tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67915343191641674262024-03-08T00:30:05.223-08:00ExpattersShort Stories and Tall Tales of the Expat LifeAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07408386296156301015noreply@blogger.comBlogger27125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6791534319164167426.post-39840855890544527792015-08-28T11:28:00.000-07:002015-08-28T12:00:44.076-07:00When in Rome<br />
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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:<o:p></o:p></div>
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1)When I cruise through the produce section of the
supermarket, individually wrapped red,yellow, and green peppers look completely
normal to me.</div>
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2)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->I do that “negative agreement” thing that all
Norwegians do. Example: <o:p></o:p></div>
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My Question: Would you like some ludefisk? <o:p></o:p></div>
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Your Answer: No, thanks.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My Response: No. (As in no of course not,
that was quite silly of me to even ask really, I will go away now)<o:p></o:p></div>
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3)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span>I start finishing up tasks and getting ready to
go home at 3.30. That’s the end of a normal work day, right? <o:p></o:p></div>
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4)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span>Tuesday afternoon is mid-week.<o:p></o:p></div>
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5)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->I go to medical appointments during work hours
and only feel slightly guilty.<o:p></o:p></div>
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6)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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7)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span>I think a cinnamon bun, risegrøt (rice pudding)
or a plain white roll are a perfectly acceptable mid- day meal.<o:p></o:p></div>
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8)<span style="font-size: xx-small;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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9)When faced with a queuing situation, I immediately
try to take a number. Any number. Just give me a number. Someone.<o:p></o:p></div>
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10)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span>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</div>
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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.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07408386296156301015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6791534319164167426.post-66373587928774316152015-06-01T12:15:00.000-07:002015-06-01T12:15:43.540-07:00The Norwegian Inquisition<div class="MsoNormal">
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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“So how’s Norway?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My first instinct when faced with having to summarize an
entire nation and cultural experience in 2 sentences is to talk about the
weather.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Um…right now I guess it’s rainy?” <o:p></o:p></div>
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Hipster dude frowned. Realising this was an unsatisfactory and wholly inadequate answer, he tried
something more specific.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“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?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“It’s beautiful,” I responded. “The fjords are
stunning-completely magical. I feel really lucky to get a chance to live
there.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Welcome back,” they said. “So how was Canada?”<o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07408386296156301015noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6791534319164167426.post-57357569584280974692015-03-21T10:44:00.000-07:002015-03-21T10:44:14.400-07:00Let's Talk Tanning<div class="MsoNormal">
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?<o:p></o:p></div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Don’t laugh. This is totally a thing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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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. <o:p></o:p></div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07408386296156301015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6791534319164167426.post-55450207434730205942014-09-26T12:14:00.000-07:002014-10-01T05:09:19.897-07:00Two Years and Counting...<div class="MsoNormal">
Next month marks two years since I moved to Stavanger, and
as with all anniversaries it necessitates a certain degree of retrospection.
Fortunately for anyone reading this, I have a lousy memory when it comes to
remembering day to day feelings and emotions and all that sentimental stuff,
although I remember every single detail of that time my mum made my sister and
I eat fried liver and onions as a punishment for our non-stop bickering. Thank
