Saturday, July 23, 2011

Senseless Tragedy

My thoughts go out to everyone in Norway during this unthinkable catastrophe. The strength and resiliency of the Norwegian people will help the nation pull through these tough times. Love to everyone there.

Thursday, July 14, 2011

Until Next Time

And, like that, I’m heading home. On May 14th I flew from Ljubljana, Slovenia to Trondheim, Norway to spend over two months living with my girlfriend, soaking in Norwegian culture, looking for jobs and learning the language. I got so much more out of the trip than that. In this—my last post in Norway for a while—I want to summarize some of the most compelling things I’ve noticed about Norway. I want to talk about some of the things I really enjoyed. And maybe I’ll talk a bit about things that weren’t so great. The trip has changed me too, and I hope to touch on that as well. I’ve missed the United States more than I ever thought I would: I’m glad to be going back for many reasons. But Norway has a bit of me now too. And I know I won’t be able to stay away for long.

For easy reading—and easy writing—here are some highlights:

My Favorite Norwegian Food—This is hard. Close contenders include sodd, kjøttkake (meat cakes; and pronounced hilariously close to ‘shit cakes’) and some of the flatbreads that are made only here. But the more I eat it, the more I’m convinced that brunost—or, brown cheese—is my favorite Norwegian nosh. Put some strawberry jam on some flatbread, break out a cheese slicer and place some brunost on top and I’m in heaven. Brown cheese=win.

My Least Favorite Norwegian Food—At first I thought this would be difficult: Norwegians regularly eat raw fish that has been left in the open air for months, so that ought to be a competitor. But it’s not—I actually like that stuff. The worst food, by far, in Norway is salted black licorice. I might hang from the gallows tomorrow, but there’s no contest here. I’d rather give myself a pine-cone suppository than come within ten feet of salted black licorice again. I’m sorry to everyone whom I’ve offended.

My Favorite Norwegian Experience—Again, there are lots of contenders here: the Nidaros organ concert, lounging in Steinkjer, catching fish, golfing in Bymarka, etc…. And I could say that getting to live with Tonje for a few months was the best experience—it was, but that’s not what this post is about. The best experience for me was a trip to Tonje’s parent’s cabin at Inderøy. Taking in nature, living simply, fishing and rowing around in the fjord are all activities that define Norway. This appreciation and respect for nature, solitude and finding your personal peace are some of the main reasons I love this country. It’s the biggest advantage Norway has over other nations. And it’s something that Norway had before it found oil, and will still have when that stuffed pension fund runs dry. When I find myself inundated by the deluge of stimuli and work inherent to graduate school in the United States, I hope I’m still able to hear the creak of that old row boat as it drifts over the waves. There’s nothing on my mind, but I’m smiling. Maybe a fish will bite.

My Least Favorite Norwegian Experience—As I write this, I’m seriously concerned that I will pass out and collapse on my keyboard. An overwhelming aroma of paint, paint thinner and primer is turning my brain into dead coral. I feel like Artie Lang and Anthony Bourdain's lovechild. I could call the beautification process of Tonje’s apartment building my least favorite Norwegian experience, but I won’t. It has to be any attempt to get in or out of Oslo. Trains are shut down for the most part, roads are essentially closed and the systems designed to solve these two problems are laughable. I’m already getting palpitations just thinking about it, so I’ll leave it at that. I look forward to visiting Oslo again when a jetpack isn’t required to get around.

The Best Place I Visited—The pub, Den Gode Nabo, just down the road is a contender. It’s a beautiful, old pub that looks like the lower decks of an ancient boat and even has a floating barge on which you can hang out and have an ale. Antikvariatet, the café/pub next door, is better, but only just. It’s also a contender. But the greatest pub on Earth couldn’t hold a candle to Norway’s natural environment. And I haven’t even seen the good stuff—the scenes on the Atlantic coast of Norway. But among the several cities and areas I’ve visited—including Inderøy—I think that the most beautiful place I’ve been to is Mosvika, where Tonje’s grandmother lives. I’ll include its surroundings in that as well as the drive into the little town is breathtaking. Nestled in the foothills of high cliffs cut out by rivers lies this small coastal town. It’s sleepy, pretty and feels like a sea town. The gulls aren’t vicious here; the houses and people are simpler; and nature’s might is palpable. I miss it, and I was only there for a few hours.

The Weirdest Thing About Norway—I’ll back off of black licorice. And I’ll give the shoulder-bumping pedestrians a break too. The weirdest thing that I’ve noticed about Norway is a real sense of financial hypocrisy. Most Norwegians are more than happy to pay lofty taxes and buy expensive products because they believe that they are contributing to the greater good. And they are, probably. But despite this apparent selflessness, there’s a real sense of status and “coolness” here, one that you wouldn’t expect. Unlike in most countries, it’s very common to be asked how much something costs here. Salaries are openly discussed, and not-so-subtle bragging about wages isn't rare. A fair amount of Norwegians will only buy designer or high-end brands or luxury automobiles. I’ve talked to several Masters and PhD students about their career ambitions. When I asked them what they want to do upon graduation, what their passion was, they simply said that they were looking forward to good money. One doctor, completing his residency, said that he was really looking forward to sitting behind a desk, collecting a check and having other people do his work for him. Now, of course not all Norwegians are like this. And yes, Americans are much worse in general. But some of these individual’s sentiments are surprising considering the sense of financial community in which these Norwegians grew up. Lots of people here don’t feel like they’ve made it until they’ve got a degree and a fat paycheck. That’s not uncommon in the world. But it does seem strange here. I hope they find their passions.

The Best Drink—Since I enjoy a good drink from hour to hour—eh, I mean from time to time—I wanted to comment on the best Norwegian alcoholic drink I’ve sampled. Since wine cannot be successfully grown here, this contest comes down to beers, ciders and liquors. There’s no contest here: it’s akevit. I haven’t yet tried some of the famous moonshine that apparently is floating around under-the-radar in Norway, but I doubt it can beat akevit. There are some decent beers in Norway—even bottom-shelf ones aren’t awful—but akevit is truly unique and its tastes knocks the socks off of any of the Viking beers. Try the Linie variety if you have the chance.

What I Missed Most From Home—After my family and friends, there’s a close race for second place for what I missed most from my homeland while I was across the pond. The price of goods and services is way up there. The better infrastructure places high. My television, my Netflix account and having a cell phone are also contenders. But above all of these, by far, is my car. It’s not just my car really, it’s driving in particular. In the roughly 11 years that I’ve been driving—well over 500,000 kilometers—I’ve never gone this long without putting my hands on a steering wheel. It’s probably a combination of the ability to go wherever you want to whenever you want to; not having to rely on other people to get somewhere; and the sense of freedom you get when you’re driving. My brother’s picking Tonje and I up from the airport on Saturday. No matter how tired I am, I’m driving home.

So that’s it. I’ve pretty much run out of things to write about. And the packing needs to start. As I said earlier, I might still write posts for this blog, they’ll just have a different focus until I return to Norway. Writing here has served as a great capsule for my memories: it started off as something for others, but I think it ended up being more for me. It’s been space for me to experience catharsis and vent. And it’s been an exciting way for me to immediately share what have been truly amazing experiences for me in a country that I love. I’ve learned in the past that neither I nor my listeners have the patience for long stories after trips. And many of the stories in this blog would be lost to bad memory and sloth if I hadn’t written them down. I’m glad I did.

I’ve been away for almost a quarter of a year. That’s not much for some, but it’s the longest I’ve ever been away from home. Living here with Tonje was the best experience I’ve had so far in my life. Experiencing all that Norway has to offer was an added bonus. Although I now have a pretty good sense of what this country is about, I also have just barely scratched its surface in many ways. And I can’t wait to get back here and work on becoming a true Norwegian.

This trip was great because I found out that yes, Tonje and I live well together. I also got to experience a lot of what Norway has to offer. But spending lots of alone time in a foreign country while constantly making subconscious comparisons to your cultural reference points and your own personal preferences will also teach you a lot about yourself. The things that lie close to your heart are hard to say because words make those feelings seem small. Letting others read those thoughts makes what seemed monumental in your mind just words, something really ordinary. And although I hope that those of you who’ve read this have been entertained, and maybe intrigued sometimes, I also hope that you’ve seen what this place means to me: something beyond the words.

