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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.