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Friday, August 28, 2015

When in Rome


 As I edge closer to the anniversary of my 3 years in Norway, I have started to reflect a little on how  living here has impacted me. Without stating the obvious, like I now know all the words to multiple  A-ha songs, here is my short list of the ways in which Norway has influenced my life:

  1)When I cruise through the produce section of the supermarket, individually wrapped red,yellow,      and green peppers look completely normal to me.

2) I do that “negative agreement” thing that all Norwegians do. Example:
 My Question: Would you like some ludefisk?
 Your Answer: No, thanks.
 My Response: No. (As in no of course not, that was quite silly of me to even ask really, I will go  away now)

 3) I start finishing up tasks and getting ready to go home at 3.30. That’s the end of a normal work  day, right? 

 4) Tuesday afternoon is mid-week.

 5) I go to medical appointments during work hours and only feel slightly guilty.

 6) I have consciously committed to spreading the good news of the 2 duvet double bed. This is truly    a revelation of epic proportions which, for reasons unbeknownst to me, Norway has suspiciously kept  from the rest of the planet. People of the world need to know that the real secret to a long and happy  marriage is not true love or genuine compatibility, but not having to share a blanket with your    partner  every night for 35 years. Halleluiah.

 7) I think a cinnamon bun, risegrøt (rice pudding) or a plain white roll are a perfectly acceptable mid-  day meal.

 8) I never wear high-heels out on the town anymore. If you have lived in Stavanger more than 12  minutes, you will know why. For those of you that haven't, be forewarned that death by cobblestone  is a real thing. Kim Kardashian and her stiletto-ed posse wouldn't stand a chance here.

 9)When faced with a queuing situation, I immediately try to take a number. Any number. Just give  me a number. Someone.

 10) And last but not least, I expect cars to stop at all cross walks of which I am within 25 metres of  crossing. Preferably, they should also read my mind and stop at ones I am even just CONSIDERING  crossing. When they don’t, I get angry and make a rude gesture

      Okay, so maybe the last part of that sentence indicates my residual North-Americanism, as I have  yet to see a sober Norwegian over the age of 6 have a public temper tantrum. Could this mean that  Canadian Beth is still alive and well in there somewhere? I hope so. But in the meantime, you will  have to excuse me- I have a few more A-ha songs to learn while I am waiting for my number to be  called.


Monday, June 1, 2015

The Norwegian Inquisition

As every expat knows, it’s never easy to go home again, no matter how much we miss mummy, daddy and the family hamster. I actually start feeling nervous when the first of my co-workers asks me, “Hey… you excited to get back to Toronto?” I smile and nod, but quite frankly the answer is usually a resounding no, as from the second I walk through the doors at arrivals I am already thinking of my excruciatingly painful departure. I spend most of my week at home imagining mean-looking, burly British Airways flight attendants dragging me back onto the plane as I cling in vain to my mother’s waist. Call me a killjoy, but I find it impossible to relax during those visits.And my anxiety only gets worse once the questions start.

Back on my home turf, everyone is curious about Stavanger. Understandably, friends and family want to understand what my life is like here in Norway, and from the minute I step off the plane I am anticipating what form these questions might take. They range from the mundane and easy to answer, (“How was your flight?”) to the vaguely political, (“ How about that oil price?”) But above all, the most challenging question is perhaps the most obvious.

“So how’s Norway?”

While in Toronto a few weeks ago, this question came from a rather unusual source. I had stopped off at my favourite government -controlled liquor store (see, Norway, you aren’t the only ones who are stuck with politicians in charge of your booze) and had entreated the help of 20 -something hipster dude behind the counter. I needed to find a decent bottle of Canadian white wine, and he looked like he might just know the difference between a riesling and a pinot gris. When I told him what I was looking for and that I wanted to take it back with me to Norway, the inevitable question arose.

My first instinct when faced with having to summarize an entire nation and cultural experience in 2 sentences is to talk about the weather.

“Um…right now I guess it’s rainy?”