I may move here next year. I don’t know. We’ll see how the job search goes. But if it’s not next year, then I know it’ll happen sometime in the future. And whenever that is, Norway will still be here, unchanged, because that’s how it always is. I’ll pack my bags and take a last shot of akevit. I’ll walk to the bus station, bumping shoulders with passersby along the way, closing my eyes and thinking about my car. Somewhere, an inventory manager will be wondering why the sudden spike in Budweiser sales has slowed. And I’ll miss Norway before I’ve even left it.

Ha det bra, Norway.


Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Dungeons and Dragons: My Trondheim Bucket List


Two months for what could essentially be described as a vacation is a long time. But, as the saying goes, “time flies when you’re having fun”. And before I’ve really had the chance to settle in, I’m leaving. With two weeks left to go for this trip in Norway, I made a list of the things I would really regret not having done. It was pretty long. So time—and money—helped dictate which activities would make the cut. My selections also came from a desire to experience things from a wide range of cultural reference points that make Norway a little bit of what it is. And I wanted to have fun as well. I did.

Last weekend I was in Steinkjer for the last time this summer. That made me sad. But my visit was fortunately timed with an extremely Norwegian spectacle that only happens once a year: the Viking festival in Egge. There was no way I was going to miss this event, one that captures so much of where Norway came from, and what it still is. I had wild expectations of people in stereotypical Viking garb, roasting animals and medieval weapons. Those expectations were pretty damn close.

The Viking festival has an egregious price tag, but it’s worth the cost of admission. Smoke from kettles and open wood-fire grills wafts through the fields, trees and around tjalds—Old Norse tents. Men and women tend various activity stations, food stands and shops while dressed in traditional Viking regalia. The event is mostly staffed with local volunteers eager to show off their heritage. They exude pride in their crafts and foods of antiquity. I’ve been to living history museums and the like in the United States, but never to an event that is trying to reproduce traditions with this much age: life was often a bit tougher in the Arctic Circle around the turn of the first millennium than it was in much of the tobacco country of the New World.

I ate up the relative absurdity of the festival, imbibing local Viking ales, guzzling stews containing items of unknown provenance and hurling throwing-axes at giant slabs of plywood. Fueled by testosterone provided from tankards of beer and hearty meats, I was actually decent at the barbaric stuff—I was complimented for my accuracy with the throwing-axes. Although Tonje only managed to sufficiently mangle and re-sod the ground in front of the plywood aiming target, she was actually quite good at chiseling designs into soap stone. I was quite good at severing slabs of soap stone in half. Like any good American tourist worth his salt, I now have a t-shirt commemorating my triumphs at Egge that day. For one day, I was a Viking.

The next bucket-list item for my remaining time in Norway was to experience a night on the town. I know it’s shocking that I haven’t really done this yet given the fact that I’ve been here for two months, but as most of you know, it’s a cost-prohibitive endeavor. Yeah, I’ve been out for some drinks, but nothing that compares to the hedonistic revelries of my “younger” days. So, with several friends, and plenty of disgusting beer in the fridge—the only stuff that even approaches affordability—Tonje and I hosted a “vorspiel”—a pre-party—to kick off an evening on-the-town. After three hours, I realized that, because of the cost of alcohol, many nights-on-the-town don’t involve being on-the-town. And when you do finally head out on-the-town you are about ready to plant your face on-the-ground. You get the gist: you drink a lot before you go out so that you don’t feel the need to cough up kroner at the bar when you get there. It’s fun to sit around and toss back drinks with friends; we call something similar in the United States a pre-game. It’s a way of life for the youth here, though.

After the vorspiel, we went for a beer at the coolest café/pub/library in Trondheim—Antikvariatet. Some of the famous Norwegian rains had moved in while we were there, and, instead of continuing the night, four of our party of seven decided to head back to Tonje’s. I wasn’t about to let my last chance—for now—slip by, and braced the monsoon with two others en route to what was described to me as “the ultimate Norwegian heavy-metal, underground, dungeon bar”. I’m in. The description was an apt one. The place was legendary: set a few meters below street-level, the milieu resembled a blood-smeared dungeon with equally “dark” patrons. The ambiance and relatively inexpensive cocktails were great, but the characters in there were truly exceptional: this was, without a doubt, a locals only joint. I was accosted by a couple of belligerently-drunk individuals with shaved heads and foot-long beards as I left—they had probably picked up my English. One of these chaps began following my friend and I home all the time talking about how he was a true Viking, and about the merits of his country and the shortcomings of mine. But the mood changed a bit after I spoke Norwegian to him, and told him I actually liked Norway. Suddenly breaking his pro-Norway screed, he stood there, drunken, stunned, and said, “Why????”. I told him that I thought the news of my approval of his country would have pleased him, but he was already deep into a rant about all the failings of the Norwegian government. Oh, the people you meet.

The steeple of Nidaros cathedral constantly reminds anyone in Trondheim of the city’s ancient roots. I have walked its grounds several times, and even been inside it on occasion. But I had never received a tour of the place, so Tonje and I put on our tourist hats and did some guided sight-seeing of Nidaros the other day. This bucket-list item seems to be in odd juxtaposition to drinking at bars, but I was just as eager to knock this one off the list. The history of the place is a long one: different religions, various re-buildings, etc…. But what remains today is a product of the violence, proselytization and other ills that helped make Nidaros what it is today. I’m fine with that. Nothing inspires me quite like being in an ancient and overwhelming structure, preferably one from the Gothic Era, but Roman is good too. Nidaros has influences from both. Parts of it date back 1000 years, while others are still being worked on. It’s a grandiose tribute to tenets that were once much more important in this country.

But the majesty of the cathedral wasn’t all that caught my eye: ah, those two organs. I’m a piano player. And although I can’t play the organ—it’s a different beast altogether—I’ve always been entranced by the power of a really big one, and the talent it takes to wield that power. As our tour of Nidaros was ending, I asked the guide if anyone ever plays the organs and found out that a well-known organist actually plays the famous German one every day at 1 p.m. I knew where I’d be the next day. So, at 12:55 p.m. the following day I was back in Nidaros listening to three of the best Bach organ pieces there are: what a treat. It’s hard to explain, but when the organist opened up the pipes for Toccata and Fugue in D Minor I got chills. That kind of musical spectacle gets me more than any concert of one of my favorite modern bands could. Go to Nidaros at 1 p.m. if you’re ever here.

I didn’t get to do everything in Trondheim that I wanted to this summer: lacking was a trip to Munkholmen island, a dinner in the rotating tower overlooking the city and several other things. But I saw a lot of great stuff, and I’ll be back again before long—perhaps to live here. I stood in a room built before the year 1000 AD. I also saw an X Men movie in a modern theater while making myself sick with black licorice candy. I ate moose and waged medieval battles at a Viking festival. And I grilled out with friends atop a high mountain overlooking the sea. These activities exemplified what Norway is: a mix of the ancient, the wild and the new. One night you’ll see someone in party clothes dancing in a club, and the next day they’ll be dressed in tradition bunads to celebrate Norway’s heritage. I appreciate this, and I’m glad I’ve had the opportunity to experience such diverse parts of Norwegian culture. And although I’ll return to the United States this coming weekend the same person, I’ve got plenty of new experiences under my belt and have new perspectives on some things. And I’m also pretty good with a throwing axe.

Monday, July 4, 2011

The "Other" Norway

This past week Tonje went looking for polar bears—or to a conference for interns at her company, I’m not sure which—in Alta, the northernmost city in the world with more than 10,000 occupants. I had been wanting to meet with some companies about potential future employment, so I took the opportunity to venture to the “other” Norway: Oslo. My use of quotation marks is intentional, and underscores the first thing I noticed about Norway’s capital: it’s nothing like Norway. It resembles other big cities in Europe, or coastal ones in the United States like Boston, maybe. Immigrants and tourists are everywhere. And you definitely don’t need to speak Norwegian to get by unlike other parts of Norway where a conversational ability is helpful. It was a new experience for me, and a good one. I’m looking forward to spending more than 36 hours there in the future.

I’ll be honest; I really don’t know Oslo that well. I only spent one night there and my sightseeing was confined to the famous spots. But I still got a sense for the place, and certainly know it better than I did before. Oslo, for the most part, is everything that Norway isn’t: busy, diverse, metropolitan and European. Although parts of the city remind you of what country you’re in—the occasional use of Norwegian, the prices and the flags that are flown from on high—I immediately felt like I was somewhere else when I got there. This is mostly because my experiences in Norway at this point have been limited to the more rural and central parts of the country, but it is also because Oslo is…different.

