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Wednesday, November 28, 2012

It's Like that "Ratt" Song from 1984.


Out on the streets, that's where we'll meet
You make the night, I always cross the line
Tightened our belts, abuse ourselves
Get in our way, we'll put you on your shelf
Another day, some other way
We're gonna go, but then we'll see you again
I've had enough, we've had enough

This past week-end marked my first foray into the world of driving in Norway. Now, before I start, I should mention that it was NOT my idea to throw driving into the mix during my second weekend in a new country. Unfortunately someone who has been here for 1 month already forgot to renew their driver’s license while they were home in Scotland. Best not mention names.

So off to Hertz rent- a- really- expensive car which happens to be just around the corner from our apartment. Talk with very innocent looking Scandinavian kid who can’t be old enough to drive a car let alone decide if I should be allowed to hire one. Palms getting sweaty, he asks for my driver’s license and my address.  I look questioningly at the driver’s license-less person next to me. He stares blankly back. Unhelpful. Which address? I think. My Norwegian address?  The one on my credit card or the supposedly more permanent UK one? Why do these Hertz people have so many invasive questions?

Spotty Scandinavian kid rescues someone and I from our first Norwegian domestic and types in the address on my driver’s license. Never mind that I don’t live there anymore.

While we are waiting for the keys to the chariot, I scan a laminated placemat of car choices. Audis, LandRovers…these all seem like really expensive cars. I hope I don’t get one.

Keys finally in hand we head up to our compact car and get inside. I murmur a sigh of relief as I realize it’s an automatic and NOT a Bentley. One less thing to think about. Problem number 2: rain of biblical proportions has begun its onslaught on Southwestern Norway. There is no escaping it. Scottish partner, of course, barely registers that this anything more than a cool, dewy mist. He’s got that, “get on with it, will ya lass?” look on his face as I fumble with the controls to find the windshield wipers. He finally reaches over in exasperation and does some kind of intricate twisty thing with his fingers and the wipers spring into action. We are off.

Windows seriously foggy, I hunch down in the seat so I can see  where the air-circulation system has cleared a small strip of windscreen. The Hertz parking lot is half way up the side of what seems like its own fjord, which is quickly becoming a waterfall. There’s a vertical driveway in front of me, which a voice from the passenger’s seat assures me is a road. For someone who doesn’t presently have a driver’s license, he sure is confident.

At the end of the fjord road stands two hurdles. The first one is the crosswalk. In Norway I have learned that it is normal driver etiquette (and probably law) to stop at every crosswalk when there is a pedestrian within 100 miles. Unfortunately, this recently acquired information slips my mind in the euphoria of reaching the top of the Hertz parking lot hill. I barrel through my first crosswalk, leaving a disgruntled Norwegian teenager in my wake, and the Scot in the passenger seat shrieking, “Stop, Stop!” Who knew the Scottish were such rule followers?

Undeterred  by my shaky start, I stare down the end of the road, focused on the task ahead. And then I see her- my old foe, my eternal nemesis. And in this country of polite, respectful drivers, she is silent but deadly. The roundabout.

For those of you who grew up with these things, I understand that the rules of the roundabout make perfect sense to you. However, for those of us who live in lands of traffic lights and four way stops (an inferior system by any account) the rules of the roundabout take some adjustment. It’s kind of like trying to hop into moving double dutch ropes for the first time. You stand there making ridiculous circular arm movements in the air until you think it’s time to jump, or one of your more co-ordinated mates starts rhythmically chanting, “Jump…now…now…now”. Fortunately , I did neither of those.

Instead I glanced casually to my left and propelled my way into the traffic circle, causing my passenger a brief moment of panic, (ever seen a Scot scared? Me either.) but absolutely no reaction from the car I cut off. This is when it hit me. No horns! How fabulous. Now I can pretend that I didn’t just practically run over a woman in a crosswalk and almost cause a roundabout casualty. Although after that I did spend most of the day braking at EVERY SINGLE roundabout and crosswalk. Even the ones where there was no one around for miles. And in a country where there are only 39 people per square mile, there were A LOT of those. I guess someone is going to be getting his license renewed very soon.

Tuesday, November 20, 2012

For God's Sake, Shut Up.


You know what’s weird about living here? Besides the fact that the trafikkskole lets 18 year olds learn to drive on a brand new Mercedes, I mean. I have just this moment realized that I have NEVER lived in a country where people expected me to speak the language and I couldn’t. After living in 3 Asian countries,(obvious visual difference) and 2 or 3 European ones, (my ability in English and French coupled with a totally unfounded confidence in Spanish and Italian got me through) this really is the first time I have had to look like a complete linguistic moron. As an ESL teacher, this is the ultimate humiliation. Until just this moment, I have always been met by rounds of applause when I attempted a language other than English. Ordering a beer in Thai? Giggles and smiles from the Asians and impressed eyebrow raises from my fellow Anglo diners. Navigating complex questions from a French speaking customs agent? Pas de probleme. Been told my slight accent is “cute” and that goes a long way on that side of the pond.