god for the invention of ketchup.<o:p></o:p></div>
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What I CAN remember about moving to Stavanger is that from
the beginning, I was excited about making a fresh start in a new country, and
particularly the prospect of learning the Norwegian language. It seemed so
niche. Like one evening, many, many years from now at something that can only
be described as a soirée, I would be sitting across from some terribly learned
and posh aristocrat whom I would dazzle and charm with my vast knowledge of the
nuances of Nynorsk and Bokmål. I was sure that “På Vei Workbook 1” was just the
first step on my path to becoming that sophisticated woman. Oh sure, I was
bound to make mistakes and I would maybe even get laughed at, but four years of
living in Asia had long since taken away any pride I had in my language
ability. Once you have publicly embarrassed
yourself by crying all over your Thai teacher’s alphabet chart while wailing,
“I’ll never get it, never ,never, never!” , there really isn’t much more to say
on the topic of linguistic humiliation. Norwegian would be a breeze in
comparison. At the very least I hoped it wouldn’t end in tears.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Upon my arrival in
Stavanger, I promised myself that I would take advantage of its proximity to
fresh seafood. In reality, this basically involved eating salmon on Wasa
crackers, twice a day, for 3 months on end. Why? Because I read in some crappy
beauty magazine that it was supposed to give you glowing skin. I was convinced that if I ate enough of it I
could undo the damage caused by wearing only baby oil to the beach and smoking far
too many Vietnamese old man cigarettes when I lived in Thailand. And because I didn’t yet quite know how to
convert Norwegian Kroner into dollars, I had no idea I was practically
bankrupting Scottish partner and I every time I went to the supermarket. Ah,
those blissful days of innocence.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Something that seems incredibly naive now, I was also hopelessly optimistic about getting a job. And even if that weren’t to happen, I had my
blog, I had the gym, and maybe, I mused, I would finally learn to cook- proper
gourmet meals made with exotic local delicacies like reindeer and hot dogs. I
would host lively dinner parties where my Norwegian friends would exclaim that
they have never tasted anything so entirely delicious in their lives, and that
I absolutely must give them my recipe for twice baked brunost soufflé with
cranberry compote. Then I got a job, and the learn to cook thing went right out
the window. Who really needed gourmet cooking anyway when, after a long day at
the office, you could come home to a freshly assembled and lovingly selected
plate of Wasa crackers and salmon? <o:p></o:p></div>
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And so, in
retrospect, my life in Norway now isn’t quite what I imagined it to be back in
2012. Or maybe I am not quite what I imagined myself becoming, but I have
little to complain about. I dropped out of A2 level Norwegian classes because I
got a job where I speak English all day. The salmon makes an appearance as part
of my once a month trip to the sushi restaurant in town-one of the best I have
ever been to outside of Japan. Neither “glowy” nor “dewy” are words I would use
to describe the current state of my skin, but a good set of bangs conceal a
multitude of sins. And the cooking thing? Well, let’s just say that Scottish
partner is happy I stay out of the kitchen, a place I clearly don’t belong. And
believe me, we both have Stavanger to thank for that.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07408386296156301015noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6791534319164167426.post-58959772746882834952014-09-07T05:17:00.000-07:002014-09-07T05:17:22.434-07:00Lights Out<div class="MsoNormal">
You are always there.
Lurking behind curtains and blinds, peeking at me from under doors. I
try to ignore you, forget about you and pretend you are not there. I squeeze my eyes shut as tightly as I can,
willing your intrusion to stop. It’s no good: I can still feel your presence.
Unrelenting and omnipresent, driving me to the brink of insanity. Well, extreme
irritation, anyway.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Yes, I am talking about YOU, Mr. Sun.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I have really had it with you. What is the big idea? You
disappear almost completely for months at a time, and then all of a sudden you
are the life of the party around here. Only you are like the last house guest
to leave; unable to read the signs that
your hosts are rubbing their eyes and yawning behind their hands. For most of June
and July, you were still hanging about at 1 am, reluctant to retire. That’s
right: I saw you. Peering at me over those mountains, just waiting for your
moment to burst back onto the scene with all your warmth and stupid shimmery
sunshine. I am here to say that enough is enough. It’s
time to start going to bed at a decent hour, a lot of us have got to go to work
tomorrow.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I am sorry. I don’t mean to be rude. Honestly, I used to
like you. A lot. I once spent a whole day with tinfoil under my face, trying to
attract your attention. It didn’t work out well and I ended up with a sunburn
that resembled a bright pink goatee, but at least we were on good terms then.