Most Norwegians who don’t hail from the capital will tell you the same thing: you’re either from Norway, or you’re from Oslo. There even exists a slight exasperation when Norwegians from other parts are asked about their countrymen from the big city. But that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s a bad place. Oslo has a much more diverse culture, something that most people would appreciate. And it has shopping, museums, entertainment and a vibe that frankly doesn’t exist in the rest of the country. Whether or not you’d like Oslo really depends on your tastes. Although I prefer the agrarian, simpler lifestyle of the rest of Norway, I find value in a lot that Oslo has to offer.

I took the train to Oslo from Trondheim so that I’d get a chance to see some countryside that I hadn’t seen before. A noble goal—I think—but, ultimately, a mistake. An hour into the seven-hour train ride—and five minutes into my attempt at sleeping—I was surrounded by a family of 15 or so with quite active children. The children’s feet were especially active as I found myself waking up every so often with shoes knocking against my knees (the seats were facing each other). This proceeded for hours: waking life mixed with gentle knee nudges mixed with sweating and ubiquitous sunlight from the lack of curtains. I got on the train at around 11 p.m. in Trondheim, and at 6:30 a.m. we were pulling into Lillestrom, a city about 40 minutes or so from Oslo. I had slept off and on and felt like my head was in a vise. Since there is currently heavy construction on railways and roadways in and around Oslo, my fellow passengers and I had to leave the train and board a bus for the rest of the journey into Oslo.

Finally in the city, I stumbled out of the central station and faced the famous Oslo Opera House. It was truly a remarkable building, but I was in no mood for sightseeing, or anything except sleeping really. I hastily looked at a bus map to get a general sense of where I needed to go to find my hotel: my second mistake. An hour later, after being tempted to sleep on park benches several times, I finally made it to my hotel and was luckily able to check-in at 8:30 a.m. I tried to sleep off the grogginess, but eventually conceded defeat after a few hours of tossing and turning and ventured out to experience Oslo.

I headed down to Karl Johans gate, the main cultural and entertainment area in Oslo. Lined with cafés, historical buildings, parks and lots of people, this is clearly one of the “it” spots in Oslo. I made a mental note to return there—which wouldn’t be hard since luckily my hotel was nearby—and walked down to the shoreline. Norway is known for its fishing and boating culture, and Oslo is no exception. The docks were pretty awesome, featuring several old sailing ships and some impressive yachts. This same area of the city is also home to the Nobel Peace Prize Building where I decided to have lunch. I have a bad history of ordering things off of foreign menus that turn out to be entirely too much food for one person: my naïveté struck again here. Figuring the “small” tapas plate would be suitable for one person since it was priced at the same point as many other lunch entrées, I ordered what I thought would be a good dish to sample the largest variety of local favorites. But the gargantuan plate required two people to carry it to my table. The other patrons probably were wondering where the other seven people in my party were. The plate was truly legendary: easily enough food for three people. But it wasn’t just exceptional for its size, the food was pretty stellar as well. Featuring a variety of deli meats, chickpea dishes, pates and vegetables in vinaigrette, I was more than satisfied after knocking back about half of it. Tapas plate: 1, John: 0.

Too tired to do much more exploring that day, I went and saw Lars von Trier’s “Melancholia”—a pretty stellar movie, get it?—and then sat at a café watching local juggling acts and tourists stroll by for a while. People-watching may not seem like the most exciting endeavor to most travelers, but it worked for me then. And I find that it’s usually a pretty good way to get a sense for a place.

The next day, I met with the Norwegian Microfinance Initiative (NMI), a microfinance investment group focused on sustainable investing primarily in Asia and Africa. If I had things my way, I’d be working in microfinance upon graduation in December, and since NMI is Norway’s premier—and almost, only—microfinance outfit, I really wanted to meet with them. They are a top-notch group managed by smart people who do good things. I was impressed, and, if Norway is where I end up next year, wouldn’t mind being affiliated with such an organization.

After more airport fiascos similar to the ones in my first post, I flew back to Trondheim after spending just over a day and a half in Oslo. I made another mental note never to take the train to Oslo again when I touched down after only 30 minutes of flying. As short as it was, the trip to Oslo was eye-opening in many ways. It was my first experience in the only city that foreigners really associate with Norway. And it highlighted the dichotomy between the “rest of Norway” and Oslo that I had been hearing so much about. Yeah, I wouldn’t mind living there if it came down to it. And I think I’d even enjoy it quite a bit: it’s really a great city with a lot to offer. It has all of the great social and environmental initiatives that Norway is famous for, and it has plenty of big-city perks that you can’t find in the rest of Norway. But ultimately, it showed me how lucky I am to have experienced the rest of the country first, the real Norway. Anyone who has only been to Oslo is really missing a lot, and, frankly, is missing the point. Norway is about nature, simple living and promoting the collective good. It’s easy to see why those from outside the big city tend to hold it in relative lower regard. Sure, a trip to Oslo makes a nice weekend getaway for some, but bustling traffic and the shadows of tall buildings don’t jibe with Norwegian culture, and never will.

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Random Musings and Golf in Norway

This trip to Norway ends in just under three weeks. Although I have mixed feelings about it, the trip home is inevitable. And that means that I need to start winding down the Norwegian focus of this blog for the time being—I’ll pick it up again if I move here next year. Since I’ll be traveling so much during the rest of this year, I’m thinking that I’ll keep it up as a travel blog of sorts so everyone can know what I’m doing, and hopefully hear something interesting or funny along the way. I guess that means I’ll need a different blog title too: we’ll see. But before that happens, I’ve got some unfinished business in Norway. And I’ve got more things to write about too: a trip to Oslo that starts June 28, a boat festival, some concluding remarks before I leave and whatever this blog entry is. I guess you could call it a collection of random things I’ve noticed that didn’t deserve entire blog posts. Some just deserve a sentence. All of them say a little bit more about Norway.

Gas costs a lot here—At the equivalent of roughly $8 a gallon, gas is incredibly expensive here. This is both expected and stunning at the same time. Sure, it’s Norway; everything is expensive. But Norway has more oil than most countries in the world. And its incredible wealth can almost be exclusively attributed to the oil up here. So while the Norwegian government already has plenty of money from finding the oil, lots of extra money from various taxes and steady income from heavy vehicle and property fees, Norwegians also cough up kroner at the pump to further prop up their collective wealth.

As close to the EU as it gets—Most Norwegians are proud to tell you that they’re not members of the EU, and probably won’t ever be. But most Norwegians also don’t know that Norway has adopted more EU directives than any other European nation except Malta. Although Norwegians have voted against joining the EU twice, the last referendum was split almost 50/50 among citizens wanting EU membership and those against. In addition to the adopted referendums, Norway also honors many agreements and treaties with EU nations, and is also a member of the Schengen area and the European Economic Area (EEA). Some have even called for a third referendum on the issue.

If you’re going to break the law, don’t do it while driving—Although most crimes in Norway are punished less-severely than in many other nations, the same cannot be said for traffic violations. While the maximum jail sentence for any crime—including murder—is 21 years, drinking and driving will land you in jail for 30 days. You’ll lose your license and have to pay a fine equivalent to 10 percent of your income, in addition to other fees and classes. Speeding violations get similar treatment: all of the penalties are the same except that jail time will be reduced or nonexistent. Norwegians are serious about their traffic laws, clearly.

The land of trampolines—It is impossible to take a walk or drive through a neighborhood in Norway and not see several trampolines. I would estimate that 2/3 of all homes have one. They are far more common than swimming pools in the United States—maybe about as common as grills—and are even featured in parades and other public events. This is kind of surprising considering Norway is so focused on safety, but they love their springy apparatuses. Bounce away, Norway.

They LOVE black licorice—I’ve touched on this slightly in my post on food, but this phenomenon can’t be understated. Norwegians die for this stuff, it’s featured prominently in convenience stores and grocery stores. There are as many black licorice items as chocolate ones or other candies at any store or movie theater. And Norwegians don’t just like it plain, they prefer it salted. In fact, the majority of black licorice treats here are salted. This item is the one thing that Tonje misses the most in the United States, and many Norwegians stash it in their luggage when they travel. Although I’m an adventurous eater and really like all Norwegian cuisine, I just don’t get the fascination about salted licorice. I guess it’s one of those things that you just need to grow up with. Norwegians don’t need to worry about me diminishing their supply of the black stuff.