So here I am in a brand new situation, and one which I'll admit I did not foresee.

Curse this blonde hair. I really look like these people and I know precisely 2 and three-quarter words in their language.

How can one function using only 2 and ¾ words you ask? This is where my artistic flair kicks in. I have been doing this awkward dance at cash registers and reception desks…don’t look them in the eye, they might ask you something…if you move quickly enough and mumble, they may not notice that you have no idea what it is they’ve just asked you. I am seconds away from jazz hands and doh-see-dohing my way out the door as a means of distracting from my pitiful communication skills.

Now I know perfectly well that practically the entire country speaks flawless English. And while this is infinitely convenient and most obviously to my advantage when trying to find the mayonnaise or the merlot, it does not make me feel any more at home.  It’s like listening to a joke but missing the punch line. The mere fact that their English is so flawless makes the whole humiliation thing worse, so I choose to live in silence.

Many years ago, I was told by my mother that my first words in English were not the usual, “mumma” or “dadda” like most infants. It seems I sat around in my crib for the first year, listening to adults speaking and taking in entire chunks of language until I was ready to construct proper requests and respond in a manner befitting my 12 months of life experience. So you see, I have experience with this silence thing.

If the ultimate compliment for any expat is to be mistaken for a local, I got that sorted on day 2. Norwegian OAP’s in some kind of camper van hit me up for directions to…well, if I could answer that question I wouldn’t be writing this. Here I have had to recognize that I am not “other” until I open my mouth. So for now, living in my silent world I will practice my “mummas" and “daddas" to myself until I get it right. 

Let’s just hope it doesn’t take 12 months. 

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

Made it. Phew.

The deed is done and dusted. No more furniture to find a home for, no more stupid moving companies to rant about, no more visions of forgetting to do something mega- important dancing in my head.  I think I had little idea at the outset what kind of turmoil, both internal and external, this move would conjure up in me. At the best of times, I was elated at the idea of pouring components of my life into a big martini shaker and seeing what came out, starting again. We all like the thought of a beginning better than an ending. At my lowest points I questioned whether my entire life hadn’t just been me looking for one escape hatch after another. And in this well-arranged life in Toronto, what exactly did I have to escape from? 

Still here I am, winging my way from Toronto to Stavanger, Norway to start a new phase of my semi-nomadic existence. I have engineered my life this way, and I love it. This makes country number six in eleven years, which only really hits home (pardon the pun) when I try to remember phone numbers or postal codes. There are lots of forgotten details at the bottom of that martini shaker, so this is my attempt to capture some of it before it's washed away.

Stavanger is beautiful at first sight. Well, at least it was on November 2nd 2012 at about 6 pm. My first glimpse of my new home comes from the left side of the plane as we head towards the runway in Sola, a "suburb" of Stavanger. Coming in from London over the North Sea, things had been pretty dark out there for an hour or so, so the gold lights of the city make the entire coast glow. I get embarrassingly teary eyed and try to hide it from the Arabic guy across from me wearing sunglasses and pouring his duty-free whiskey into mini-cans of Coke. Let the good times roll.

I am a little over-prepared for the customs process. And while I am coming to join my common-law partner who has a legitimate job here, I consider all angles of questioning that these hard-nosed Norwegians might throw at me. Will they want to know his job title? Our home address? Blood type? I have my immunization card at the ready.

The conversation with aforementioned Immigration Officer goes a little like this:

Formidable Blonde Officer: Hallo. Welcome to Norway.
Me: Thank you. (Hands over passport, keeps immunization card in pocket).
FBO: How long are you staying in Norway?
Me: (getting ready to defend my right to be on viking soil) Um, well my partner has a job here, so I am coming to join him.
FBO: Have you been to Norway before?
Me: Once. About 15 years ago. ( Pleased I can be so precise).
FBO: (Handing back passport) Good. Welcome to Norway. Have a good time here. (Smiles).

And that's it. What a chipper welcome. Mildly disappointed that I had prepared pages of documentation that would never see the light of day, I sail into baggage claim and load up 2 full trolleys worth of my most prized possessions.OK, so mostly shoes, really .After a brief chat with 2 more immigration officers and a sniffer dog checks out my suitcases, (now THAT'S more like it) I push through the baggage claim doors into the waiting arms of the reason I am here. Beginnings are so much better than endings.