As it stands now, you are seriously getting on my last nerve.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s the exhaustion, you see. You make me so incredibly
tired. I am getting on a bit now and just can’t party the way we used to. You
remember, don’t you? You, me… a bottle
of baby oil and some drugstore sunglasses…boy, those were the days. But they
are over. I am 41 and I have responsibilities. Bad things happen when I don’t
sleep. I lose random stuff and send emails to the wrong people and get my heels
stuck in cobblestones in front of hordes of visor-wearing European cruise tourists. If I
could just get a solid night’s sleep without you bugging me, this could all
improve.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I didn’t move to Stavanger to pursue a relationship with
you, I swear. I mean, I knew you would be around a lot during the summer, but
thought that it was nothing a sleep mask and the odd whisky nightcap couldn’t
fix. You have now reduced me to duct-taping heavy duty black garbage bags over
my windows in some kind of trailer park version of the black-out blinds I am
too cheap to buy. But then again, I also didn’t think your presence would
bother me as much as it has. So maybe it’s not entirely your fault. After all
you WERE here first.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I really do look forward to meeting you again under better
circumstances, Mr. Sun. But until then, you might want to go and hang out in
Australia for a while. I have heard they appreciate you more there. As the days
get shorter and your buddy the moon starts to take your place as our almost
constant companion, I will not mourn your loss. It’s nothing personal. I will
be too busy sleeping. <o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07408386296156301015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6791534319164167426.post-81734080501944928132014-04-30T13:49:00.000-07:002014-04-30T14:04:51.956-07:00The Mummy Club<div class="MsoNormal">
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Aw, babies. They are everywhere in Stavanger. And who doesn’t love ‘em? Can’t say their
scrunched up reddened faces are particularly endearing to me in the first few
weeks of life on this planet, but once they hit the pudgy milk-fed phase I
generally warm up to them. And toddlers? Well, they have their fussy moments,
but how can anyone resist their straight -legged, wobbly, slightly drunken
looking swagger? Not to mention those pudgy cheeks. As they get older, it’s
wonderful to see them develop their likes, dislikes and dreams for their
future, watching a sense of humour and outlook on life emerge from a tiny being
you created. I am sure most people’s children don’t turn out exactly as their
parents expected, but as long as it doesn’t involve jail time, full facial
tattooing or an unnatural obsession with Justin Bieber, isn’t that half the fun? <o:p></o:p></div>
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I wouldn’t really know, you see. For all the goals I ever
made for myself, having children just never made the cut. In some circles, there
are individuals out there who simply cannot believe that having a baby would
not be on my to-do list. The fact is, my life has not really been conducive to
having offspring, and it obviously hasn’t bothered me enough to do anything
about it. So, being at the age where most women I know have young children and
toddlers at home, what’s a girl to do when she is living in a place like
Stavanger, where the most obvious way of meeting people her own age means going
to soft play with a 3 year old or discussing report cards with the other
mums? How do you get into that club
without actually getting in that club?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In Stavanger, as in
just about all the other places I have lived, the mums seem to travel in packs.
In the parks I see these mums striding confidently along the paths, three
abreast with their prams, chatting amiably to each other while their children
get their daily dose of fresh air. I can’t help but be slightly jealous of the
camaraderie. I smile and nod to them as I pass by, only to be met by slightly
bewildered gazes. Nope. Not going to make any friends that way. Might get
slapped with a restraining order, though. I hope they know I am not insane,
just foreign, a bit weird and overly keen to meet new people.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Next stop, the gym. On your average day I see at least 3-4
women drop their kids off at the childcare facility in the gym while they work
out. Surely if I show them I am child-friendly, that will be an opener? From my
treadmill perch I watch a few wee ones toddle along, racing to the change rooms
in a mad dash to be rid of their Michelin man snow suits. Mother in pursuit, I
smile and wave at a little boy while I keep a death grip on one handle of my
running machine. No sense in traumatizing the kid by having him watch me get
tossed off the back of this torture machine. Unfortunately, the mother is too
engaged in catching up to him to pay much notice to me. Why she needs a gym
with this kinda exercise at her fingertips I will never know. Strike two in the “make friends with mummies”
world series.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Down but not out, I have decided that maybe I am just
destined to hang out with the child-free group. It’s not so bad. After all,
they are the ones who can drink wine in the middle of the day on a Saturday, spontaneously
meet me at the kino (cinema) on a Wednesday night, and I never have to hear about the
woes of barnehage (daycare) closures . Membership in that group certainly has its perks. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so it has happened that I have found my niche. Although
most of my current pack are a good ten years younger than me, I reckon the
mummies my age just need a little more time. From an outsider’s perspective, it
is easy to see that Stavanger is a great place to raise a family, but not ideal for those of us with 'alternative' lifestyle choices.<br />
<br />
Still, no matter
what support Norway offers through its schools and barnehager or where you come from, we can probably all agree that parents need to be there for their kids. Until they hit their teen years, that is. Then
you mums will be begging me to come over in the middle of the day on a Saturday
with a big bottle of wine. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Don’t worry, I can wait. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07408386296156301015noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6791534319164167426.post-2977877712435995902014-02-25T12:30:00.001-08:002014-02-25T12:30:19.676-08:00We Are the Champions, My Friend<div class="MsoNormal">
Confession time: I think I might hate the Olympics. This in
no way means that I dislike sport. On the contrary, I have participated in
every sport short of camel racing at some point in my life, and I would
probably give that a go if I could be guaranteed not to come away smelling like
the back end of a Tasmanian devil. Or the back end of a camel for that matter.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have simply never
enjoyed the sly insults and international rivalry that it inspires. We are
told that the Games are supposed to bring the world together in a way that no
other sporting event does because no matter what the Americans try and tell us,
the Olympics IS ACTUALLY THE REAL WORLD SERIES OF EVERYTHING. All of this comes
together to create a dilemma in a town such as Stavanger, where every other
person you meet is from somewhere else.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So what’s a gal to do when she is a visitor seated in the
home section? I just knew that I would not be able to escape the Olympic fever
in Norway. Norwegians are annoyingly
good at winter sport so how could they fail to be obsessed by the successes and
defeats of the world’s best winter athletes? I knew that I would have to show
some kind of interest in this spectacle and probably have to talk some “smack”
about how Canada was gonna take Montenegro down in something I am sure is
called Super G slope style short track speed curling. This enthusiasm would be
expected of me since my native land, Canada, also takes its winter sport
seriously. Well, we take one sport seriously.