Norwegians love to dub things “Norwegian”—This one is particularly humorous to me. When I first met Tonje, I remember her telling me that she was really excited about showing me Norwegian pizza and Norwegian tacos for the first time. I had visions of salmon pizzas and cod tacos covered in licorice and brown cheese. But I was, frankly, surprised to find that Norwegian pizza is just…pizza. And Norwegian tacos are the same things that you make in your home in the United States—not traditional Mexican tacos, but the stuff that comes in the Old El Paso boxes. I still have no idea why they refer to these two items as “Norwegian”, but I’ll let them enjoy their sense of proprietorship.

Dialects—There is no definitive number of dialects in Norway that I can find, but I'm guessing the number is somewhere around 20, if not more. The dialects generally differ based on where Norwegians grew up, and are almost always mutually intelligible. But for someone learning Norwegian, the dialects can often seem like different languages altogether. The standard Norwegian language is Bokmål—the one I’m learning, and the one spoken in Oslo, usually—but a newer version of Norwegian called Nynorsk is also officially spoken. Interestingly, although I’m learning Bokmål, Tonje speaks Trøndersk, a dialect common in the central regions of Norway. While I would say “ikke” for “not”, she would say “ittj”; for question words like “hva” and “hvorfor”, she would pronounce them with a hard “k” to start. These are just a few of the myriad differences found among the dialects. In some extreme cases, the dialects may be so different from one another that someone from Oslo might not be able to understand a Norwegian hailing from rural environs. And to further complicate matters, the indigenous Sami people of the North speak an entirely different language more similar to Finnish or Russian that virtually no Norwegians understand. Fun, fun.

Snus—This smokeless-tobacco product is almost as common as coffee in Norway. Sold in either loose or pouched form, snus is a form of chewing tobacco—for lack of a better term—that is made in an entirely different process from American tobacco products which supposedly strips it of most of tobacco’s traditional harmful effects. Whereas chewing tobacco products are generally reserved for baseball players, hunters and high schoolers in the United States, I have yet to meet someone in Norway who doesn’t at least occasionally slip some snus into their cheeks. This goes for girls too: they even have snus cans marketed towards them in prettier packages. The product is gradually being introduced in the US, and if—as those who study such things claim—it is indeed a much healthier alternative to smoking and other smokeless-tobacco products, then maybe it will be a welcome means to wean nicotine addicts off of the stuff that you need to burn.

My trip to the golf course—Golf isn’t very big in Norway for obvious reasons—read: the climate. But that doesn’t mean that there aren’t courses here. Trondheim has at least two such facilities within its vicinity: one with nine holes and the other with the full eighteen. Most Norwegians need to possess a “greencard” in order to play golf in Norway. For about USD 200, you can take a class teaching theoretical and practical golf skills so that you are then “more” equipped to hit the links. After seeing many shirtless, cigarette-smoking, cut-off-jean-wearing individuals in the US digging up courses, I kind of like this concept. I wanted to play some golf while I was here, but I neither possess clubs nor a “greencard” so I had few hopes of actually getting on a course while I was here. Fortunately though—in a rare generous gesture towards tourists—Norway doesn’t require visitors to obtain a “greencard” to play—money, I guess.

So yesterday I walked up to Bymarka—which, as you’ll remember from my Tour de Norge post is very far away by foot—to at least hit some range balls. The course was beautifully situated atop a mountain overlooking Trondheim and the fjord. It was really picturesque. And despite the fact that everything in Norway is expensive, the prices at the golf course were actually fairly reasonable: about $50 for a round or so. I asked for two buckets of range balls and some rental clubs. The attendant asked my handicap—presumably so he wouldn’t give me the good clubs if I was a hack, which I kind of am—and, after I told him “about 15”, he brought me back a 6 iron. Just a 6 iron. “Hopefully these will work,” he said. “These?” I thought. I walked towards the range with a quizzical look on my face and just a 6 iron in my hand. After contemplating whether it was more embarrassing to just hit two buckets of range balls with a 6 iron, or to go back in the shop and ask him if this was indeed all that he meant to give me, I decided that the latter was probably more prudent. “6 irons are all I’ve got to rent out,” was the matter-of-fact response. Glad I checked.

I then proceeded to hit two entire buckets of range balls with just a 6 iron. It was lucky that he didn’t give me a driver since the fences guarding the edges of the range were only about 2 meters tall. I had a good time, and it was good to swing a club again. It was also nice to see that Norway takes just as much care of its golf courses as it does its nature: the place was splendid and they don’t let just anybody out on the course—me excluded. I’m looking forward to actually playing a round in Norway at some point to really get a feel for the course. When I do, I guarantee you my 6 iron will be sharp.

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Trondheim

When I make my return to the United States in mid-July I’ll have spent a total of about three months living in Norway—including the weeks I spent here this past December. Most of that time has been in Trondheim, Norway’s third most populated city—behind Oslo and Bergen, and just ahead of Stavanger. I’m not an expert on the place by any means, but I do know a good deal more about it than your average backpacker or cruise-ship voyager. And I really like it here. I thought I’d talk a little bit about the place that I call home when I’m in Norway.

A little history first, though. Trondheim was founded in 997 and served as the capital of Norway during the time of the Vikings for about 300 years. The town also served as the Catholic center of Norway for hundreds of years before Protestant proselytization in the 1500s. The stoic, ubiquitously looming structure that is the Nidaros Cathedral dominates the Trondheim skyline, and serves as a constant reminder of these religious roots. You can see Nidaros’ steeple from virtually anywhere in the town: it’s the tallest church in Norway. And since it is so close to Tonje’s apartment, it serves as a Polaris of sorts for me when I’m off in the city and trying to get back to Tonje’s place. More recently, Trondheim was occupied by the Nazis from 1940 to 1945. Although the Germans constructed new buildings and had a large influence on the place during the occupation, there is little today to remind Trondheimians of their former presence.

But the buildings—and traditional dress on May 17th—are all that remains of Trondheim’s historical roots: otherwise, it is a very modern European city for the most part. A couple streets—including the one I live on—are lined with old buildings harking back to Trondheim’s days as a shipping town. The Bakklandet area is well-known for its multicolored wooden structures and quaint shops: it’s idyllic and welcoming. The rest of Trondheim is comprised of modern staples like malls, hotels, cafés, bars and apartment complexes. Whether you’re looking to explore ancient history, religious sites, typical Norwegian culture or just catch a concert and a beer, you’ll find it in Trondheim.

Bisected by the Nidelva River, and abutting Trondheimsfjorden, Trondheim is also surrounded by nature. A short, 15-minute walk through the busy streets will lead you deep into the hearts of the woods or the mountains. If you’re looking to seek solace from the city life, you can wander along the numerous trails along the Nydelva and feel like you’re in the backcountry. Whereas carrying a fishing pole down the streets of New York City would lead to strange looks or worse, such images are actually quite common here.

The city is really young too. The Norwegian University of Science and Technology (NTNU) breathes much of this youth into the city: its students comprise about one sixth of the population here. And since Trondheim is by far the most populated city not in the southern parts of the country, any young person in the northern half of Norway seeking an exciting weekend or a night out will venture into Trondheim. Although you will see the occasional senior citizen fresh off a cruise ship snapping pictures, the city feels like it has an average population age in the upper 20s.

Trondheim has typical Norwegian weather: frequent changes from rain to cloudiness to occasional sun. It’s cold in the winter, but relatively mild the rest of the year due to the influence of the Gulf Stream. During the most recent months—May and June—an average day is mostly cloudy with temperatures around 60 Fahrenheit, or 16 Celsius. Some days will push 80 and others will dip down into the low 50s. The weather is great for running, and most outdoor activities for that matter.

And as I’ve mentioned in previous posts, almost everywhere you’d want to go is within reasonable walking distance. Within two minutes I can be at multiple grocery stores, the gym, several cafés and bars and the river. Five more minutes of walking and you’ll find yourself in the heart of downtown, at the train station or down at Solsiden—a collection of shops, bars and restaurants surrounding the docks of Trondheim. I take full advantage of this when I can.

Trondheim can be what you want it to be: it’s got a bit of everything. Those who hail from the city love it, and visitors often feel likewise. Every time I walk out of the Trondheim train station after returning from a weekend trip, I feel at home. I miss it when I’m gone and I find my thoughts drifting to it when I’m back in the US. And although the US will always be my home, it’s nice to have a place that I feel so comfortable in while I’m away. The “heim” at the end of Trondheim means “home”: a good name, and an apt one.

