Don Vito Corleone walked me down the aisle — Scenes from a Marriage

I started Aurora Writers Retreat  after returning to my roots in Senja, Northern Norway — because I had a story I had been carrying around in my head for the longest time, not being able, or ready to finish writing it. 

I had made plenty of notes in the margins of other things. Some early drafts thrown away. I had described scenes to friends over dinner. I had told myself I was thinking it through. The truth is, it was a story that scared me a little bit. They are made of the parts of your life you are still working out, and you cannot face them when you also have to go to work, pay bills, be a soccer mom and try to take care of yourself and the kids. 

What follows are some of those scenes in the story I am, slowly, finally, writing. 

If you are a writer with a project you have been carrying around for too long, maybe this will inspire you to grab your own notebook and get to writing. (And if you want to know more about Aurora;  the dates, the mentors, the kind of writing we do there, I have left details at the bottom.)

These are the kinds of scenes I come to a writers retreat in the Arctic to finally write — the ones too big to write at my kitchen table. PS all names are changed, mostly for fun :)

Haïti Chérie 

"A young Norwegian woman lands in Port-au-Prince." From the story I'm writing at our writers retreat in Northern Norway.

In the autumn of 1997, I handed in my master's thesis in London and got ready to move to Port au Prince where my boyfriend Jimmy now lived after returning home from his studies in Quito. 

I had asked Jimmy what to expect, but he was always a little vague in his answers, talking about the beautiful beaches and palm trees and that I just had to come and see for myself. On October 1st, I boarded the plane from London to Miami, ready for my next big adventure on the other side of the globe. I spent the night on a bench at the airport, not able to sleep as I was too excited about meeting Jimmy again. I boarded the American Airline flight in the morning and sat next to a a Rasta man from Jamaica who was heading to Port au Prince to make an album with artist friends. He showed me photos of his five children and told me he thought I looked like Mary, the blind sister, in the Little House on the Prairie. We spent the whole flight talking like two old friends. One of the air hostesses joined in on our conversation, advising me that if I changed my mind about moving to a very poor and very dangerous country, I could always return to Norway any time. She seemed worried about me, a young and obviously naïve, Scandi, heading for new adventures in a place I knew nothing about.

Port au Prince was dusty, hot, and oh so exotic. The city was crowded with cars, Tap-Taps, people of all ages, wild dogs, pigs, roosters, and men with cows wandering along the streets. I loved it from the start. Everything was new and exciting, the food, the people, the language, the colors.

Haiti coastline — the place I moved to in 1997,  written about at Aurora writers retreat in Senja

We stayed with a family friend in a small room, and I was happy and in love.  We had a bed, a chest of drawers, a stereo system that shone with one hundred lights and kept me awake at night, as well as a window with a large and noisy air-conditioning system that Jimmy had installed before my arrival. In the evenings we would walk to Cinema Imperial and watch whatever was on, mainly action movies, dubbed in French. But the best stories came from Jimmy. He was a master storyteller. He would entertain me with anecdotes from his childhood, one that had been very hard at times, but he always added some zing to make me laugh.

I had to get used to the constant blackouts; electricity was scarce, and we didn't have a back-up generator those days. To call home we would drive to Delmas 2, a slum area in Port au Prince, where Jimmy had a friend who ran an illegal phone central. I would enter a small hut, and I could talk to my mother in Norway for half an hour at the time, often being served a cold Prestige. Sometimes we would stay longer, invited to participate in a ti sourit or block party. 

I loved the early mornings in Port-au-Prince, that hour when the city's activities are just starting: the fresh air before the traffic jams, enjoying a cup of strong black coffee and a juicy mango for breakfast. I learned how to suck the sugar out of a sugarcane in the street, and that there are ways to eat a mango without having to wash your whole face after, who knew? I got diarrhea stuffing my face with the most delicious fruits and vegetables that I tasted for the first time, kenep and tamarin, and a daily intake of grilled corn. 

Port-au-Prince street life — setting for scenes in a screenplay developed at a writers retreat in Arctic Norway

Jimmy was offered a position as police chief in a large district outside Port au Prince. We had to use walkie-talkies to communicate, which was a little bit embarrassing for me since all Jimmy's police colleagues and their wives and/or mistresses also used the same channel and could listen to our conversations. I tried to keep the conversations short, although sometimes I couldn't help myself and would ask him when he was coming home, when I was alone in the dark and bored. 'Loco 1, Loco 1, Loco 2. Hi cheri, where are you now? How long till you come home? Don't be too long, please. Over.' Jimmy's colleagues listened in and teased him daily about his nagging girlfriend.