That sport would be hockey, or when that doesn’t pan out, hockey
fighting.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the Olympics approached, I could feel a sense of unease
creep over me. One thing I love more than anything else about Stavanger is the harmony
that seems to exist amongst the expats and Norwegian community. I know not all
Stavanger residents would agree with me on this, but my experience has been
that expats and Norwegians work and play quite well together in this sandbox we
call Rogaland, and I hate the idea of anything upsetting that fine balance. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then the stinking Olympics had to come along.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the day after the Games began, I noticed a strange
silence fall over our office. I must state, for the record, that my office is
quite international, and boasts 10 different nationalities amongst a group of
20 people. We were all on high alert for the first person to strike. Would it
be the American, who would most certainly be eaten alive by just about every other
nationality for being over-confident or boastful? Or would it be our hosts the
Norwegians, who may have every right to be as confident as the Americans, but
could be over powered by their sheer lack of numbers? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was day three before the insults really started flying,
over e- mail and office communicator at first, and gradually escalating to an all
-out war of words on how certain teams were getting certain parts of their anatomy
kicked. By the end of week one, pretty much every nationality in the office had
been battered, bruised and served up a big plate of you guys suck. What had
happened to the sweet little multi-cultural utopia of Stavanger? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe she will return once the final medal count is done and
the last closing ceremony fireworks have been extinguished. At that point, it’s
possible we can all come together once again and be friends, without any of
these petty clashes or the cut-throat
competition. The unity and peace we once had here can return. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Unless Canada loses at hockey, of course. Then all bets are off. <o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07408386296156301015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6791534319164167426.post-16953890004255095612013-12-19T16:14:00.000-08:002013-12-19T16:14:05.053-08:00Norwegian Christmas, Take 2<div class="MsoNormal">
Christmas in Norway is once again upon us, the time of year
where sleigh bells ring and everyone is holly-jolly except for the poor
individuals who work retail and have to put up with the rest of us trying to
decide between the red jumper and the blue jumper for dear old Uncle Anders .This
time last year, I had just arrived in Stavanger, and as I was yet to learn
Norwegian customs or make any Norwegian friends, the Christmas season was a
rather solitary and slightly confusing affair for me. Nonetheless, it being my first
yuletide season outside Canada in five years, I was anxious to explore the festive
options that Norway had to offer. I was all over the Julebrus (a disappointment
as it turned out, due mostly to its distressing lack of alcohol), and somewhat
transfixed by the meat dishes of gargantuan proportions. I survived the out-of
–control decadence of the julebord at the Sola Strand Hotel and learned that
the buffet works best when wearing elasticated pants. Then there was a trip to
Egersund Christmas market which started with me and Scottish partner dressing
completely inappropriately and thus almost losing a toe to frostbite, and ended
with a never- ending futile search for somewhere we could sit down and warm up.