Monday, June 20, 2011

Tour de Norge

An artist's depiction of me.
I collapsed in the field, my legs no longer able to support me. I couldn’t do much besides moan and feel the sweat slowly leak into my eyes, stinging them. The bike lay next to me with the front tire still spinning slowly. If I were a horse at Churchill Downs they would have put a bullet in my head. But while my cottony lips mouthed “water”, the other five Norwegians I was with trotted spritely up the hill with picnic materials and lit the charcoal of a small grill. We had just taken a bike ride up a large hill in Trondheim—the Bymarka area specifically—to have a small cookout and I was beaten, a victim of both Norwegian culture and the culture that I came here from.

The United States is huge. Alarmingly so at times. And because of this—in addition to relatively weak public transportation systems—we drive everywhere. If I didn’t have my car there is a very good chance I would not be able to function normally. Of course this is unfortunate for many reasons, but it’s a simple matter of practicality and culture, and, as of yet, there isn’t much we can do about it.

Norway is different. Cars are an extreme luxury item here, usually only purchased once one has a decent paying job. And even then they are used seldom. The reasons for this are myriad: high costs of vehicles (a new car here will cost at least triple what it costs in the US); high costs of fuel; great public transportation; relatively limited space; and a general sense of “environmental friendliness”. Virtually no one under the age of 25 has a car here. And having one is only rarely advantageous.

Such circumstances led to my plight the other day when we made plans to take bikes up to Bymarka to grill and have a few beers. Taking the bus costs money—and you’d still have to walk a ways after getting off—and, naturally, no one has cars. So your options are walking or cycling. Since Byarmka is a good six to eight kilometers away from the city center—up an endless hill mind you—we opted for cycling. “Opted” may not be the right word either. For the Norwegians I was with, it was simply how anyone would get there: no question about it. And even though I’m in good shape, Norwegians are much more accustomed to such strenuous treks in order to get somewhere. I wouldn’t take on such a jaunt unless I was going for a ride for exercise: it’s a totally different mindset. I tried not to appear whiny or frustrated, but those are hard emotions not to show when you’re carrying a backpack laden with picnic items up a constant 15 degree grade.

The air is clean here and the environment is virtually unspoiled: obvious signs that the Norwegian way of life spares nature by and large. I like this. But my culture hasn’t prepared me to enjoy a casual cookout when my heart is beating 200 times a minute. As women pushing strollers passed me as I cycled up the mountain, I tried to imagine myself and several American friends taking trips like that several times a week to get to our regular hangout spots: I couldn’t. Such ideas don’t jibe with American culture. I’ll adjust to the alternative means of transportation here eventually because I see their value and necessity. But it won’t be an easy transition. Whereas shifting a diet, purchasing habits or sleeping schedules are nothing more than quirky and often interesting endeavors, getting used to the fact that “getting there” is a plan in and of itself in Norway is a bit more difficult.

Laziness or an empty gas tank might prevent you from going somewhere in the United States. Such sloth doesn’t exist here. Since you have to walk or bike—or in some cases take public transportation—most everywhere here, there is no real concept of “too far” or “too hilly”. Last week, Tonje and I went to lay out at the beach. Instead of pulling a towel out of my trunk and leisurely soaking up the sun like I would in America, we biked some 20 kilometers over hill and dale to the seashore where I proceeded to fry like a fish that knew that the fisherman wasn’t tossing him back in the water (I had a great time though still!). But that’s okay. Cultural differences like this—despite the fact that this may seem like a long and whiny ramble—are part of why I love to travel and experience the world. And since this particular cultural difference benefits both the environment and me, I’m down with it. But if you see me huffing and puffing on my bike while I’m in Norway, I definitely won’t say no to a ride.

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

A Quick Gripe: Where the Sidewalk Ends

 I think I’ve paid enough dues to Norway through sheer goodwill and positive word-of-mouth to be allowed a chance to gripe just a bit about something that’s bugged me for some time. It won’t take long, but it’ll probably make a few people angry—although those people will probably be the ones that comprise the topic of this entry. But I need to get it out of my system regardless. And although I have an inkling of better judgment that’s telling me not to write this, it doesn’t matter. I’m right.

Most—and I do emphasize “most” and not “all”—Norwegians need to be more considerate on the public walkways—streets, sidewalks and bike paths—of this country. I’ve caught more shoulders, received more stoic stares screaming “Get out of my way” and been forced into oncoming traffic more times in Norway than in any other place in the world. When “most” Norwegians are walking in clusters, they tend to not move if you’re going the other way, forcing you into the street and to a certain gruesome death. I’ve almost needed to be scraped off the grill of a Peugeot five times now. Usually, you’ll get bumped into without so much as an “unnskyld”—or, pardon me. Half the time I see one of these particularly determined walkers I find myself waiting to watch them walk straight through café walls like The Terminator and order a coffee—by just saying “kaffe”—while casually brushing off pieces of rubble. Do you really realize it when a tiny fruit fly is obliterated and disemboweled on your windshield when you’re traveling 130 kph down the free way? No. Perhaps Norwegians don’t feel your shoulder either as they turn it into fly slime.

Many here—of course, not everyone—don’t stand much for courtesy on the streets. This baffles me since this country has a lot of rules that people happily follow to improve the collective quality of life. And since Norwegians largely obsess over following the rules of the road while they’re in cars, it seems that such obedience should transfer to pedestrians and cyclists as well. Not so much. Maybe stricter walking rules are needed. And forget those bike and walking lanes on the sidewalks, they don’t really work.

I am expecting lots of “New York is worse”; “it’s all in your head”; or “that doesn’t really happen” in response to this. But it really is a pervasive issue. And the funny thing is; this will mostly fall on deaf ears. Norwegians feign interest in attracting tourists with their cruises, but, in general, they like their country to themselves and don’t care what outsiders think: “Nei til EU” is one example—although a fair point on their part. (Seriously Norway, you are better than the EU and don’t need them). The most likely response from a Norwegian if you’ll tell them about the “street problem” will be something along the lines of “well we are fine the way we are and don’t really care what you think.” They’ve been dealing with the stereotype that “Norwegians are rude” for some time now. So I understand their exasperation. And I’m not even going to talk about the common foreigner mistake of assuming Norwegians are rude because they are quieter: that’s clearly ridiculous and not the case. But people here should consider being a little more “space conscious” and friendly on the cities’ walkways of Norway. Don’t do it for the sake of foreigners; do it for yourselves if nothing else.

Okay, that’s all for now. It’s out of my system and less of you like me: I guess I’ll have to live with that trade off. In the next entry I’ll try to make up for it with my usual ode to Norway. And, in the meantime, if you see a guy walking down the streets in American football pads, don’t laugh at me.

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

In the Summertime When the Weather is High


A light draft weaved through the empty house as we tiptoed in, peered around doors and tentatively called out names: the place was deserted. And it’s safe to assume that you would find a similar scene in the majority of Norwegian homes this past weekend. Tonje and I had traveled to her father’s house in Steinkjer and no one was home. Instead, they were in the backyard in bathing suits and sunglasses, soaking up the sun. The weekend of June 10 thru 13—an extended one because of Pentecost—saw temperatures reaching 80 F (about 27 C) and nearly constant sunshine throughout most of Norway. To stay inside when the weather is good in Norway is a sin. And I wasn’t about to have that kind of bad karma pinned on me.

After catching up with Tonje’s family for a bit, we decided that we’d make a trip to one of Steinkjer’s two “beaches”. And since the weather was pretty impeccable, we decided to bike there. Tonje estimated the bike ride to be about 30 minutes. But sadly, Tonje has now lost her “time-to-get-there estimating” privileges. Although the trip to the beach turned out to be about 15 miles over hilly Norwegian coastline, the fresh air of the open road was welcome. I want to emphasize that it was indeed an open road too: Norwegian roads frequently contain more sheep and tractors than they do cars. It’s a nice place to bike.

Drenched in sweat, we arrived at the “beach” ready to soak up the sun and let its rays evaporate our sweat—or, in my case, create more sweat. I keep parenthesizing beach because most Norwegian beaches are not the white sand ones that many of us our used to. The one we were at was definitely not. Mostly comprised of lichen-covered rock ledges and grassy knolls, the only signs that it was really a “beach” were the water nearby and the fact that there were lots of people laying out on blankets. Unfortunately, the tide was also out so you would be covered in seaweed and flotsam instead of water if you ventured in. It was still great though. And we relaxed and caught some rays until we Lance Armstrong-ed it back to Steinkjer: without the aid of EPO.