Jimmy was eager to get married, and I was flattered when he proposed one early morning in our small room. 'Will you make me the happiest man alive Ingrid, marry me, I love you so much, what do you say?' Jimmy looked sincere, sitting down on one knee in front of our bed, half naked only wearing his boxers, his hands holding mine, promising me that he would spend the rest of his life trying to make me happy if I agreed to be his wife. 'Yes, I will marry you, of course!' I was ready with my answer before he had a chance to finish his sentence.

The civil office in Petion-Ville was small, dirty, and situated right in the middle of the street market. To enter the office, we had to step over a few of the market women sitting on the ground in front of the main entrance, as they refused to move. Inside the office was hot and hectic, people were sitting and standing everywhere. It helped that Jimmy was wearing his police uniform, and we were told to enter an office. An overweight municipal administrator took one look at us as we sat down, winking at Jimmy as if to say, 'you did well, my friend'. The two spoke in Creole, and Jimmy said he wanted to get married as soon as possible.

'No problem, mon ami, I can do that here and now. Let's find you two witnesses that will co-sign the marriage certificate,' he said jovially. 'Jesula, grab a couple of people in the waiting room for me! I need witnesses!' His secretary jumped out of her chair and ran out of the office. A few minutes later she came back with two men who were assigned to be witnesses. The ceremony did not last long. I honestly did not understand all the things that were said in Creole, but I was in love and thought to myself that this would be a fun anecdote to tell our children and grandchildren one day. The administrator told Jimmy that he had to pay fifty gourdes for the stamp on the marriage certificate, plus a 'little something' on the side for the fast-track option. The whole thing lasted half an hour. The administrator told Jimmy to make sure to take photos as they would come in handy when he applied for his visa for Norway, assuming this was a marriage of convenience. We laughed so much about this assumption and we both said, 'what an idiot, we love each other!' 

Dinner Party with the Consul

Norway's 17th of May in Port-au-Prince — a foreigner sees the country for what it is. From the story I'm writing at a writers retreat in Senja.

Call me naïve, but I had not been prepared for the obnoxious, racist behavior towards the Black population in Haiti, being a country where the overwhelming majority is Black. The bourgeoisie in Haiti was a handful of families who owned most of the financial institutions, controlled the ports, and had a monopoly on import and export of food, gas, weapons, and more. These families with roots in Syria, Lebanon, Great Britain, and France kept a close lid on who were allowed to enter their inner circles. 

To celebrate Norway's Constitution Day on 17th May, I was invited to the Norwegian consul's residence for a dinner party. This event turned out to be a dinner party where all the guests were either milat or white, including the consul, a pale, Haitian man in his 60s. He was a little overweight, with small brown eyes behind gold glasses. His wife, a tall, white woman, happened to be the consul for Switzerland. The wife, speaking loudly in perfect French, laughed when I asked if she spoke Creole. 'Good Lord, I have no use for that childish language. It's not even a language, more like a dialect. She laughed so hard of her own joke that she snorted.

As we tried to enter the villa where the dinner was happening, we were stopped by the consul. He took one look at Jimmy and told him, in Creole, to use the backdoor together with the other drivers. Realizing Jimmy was my husband, he turned red, apologized and mumbled "easy mistake", let's find you guys some champagne. I was furious and wanted to leave, but Jimmy whispered to me, "It's OK, let's go celebrate. I know how this works." 

The only Black people in the room, apart from Jimmy, were the servants, who were dressed in white uniforms with gold buttons, wearing white cotton gloves. I felt like I was in a scene from Gone with the Wind as the servants walked around the room holding silver platters with crystal glasses offering the guests chilled champagne. The conversation, or the gossip I should say, was mostly sharing stories of people that were not at the dinner. 'Did you see that Madame Baptiste has been banned from all the boutiques in Petionville for not paying her bills?' 'Is it true that the Prime Minister is sleeping with his secretary?' 'Apparently the new bishop has been caught stealing from the church.' ... and so on. 

Don Vito Corleone

The wedding. Two hours late, a hundred guests, and the love theme from The Godfather. From the story written at our writers retreat in the Arctic

We decided to have a proper wedding, and I invited friends and family from Norway to join. The wedding was held at the beautiful Hotel Ibo Lele, situated with an amazing view up in the hills above Petion-Ville. 

My family arrived a few days before the wedding. I was so happy to be able to show them where I was living and my new favorite place to be, Port-au-Prince. The morning of the wedding Jimmy had left early, I didn't know where he was or what he was doing. I tried to reach him on my walkie-talkie, keeping my nerves in check calling him up. I knew all his colleagues and their wives, and/or mistresses, listened to the same channel. 'Loco 1, Loco 1, Loco 2... no answer... Loco 1, Loco 1, Loco 2... Can you hear me? Where are you. Please answer. Over.' Jimmy never responded, and this continued throughout the morning and the afternoon. I felt like such an idiot not being able to reach my husband on my wedding day. When it was time to drive up to the hotel, I still had not heard from him. We all gathered in the minibus rented for the occasion and drove to Petion-Ville.