Hipster dude frowned. Realising this was an unsatisfactory and wholly inadequate answer, he tried something more specific.

“I have always wanted to go to Scandinavia. I’ve heard it’s really nice over there, with the fjords and all… and they are kinda like us, you know, with free health care and stuff?”

He was indeed making it sound “really nice over there”. And when he looked at me with those big wide, hopeful eyes-I just couldn’t bear the idea of crushing his Nordic dream with stories of 35% taxes, 30 dollar bottles of wine, and wearing sandals only one and a half days a year. Being a natural complainer, I somehow felt this was not the time or place to let loose with my relatively minor expat grievances.

“It’s beautiful,” I responded. “The fjords are stunning-completely magical. I feel really lucky to get a chance to live there.”

As he nodded and handed over the much desired bottle- I could see he was smiling ever so gently. 10 points for me as Norway’s new travel and tourism ambassador to Canada. And while I didn’t exactly present an in-depth analysis of life in the Norwegian capital city of oil-I did manage to keep a little bit of the myth and magic of my adoptive home alive-in just 3 sentences.

And my new job was apparently just beginning. After a blissful 10 days in Toronto, I returned to Stavanger-horribly jet-lagged but happy to see Scottish partner . Strolling into the office upon my return to work on Monday morning, my colleagues looked up from their desks in greeting and smiled.I instantly knew what was coming.


“Welcome back,” they said. “So how was Canada?”

Saturday, March 21, 2015

Let's Talk Tanning

I first noticed it at the gym last week. Standing in front of the mirror, peeking out from my leggings… white, ashy, pale. Yuck. Could this actually be my leg, I wondered? Last time I checked it didn't look like that, I swear. It’s only been a month or six since it saw the sun, how could things have gone so drastically wrong so quickly?

Then I looked over at the bronze goddess next to me and the inevitable comparison began. She was wearing leggings, too, but somehow the tiny bit of flesh visible between her lower shin and her ankle looked smooth and perfectly brown. How could ANYONE of Northern European ancestry be this sun-kissed in mid-March? I inched away from her so she wouldn’t notice me staring while I pretended to maniacally swing my kettle bell. Yup, she definitely had that all over Nordic tan.

Don’t laugh. This is totally a thing.

It is also a secret that no one tells you when you move to Norway. Mainly, that Norwegians are mad for the sun, and even madder for tanning. When I first landed on these fair shores, I must admit I thought it was a generational thing. Back when I was in my early twenties, I remember using what we then called “tanning booths”, which always gave me the mental picture that somehow I would emerge transformed, possibly with super powers and a cape. Unfortunately, all I ended up with was a super rash all over my super stomach and back that itched insanely for about 4 super days straight. Never again with the tanning booth, I swore.

But these days it seems I am in the minority in embracing the natural look. Almost every Norwegian I know has indulged in the occasional trip to the solsentre this winter. Some to their own detriment. Most get the colour right, but as with all addictions, there is a fine line before you go over the edge and into “My name is Anders, and I’m a tan-a-holic” territory.

The interesting thing is, Norwegians DO know that tanning is bad for you, (my rash was a big enough warning for me) but some figure that the benefits of spending a little quality time in the old sun coffin outweigh the risks. It’s like they were raised to seek the light at every opportunity, ignoring any potential pitfalls. I have a Norwegian co-worker who defends the practice of tanning by swearing that having to work inside all day with NO sun ever would certainly do him more harm that the occasional sun bed session. He believes the lack of tan would make him irritable and moody, not to mention depressed. And since I have to sit next to him 38 hours a week, who am I to argue? I am in favour of ANYTHING that improves his mood.

And to some extent-I do get the attraction. We are just emerging from what can only be described as a hundred days of darkness, and unless you are a vampire, this is bound to affect you. We all look healthier with a bit of glow in our cheeks, and when it’s rainy and miserable outside the thought of curling up inside a warm little box does sound appealing.


And so I face a rather strange dilemma, and not exactly the sort of thing I ever imagined having to think about in Norway, of all places. To tan or not to tan, that is the question.