Since no sunny day can be wasted in Norway—something I love—we grilled out that night and kicked the soccer ball around until it was late. We’re rapidly approaching the solstice and it is light outside now literally 24 hours a day—the other day we walked back from a friend’s house at half past midnight and it looked just like 7 p.m. back on the east coast in the US. The next day—another beautiful one—several of us piled in the car, and after a quick stop in Grong to visit Tonje’s grandparents, we arrived at Tonje’s father’s cabin for what would be a much more fruitful fishing trip than my last one.

I toyed with selling myself as an improved fisherman in this entry, but the truth is better in this case, I think. Instead of using polls to fish—as Tonje’s dad rowed 4 of us around in a rowboat in increasingly windy conditions—we used what Norwegian’s call an “otter” I believe. It’s a contraption comprised of a piece of wood about 2/3 of a meter long, a long line with 10 flies on it and a handle which you hold on to. So, instead of having one hook in the water as you would with a normal rod, I had 10: pretty good odds since the trout are really active this time of year. Within an hour I had caught four--although Tonje will happily tell you that we had to throw one back since it was small. She'll also happily tell you that, although she caught fewer fish than me, she did manage to catch the biggest one of the day: debatable. It’s difficult to tell whether or not a you’ve actually caught a fish since you have so many flies out there and the wake hitting the floating board really resembles a fish bite, but you can raise up your line and tell pretty easily if something’s hooked. As I mentioned before, my fishing abilities end once the fish is in the boat. But it turned out to be much more fun that way: I got to watch Tonje break the neck of four of my flopping victims. To say I was emasculated is a bit of an understatement—especially since I would later watch her gut them with her bare hands—but these skills are something that most Norwegians have regardless of gender and I can’t really get too down on myself. Next time I’ll go Rambo on those fish.



The typical Trøndelag weather returned on Monday: a little chilly, a little windy and a little rainy. So we were indoors. But the brief meteorological oasis of the preceding days really showed how much Norwegians value good weather and how they don’t let good things go to waste. Staying inside on a nice day is blasphemous; not taking the boat out is treason; and not firing up the grill—even if it’s a disposable one—is downright unspeakable. And I like it that way. I certainly took advantage of it, and I’ll appreciate the sunny days we’re accustomed to at home even more now. I reaped the rewards of good times and good weather this past weekend. And I’ll get several nice reminders of it again this week as I eat fish that I actually caught myself for the first time in my life. Like the Norwegians, I’ll do my best to not let any good thing go to waste.



Thursday, June 9, 2011

Have it Your Way, Norway: Global Healthcare’s Gold Standard

“I really shouldn’t be doing this since I have such a terrible fever” said the woman as she dropped the needle she was about to stick me with on the floor. She used her left hand to sanitize my skin, and her right hand to wipe the sweat off her brow. Despite how this sounds, I haven’t turned to a life of intravenous drug use in dark and forgotten alleyways in some third-world country. A minor medical inconvenience had given me the opportunity to witness one of Norway’s few faults in an otherwise flawless healthcare system. I was at the doctor’s.

I had a virtually inconsequential infection, but since such things require basic prescription medications, I was forced to pay a visit to one of Norway’s urgent care facilities since I am not a Norwegian citizen and thus am not covered by the National Insurance Scheme that provides for the rest of country. The fact that there exists a convenience store inside the urgent care center which sold novels and hot meals should have curbed my expectations of a quick trip. But I was planning on, at the very least, being home for dinner since I was headed up there right after lunch. Unfortunately, pillows might need to be the next comfort item that the convenience store stocks.

Every 30 minutes or so one of the lucky patients in the waiting room—there were probably 30 to 40 of us—would sprint to the doors that led to the treatment rooms as their name was called. After three hours of waiting—and knocking out several hundred pages of the book I was reading—I conceded defeat and bought some of the hot food for dinner that I had earlier scoffed at. My stubble had evolved from nearly clean-shaven to a healthy shadow as my name was finally called. A tired nurse directed me toward a row of chairs in a deserted hallway after I entered the mysterious doors through which so few of my fellow sufferers had previously been ushered. The lack of activity I found was somewhat surprising given the disquiet of the ailing masses in the waiting room. Multiple doctors poked their heads out of rooms and asked if there was anyone who needed assistance: I picked the one who seemed the least desperate for a patient. I was given fine treatment, but the urgent care facility clearly needed an operations specialist to analyze the bottlenecks and throughput of their system—sorry about the business-school terms. Such inefficiency is surprising given the—well-deserved—stellar reputation of Norway’s healthcare system.

In Norway, 100 percent of citizens are covered under the National Insurance Scheme. Funded by general tax revenues, Norwegians have no co-pays for drugs or hospital visits. And minimal co-pays cover outpatient procedures. Each citizen chooses their own general practitioner (GP) from a government-approved list, and they can choose to switch GPs twice a year provided there is no waiting list for that particular GP. Referrals to specialists must be made through the GP too. A very generous system, the National Insurance Scheme also pays for sick leave, and, in some cases, such luxurious perks as spa treatments.

Aside from a somewhat inefficient urgent care system, healthcare in Norway has one other shortcoming common to most countries with universal healthcare schemes: long waiting times. One study estimates that about a quarter of all Norwegians requiring hospital treatment wait at least three months before being admitted. And, if treatments are not deemed to be “cost-effective” they can be denied. But Norwegians rightfully love their system.

I’m treading on extremely sensitive political grounds here, but I’ll summarize some of the basic arguments for and against the Norwegian system.

American person: “Healthcare isn’t free in Norway! You’re paying for it with your taxes. And you’re paying for everyone else’s too! Commies.”

Norwegian: “The portion of our income that goes towards healthcare is roughly 3 percent: comparable to what you might pay for private insurance in the United States. And I will gladly pay for someone else’s treatment so that they can recover and rejoin the workforce so that the collective output in our country will increase. We’ll be even richer than we were before! You capitalist pig.”

American person: “I want to choose my own doctor. I work hard to support myself and my family. I don’t want to burden myself with someone else’s health expenses on top of that! I’d rather pay for my care when I need it rather than paying extra to cover whatever ills might befall me AND others. You socialist, tree-hugging, hippy bastard.”

Norwegian: “But you are already paying for everyone else in the United States’ healthcare essentially! Your taxes cover some of the funds that the government sends to hospitals to help those who have no insurance. And there are still long waiting periods in the United States. And even if you have health insurance, you will still pay thousands of dollars to the hospital, doctor and other health companies for a reasonably significant procedure. You greedy, overweight, uncultured narcissist.”

These generalizations are ridiculous of course, but they highlight the main arguments on both sides. Although I’ve pretty much outed myself on the left side of the argument, I do think both systems have something to argue for. But the Norwegian system clearly has more merit to me. Granted, it’s an easier system to implement in a country with a population fewer than 5 million. But it’s hard to really see its virtues without meeting those who use it and believe in it. Equally complicating the issue is that the system would probably never work in a nation with such divided politics and lack-of-consensus like the United States. But that doesn’t mean that there aren’t lessons to be learned from the system: (1) consider long-term prosperity and the output of the workforce when judging a healthcare scheme, and (2) don’t let a nurse with SARS-like symptoms inject you with a dirty needle.

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

Nisse and Gløgg: Memories of My First Norwegian Christmas

This entry will be like watching “Home Alone” or “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” in July: it just won’t feel right. But winter in Norway is such a unique experience that it deserves some space here. And since we learned how to talk about the seasons in my norskkurs today—with much of the dialogue involving such winter pastimes as skiing and the like—I’m kind of in the mood. Cue Bing Crosby.