Fifteen minutes before the wedding ceremony was supposed to start, Jimmy showed up in my hotel room, sweating, and looking like he had run a mile, but with a big smile on his mouth. 'I'm so sorry I am late,' he said, panting. 'I had to fix something downtown, and the traffic was crazy. Forgive me? I'm here now, cherie, all is well.' I was furious, but relieved he was there. 'Why didn't you answer when I called you?' I asked. 'I was so worried.' I didn't understand what he was thinking, disappearing on our wedding day. 'What was so important downtown that you had to go down there today? You know the blokus is always bad on those roads!' 'I know, I know, I know,' he said, holding his hands up and trying to placate me. 'Ingrid, please relax. I have a very cool surprise for you, don't worry. It's all for you ma cherie.' Jimmy hugged me and went to another room to take a shower and get ready.

The guests started to arrive. We had over a hundred guests, of whom I knew about thirty, including Jimmy's police colleagues, some politicians, his family, and mine, as well as a large group of American soldiers, who happened to be staying at the hotel. The venue was beautifully decorated with large round tables, candles, and the most precious flower centerpieces with yellow hibiscus and white hortensia.

When Jimmy finally sent the message to my room that it was time to start the ceremony, it was already past 9 pm, two hours later than planned. However, as with most things in Haiti, delays are part of the game, and nobody — except maybe the Norwegians — was stressing about the time. I took a deep breath, gathered my bridal bouquet, put on some more powder to try to keep the sweat off my face, and I started walking out to where the guests were waiting. At first I didn't hear the music, until i did. 

To my big surprise the music that came on LOUD as I walked down the aisle was the love theme from The Godfather! 

This is why Jimmy had spent the whole day downtown. He had been looking for a CD with the soundtrack from his favorite movie for the wedding. I looked straight at Jimmy, trying to signal with my eyes that this was beyond embarrassing, and utterly unexpected. My head was spinning, but I had to keep my posture as I walked up to Jimmy and the judge. As I stood next to him, he was more than pleased. He took my hand, and said, 'Let's do this now, my love.' I shook my head in disbelief, whispered to Jimmy, 'what the fuck...am I Apollonia Vitelli?' Alas, I could not do much more than go along with the ceremony with a hundred guests watching us.

I’ll admit that it took me a good couple of decades to find humor in the story of how my wedding music was a celebration of Don Vito Corleone and the unscrupulous Italian mafia.

Today, however, as a wannabe filmmaker I appreciate Jimmy's love for one of the best movies ever made, and yes, I can laugh about it now. 

About Aurora — The Writers Retreat in Senja, Northern Norway

Aurora is a week-long writers retreat held twice a year on the island of Senja, above the Arctic Circle. We host a maximum of 12 writers at a time. Small group. Real mentors. A long enough stretch of time to actually fall into the work.

The next edition runs in January 2027.

In-person mentors for January 2027: Sean McConville and Stephanie Joalland on screenwriting. Nicholas Pinnock   (Hedda, Top Boy, For Life) joining us for story and performance.

Digital mentor: Brendan Foley (Sherlock's Daughter, The Man Who Died).

Location: Senja, Northern Norway. Above the Arctic Circle. Polar nights and Northern Lights season.

Aurora is one of the few writers retreats in Europe built specifically around the demands of film and TV writing — small group, real mentors, a current project on the table.

Who it's for: Aurora is built first and foremost for writers working in film and TV — screenwriters developing a feature, a pilot, or a series. All other serious writers are welcome too: memoirists, novelists, playwrights. 

Each writer at Aurora works on a current project — a screenplay, a pilot, an idea for a story— with one-to-one mentor sessions, long writing blocks, and the kind of group feedback you only get when a small group of serious writers are in the same room for a week.

If you have been searching for a screenwriting retreat, a writers retreat for film and TV, a writers retreat in Norway, or a creative writing retreat with serious mentors and a ridiculous amount of natural beauty — this is for you.

Read more about Aurora January 2027 → Aurora Writers Retreat

(The story does not end here, of course. There is the part about the obituary on a Saturday morning years later, that I have only just begun to write ,- the one paragraph in a newspaper that changed everything. I am working on those scenes now, slowly, in Senja, with the help of the kind of quiet that only the Arctic gives you. I will tell you about that, eventually. Just not yet.)

Hope to meet you there x

Ingvill