Although I’m still a Norwegian novice on virtually every level, this isn’t the first time I’ve been here. Last December, I flew into a scene that you might find in a novelty snow globe. Norway in winter is shocking to a foreigner on many levels. First, it’s cold. Really cold. The mercury rarely rose above ten degrees Fahrenheit or so when I was there. And on some occasions it was down around -15 or colder: too cold to even snow for the most part. But more startling is the darkness. Sunrise—if you can call it that—is between 10 and 11 a.m. and sunset is between 1 and 2 p.m. Even during these daylight hours the sun is barely above the horizon: an effect akin to dusk in areas of lower latitude. When you are not used to such conditions—and are suffering jetlag to boot—it’s easy to feel tired all the time. Although I usually sleep around 7 hours a night at home, I would often go to bed at midnight and wake up around noon here without much effort. A typical day might involve waking up around midday and seeing your breath in bed (Tonje just relied on a space heater to heat her apartment), looking out the window to a sky that looks like 5 a.m. in pre-war Yugoslavia (it’s gray and dark), eating lunch for breakfast and then trekking out in the snow in literally every piece of clothing you own to do a bit of Christmas shopping and see the town in all its winter glory. When you get back from these errands around 3 p.m.—when the sun has long since left the sky—you’re ready for dinner and an evening on the couch. Now, that wasn’t what I did every day of course, but it wasn’t an uncommon one either. Surprisingly, you don’t really miss much following this pattern. The country seems to move a bit slower in the winter and its people with it.

Despite having to make these adjustments, Norway is actually quite charming in the cold months. Parts of it resemble many American families’ ideas of a “Christmas village” that you might see in the pictures of a children’s book or painted on tacky holiday flatware. There is something in the air—besides ice particles and your breath—that is entrancing. From the thatched-roofed huts run by women in traditional dress who sell warm drinks and pancakes, to the strands of lights adorning the old buildings, to the church bells and street music, Norway during juletid (Yuletide) is pretty magical, for lack of a better word.

Many of the Norwegian Christmas customs resemble ones that people from other Western cultures might be used to: the typical Christmas movies, Christmas tree, gifts, etc. But Norway—and Scandinavia in general—has a lot of its own ones. Instead of Santa Claus, the dominant character of the folklore is the nisse. These little elf-like creatures are traditionally depicted as little men wearing long, floppy Santa hats, and legend has it that they emerge from barns at night to protect the humans who live on the same property as them. But they are often mischievous and frequently creepy—in one legend, a certain nisse killed a cow and savagely beat a maid because the farmer put a pat of butter underneath his porridge rather than on top of it.

In addition to aggravated assault and murder, porridge has other significance in typical Norwegian Christmas tradition. On Juleaften (Christmas Eve), members of the family eagerly gather around the dinner table, each with a bowl of porridge. The preparer of the porridge has placed a single almond in one “lucky” family member’s bowl, and the one who finds the almond is gifted an unusual treat: a small pig—about three inches long or so—made entirely of marzipan. Although I wasn’t fortunate enough to find the almond, Tonje’s family decided to give me the marzipan pig since I was the newcomer. I was honored, and eagerly bit into the pig’s snout. Since marzipan is little more than ground almonds and sugar, I was immediately full and probably didn’t need to eat food for another day: a marzipan pig is really the gift that keeps on giving.

Needing something to wash down the candied swine, I grabbed for what has to be my favorite staple of Norwegian Christmas culture: gløgg. A drink tasting kind of similar to apple cider, gløgg is usually served warm and made with red wine, sugar and an assortment of spices including: cinnamon, cardamom, ginger and cloves. Some will dump chopped nuts and raisins in it as well. And for an extra kick you can pour some of that delicious aquavit in as well. I am a big fan of gløgg, and although I drank it often in Norway, I actually had my first taste during a skiing trip to Sweden.

About a week before Christmas, Tonje and I borrowed her dad’s car and drove the two hours—we timed the drive with the sunrise and the sunset—from Steinkjer to her dad’s cabin in the ski-resort town of Åre, Sweden: one of the largest in northern Europe. Although I repeatedly told Tonje that I hadn’t skied in some 10 to 15 years, she had confidence in my ability to handle the slopes. Although there were novice runs right outside of the cabin, the plan was to head over to the big boys for some real skiing. Outfitted in my ski suit, goggles and her dad’s 1980s, bright-white astronaut ski boots I looked like I was headed off to film a scene from Dumb and Dumber. As we ascended the mountain in the ski lift, I could see nothing but Olympic runs and double black diamond slopes beneath me. And no one was struggling: everyone in Scandinavia can ski well. This was going to be a disaster.

And disaster it was. Using nothing but crossing trails, I pizza-braked my way down the mountain in what must have been the slowest-ever descent on record. Out of breath and beaten, I told Tonje to go have fun and I went off to find a bar to drown my sorrows. Eventually finding one, I pounded on the door in desperation until a ski bum flew in and told me that he owned the place and that it wasn’t going to open for another 45 minutes. Disheartened, I began to make my way back to the ski lift area when I heard a call from the bar: “Hey! If you just want a drink, come on in!” He must have seen my boots.

I sat in the bar for a little while and talked with the Swede about his country, skiing and America. He even put Rascal Flatts on the stereo—I think most foreigners associate country music with the US. Warmed by the fire in the bar—and a solid Swedish beer—I was ready to take on the world when Tonje returned. We ventured back over to the “kiddy” runs next to our cabin and I was instantly Bode Miller. Even though several three-year-old girls “may” have skied past me and laughed, I was at least finally able to experience the exhilaration of staying on my feet from beginning to end of a ski slope. All 50 meters of it.

I’ll always remember Sweden for the skiing, and for the evenings in the cabin learning the Norwegian numbers by playing Monopoly. And I’ll also remember it for the fact that alcohol was at least 50 percent cheaper there. But it was just part of what was the most unique Christmas experience I’ve ever had. Although you can’t beat the endless sunlight, stunning nature and relatively nice weather of Norway, and other Scandinavian countries, from May through August, the wintertime is certainly special in its own right. Here, you’ll always have a white Christmas, and you never need an excuse to sit inside by the fire, laze the day away and drink something warm. Just be sure to put the butter ON TOP of the porridge.

Saturday, June 4, 2011

What’s the Big F*ing Deal? Lil Wayne and the State Church of Norway

I sipped a drink as Cee Lo Green’s “F* You” played over the loudspeakers, expletives and all. A few tracks later, a Lil Wayne song lowered the collective IQ of all who heard it, and also featured myriad uncensored words. Not more than ten minutes later, a certain Enrique Iglesias song that is popular in clubs right now summarized modern courtship rituals—you know the song I’m talking about. All of these songs were playing over the most popular Norwegian radio station at noon in a restaurant filled with children, their parents and several senior citizens. No one cared.

Although the vast majority of Norwegians speak English and know what these words mean, there exists a certain desensitization to English swear words in the culture here. Or perhaps it’s just that those words don’t carry the same bite in Norway as they do in the United States. I couldn’t care less: it’s actually kind of fascinating. But it’s a bit strange the first time you hear such songs and don’t see parents scrambling to “ear muff” their children or demand a refund from the proprietor for letting the stuff play over the stereo. It’s just another small cultural difference. But it highlights a feature of Norway that I’ve talked about before: the ubiquitous juxtaposition of deep traditional values and modern culture.

While a walk down the street will expose you to trendy kids, The Hangover 2 posters and other such staples of the “now” culture, you’ll also see evidence of another aspect of Norway that makes it different from other places I’ve spent time in: the fact that here, the Church and the State are not separate. Virtually everything is closed on Sundays. And if you do find a place that’s open, alcohol will not be sold: giant curtains guard the six packs and tallboys and silently scream “forbidden.” In addition to the generous vacation time that all Norwegian employees are allotted—some five weeks or more annually—they also get all religious holidays off including relatively obscure ones such as Ascension Day and Pentecost. Surprisingly, not that many people here are religious to any degree. Nonetheless, the traditions are honored and, until fairly recently, no one seemed to think much of it.

The King of Norway is deemed by the constitution to be the head of the Lutheran Church: the professed faith of the country. And the Storting—the Norwegian Parliament—even controls the church’s budget. A vast majority of Norwegians are baptized every year—some 80 percent or so—but only about 20 percent of the population professes to be religious in any capacity. Less than three percent of Norwegians even attend church more than once a month: this makes Norway the “least religious” country in the world by some estimates.

With such low numbers of people claiming to be religious, the ties between the Church and the State are surprising. But movements towards separation are afoot. It used to be, more or less, required that all Norwegians be confirmed at the age of 14 into the Lutheran Church, but now many of the youth choose to go through a secular rite of passage called the borgerlig konfirmasjon: essentially an ethics course. Combined, a large percentage of teenagers across the nation go through some sort of confirmation despite the fact that only a small percentage of them will grow up to be church-goers. The main reason? Money. Like similar rites of passage in the US—graduation, Sweet 16, etc—confirmations in Norway mean big money to the youth: we’re talking several thousands of dollars or more. With such incentives in place, it’s no wonder that so few have qualms about committing to something that virtually means nothing to them. Hell, for that kind of money, I’d let them confirm me.

Still, in 2008, discussion heated up in the government about relaxing the ties between the Church and the State in Norway. The two will inevitably distance themselves from one another in the years to come. But in the meantime, Norwegians will continue to join the Lutheran Church in droves, and they’ll laugh all the way to the bank. And if you don’t like it, then they think you can go f* yourself.

Thursday, June 2, 2011

Among the Vikings...For Real

A few weeks ago, I ran on trails that winded through the woods and around the graves of true Norse Vikings. I may have even “accidentally” climbed on top of one—each is a massive five to fifteen foot high lump of earth that contains the remains of the Viking along with his prized possessions. But although I may now be cursed, or at the very least considered a heretic, it was a unique experience. And it was a very Norwegian one.

Tonje hails from the relatively small town of Steinkjer, Norway. Part of her family lives just outside the town in an area called Egge (pronounced “egg-eh”) which also happens to be the final resting place of numerous Vikings: proceed with the Brett Favre jokes. A two-hour train ride from Trondheim, Steinkjer is now an industrial town. But you can also find unspoiled nature, ancient history and great fishing within minutes in every direction: it’s breathtaking. The people there lead simple lives, but good ones. And in addition to sampling the delicious local cuisine that Tonje’s mom prepared, I also had the opportunity to experience some truly special moments during my most recent visit.

About 30 minutes from the city center, Tonje’s family has a cabin resting atop a rocky outcrop overlooking one of the countless Norwegian fjords. Painted in the traditional red and white colors often associated with the country’s residential and agricultural buildings, it conjures images of simpler times and Norway’s older fishing culture: a culture that I was intent on exploring.

After building a small fire on the rocks and grilling some pølse med lompe (hot dog in a wrap), Tonje and I grabbed some fishing rods and tested our luck from the edge of the fjord. The first two things I caught (after nearly stepping in moose droppings) were myself and the rock I was standing on. Off to a good start, I then spent 30 minutes in a vicious battle with a clump of seaweed: those raggedy weeds were not the trophy I had envisioned after soaking myself in sweat. Clearly, I am no Norman Maclean. But my luck would change…kind of.

Tonje’s stepdad thought we might have better luck if we took a boat out onto the water. Now you may be envisioning a fully-equipped bass-fishing boat, a majestic sailing vessel or even something with a motor. But our little skiff was straight out of The Old Man and the Sea: big enough for two, but you better not stand up in that thing. Charming and rustic as it was, my hesitancy to test the rowboat’s buoyancy grew when Tonje’s stepdad pulled up one of the floorboards and made sure that the contents plugging a hole in the boat’s stern were firmly in place. We then dragged the boat over some 50 feet of large rocks—assuredly dislodging whatever was plugging the hole—and into the fjord.

I had made the novice mistake of responding “kind of” when asked earlier whether or not I had ever rowed a boat. An honest answer, but expectations are clearly higher here in Norway. After 15 seconds at the helm, Tonje was declared Designated Rower for the duration of our stay there and I was demoted to Designated Beer Drinker/Rower Motivator. We checked the crab and fish pots that her stepdad had set a few days before, and with no luck there we positioned ourselves in the boat—in what seemed like the best way to prevent capsizing—and cast our lures into the briny deep.

As it seemed fitting, and since I am frequently obnoxious, I sang the theme song to “Gilligan’s Island” at least twenty times while waiting for a bite. Since Tonje probably hasn’t seen many American sitcoms from the 1960s, she probably just thought I was insane. But apparently the fish gods were big fans because sometime after “…a three-hour tour!” I felt a firm tug on the end of my line. And this guy was fighting. I struggled a bit less with the leviathan than I did with the seaweed and practically flipped the boat in my excitement when I saw him wriggling on the end of my line as I brought him to the surface. Flopping frantically, the kraken flew into the boat, and writhed around like a beast only Melville could conjure up. I then realized that my knowledge of fishing had expired and asked, “What do I do now?” Tonje, very politely, informed me that it was a pollock and this one was far too small to eat and that we needed to throw it back. All visions of a black-and-white photograph of me standing on the dock next to a crane-like scale straining to support my kill vanished into thin air. My depression was short-lived though as I realized that even though I wasn’t going to get the opportunity to “live off the land” like Bear Grylls or Gollum, I still caught a fish damn it. (For you fisherman, this guy was like 12 inches long, so, not “tiny” by my standards).

That night we ate crab that Tonje’s stepdad caught and some smoked salmon that was prepared just down the road. We savored some good wine too. We shot pellet guns and read outside under the light of the midnight sun. But most importantly, we relaxed and enjoyed nature. I didn’t hear the rumble of a car engine or even many human voices for that matter. The houses in the area didn’t have driveways for the most part: they were just there, built into the land and not disturbing much. The trip to Steinkjer and the fjord reminded me of why I like Norway so much. (1) Tonje’s family is incredible. Endlessly generous and kind, they make me feel like I am at home when I physically couldn’t be much further away. And (2) the people here respect the land, they appreciate the good things in life and they intend to keep it that way.

“No phones, no lights, no motor car,
Not a single luxury.
Like Robinson Crusoe,
It’s primitive as can be!”

Sorry, I just had to.

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

The Foreigner

One fortuitously timed email later and I'm writing for the Norwegian English-language online newspaper, The Foreigner. Established in 2008 by a United Kingdom citizen living in Stavanger, The Foreigner competes with The Norway Post to be the most-read English-language news source in Norway.

I don't know how long I will keep up work with them, but here's my first article.

http://theforeigner.no/pages/news/when-the-wind-blows-fukushima-nuclear-disaster-in-japan-drives-increased-demand-for-renewable-energy-at-statoil/

Tuesday, May 31, 2011

$99 for the Beer on the Wall

Both Alcoholics Anonymous and Norway are good places for recovering drinkers, or anyone trying to stay off the sauce. I’m not. But the Norwegian “sin tax” is my liver’s new best friend.

As I’ve mentioned before, Norway is an expensive country. The government is able to provide numerous benefits to its citizens through heavy income, value-added and sin taxes. And nowhere is this more apparent than in the prices of alcohol. Wages are high here, really high. And Norwegians happily cough up the extra dough to promote a high quality of living and a low Gini coefficient—the difference between the highest and lowest wage earners is small. But visitors must still eat the high costs without reaping the benefits. As much as I appreciate what the government is trying to do, I have to admit that I have shed more than a few tears when the six pack of beer I grab at the grocery store costs more than the rest of the items in my cart combined.

To satisfy the curious, here are some price points of common products one might buy in the United States and their prices here in Norway:

Dirt-Cheap Six Pack: Roughly $16
Normal Six Pack: About $28
A Decent Beer at the Bar: $15-$20
Yellowtail Wine: At least $20 at the store
Good Wine: At least $70 at the store—the stuff that sells for $15 per bottle in the US
Bombay Sapphire 750ml: Almost $80
One 12 oz Bottle of Smirnoff Ice at the Store: $8.50—for you bros

You get the point.

Yes, I still have a couple drinks here. But “having a big night” out on the town is pretty much out of the question. And that’s probably a good thing: I’m not getting any younger and my student loans could probably go towards better things. However, frequent imbibers and revelers do have some alternatives. The Norwegian youth have invented what is known here as a “voerspiel”, or pre-party. Since store-bought alcohol is much cheaper than the alcohol served in bars, many students will load up on drinks before heading out. In theory, they then need to spend less at the bar—although, from my experience, I tend to disregard my bank account after a few drinks.

This strategy seems to work for them though: the evidence is clear on Friday and Saturday nights. While cities in Norway remain quiet places Sunday through Thursday, they become “zombie towns” on Friday and Saturday nights. Introversion and tact be damned, curse drink limits and caution: Norwegians don’t hold back on the weekends. It’s an interesting sight to behold. And if you ever feel like it is impossible to have a conversation with a stranger in Norway, just wait until the weekend. Friday, they’re in love.

Since I respect what Norway is trying to do, I’ll put an end to my rant soon: it really isn’t that bad, and I feel spritely and renewed from my financially-motivated detox. But didn’t Ben Franklin—in perhaps a famous misquote—once say that “beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy?” I’ll pay for my sins with the hefty tax. But isn’t charging that much for a few good brews equally as sinful? I know a few people in the Norwegian government who won’t be getting raptured.