Which in the end, happened to be the delightful, albeit unfestive, Pizza
Bakkeren at the train station. Since that time I have been reliably informed
that sitting at these events is out of the question: gløgg and a sausage are
all one needs. Too bad I don’t particularly care for either. And standing, let
me tell you, is highly over-rated.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gingerbread is another matter. Having eaten myself into a
sugar coma on more than one occasion over the holiday season, there is
something safe and comforting about gingerbread. I love how important this simple
spiced biscuit is to a Norwegian Christmas. Imagine my excitement when I
learned that Norway is the home of the “biggest and best” pepperkakeby
(gingerbread town) in the world? An interesting claim to fame, to be sure, only
I am certain I shouldn’t be allowed to go near it. The last time I was involved
in making gingerbread my sole focus was to see how many red gummy candy lips I
could pile on each cookie whilst gluing them together with the maximum amount
of icing. Then I ate one. Or eight. In my books, gingerbread is not so much for
admiring as it is for power-eating. Clearly, I would be to the pepperkakeby what
Godzilla was to Tokyo. Best keep my distance.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But the real joy for me this year has been that I am at last
privy to the mystery of that naughty little inebriated elf on the front of the
Julebrus bottle. This year, I learned the story of fjøsnisse and julenisse. These
partners in elfdom are quite the pair, with one of them being more of a thug
than the other. While julenisse seems to be the happy go lucky, rosy -cheeked
bringer of gifts in a similar vein to our Father Christmas, fjøsnisse seems
less accommodating. Quite frankly, I am down with any mythical creature that expects
you to supply it with porridge and beer, and will sabotage and generally irritate
your farm animals if you don’t. Santa Claus could really learn something from
his Nordic cousin. Lesson one: ditch the whole good guy act, S.C. It’s BORING. Instead,
maybe it’s time to employ more gangster tactics. Like, steal a hamster or two
and see if that gets you a glass of merlot next to the tree this Christmas.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Which is all anyone needs, really. Bring on the julebord and
its mountains of meat. Pass me a julebrus, and just to be festive, I will add
my own alcohol. Better still, I’ll take a glass of merlot, a few gingerbread
cookies, and if I’m very lucky, a visit from of julenisse on Christmas Eve<a href="" name="_GoBack"></a>. A very Norwegian Christmas, indeed.<i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07408386296156301015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6791534319164167426.post-18724890841612762362013-11-22T05:10:00.002-08:002013-11-22T05:11:47.986-08:00Inside Out<div class="MsoNormal">
Since I arrived in Stavanger 13 months ago, I have noticed
that there are certain stereotypes of Norwegians that I seem to hear again and
again from the expat community. Some of them I have found to have merit, while
others don't gel with my experience at all. One of the most persistent of these is that frankly, Norwegians are cold
and stoic individuals not interested in making new friends or participating in
small talk. Moreover , as a culture that values everyone doing their part, they
are not super keen to offer help unless you specifically ask for it. Although I
have never noticed this to be true, I am
starting to wonder whether those who believe this have yet to step through the
hallowed halls of their local fitness establishment.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the year that I have been a gym member here, I have seen
the usual motley crew of gym go-ers . The “stinky wear the same clothes every
day” guy. " I love my body let’s look at it in the mirror together”
man. Even “my gym kit is inspired by Borat’s man-kini” dude. (That last
visual took me an especially long time to erase from my memory). But overall,
most of my fellow exercisers are uber-fit, shiny, respectful people, with very
clean shoes. Not to mention friendly. Yes, you heard me right.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Case in point: A few weeks ago I ran wildly into the women’s
changing rooms with training shoes in hand. I had 15 minutes to spare before my
class started, and I had had a particularly difficult day at work. I didn’t
want to be there, I wanted a large glass of merlot and a bag of Jelly-Bellies, with lots of the lemon meringue ones. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I finished changing, I realized I hadn’t looked at myself
in the mirror all day, and had a sudden panic that I had a large leaf of spinach
from that day’s lunch plastered to one of my front teeth. I thought I would
take a minute to check myself out in the mirror to ensure I wasn’t going to
humiliate myself in a room full of ladies with perfect pony-tails and pristine
neon shoes. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I did a quick once over in front of the sinks and headed for
the door. As I did, a woman putting on her trainers called out to me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Unnskyld!” she said,
and then something incomprehensible to me and my pathetic Norwegian.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“ I am sorry, my Norwegian is terrible,” I answered back
feebly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“ Your trousers are on inside out,” she answered back in
flawless English and then gave me sisterly smile.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s been a long day,” I sighed as I noted the massive tag
hanging out the back side of my pants. She simply smiled and went back to
brushing her gleaming pony-tail.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While this wasn’t the
first time I have tried to push the gym’s dress and decency codes to the
limit, this WAS the first time anyone
was good enough to save me from the embarrassment.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6791534319164167426" name="_GoBack"></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
About 10 years ago, while working up a sweat in a beginner’s
Pilates class, I whipped off my shirt so that I could continue working out in
the jogging top I normally wore underneath.
20 minutes later I did a full sit up and realized to my utter horror
that this was the one day I had worn my Victoria’s Secret lacey black bra underneath my shirt. No one
had said a thing as I had calmly done almost half an hour of ab work in my
lingerie.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I thought people were staring at me for my super ripped
abs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes, the words between strangers don’t need to be
overly familiar or instantly buddy-buddy. To some cultures, that just doesn’t
seem genuine. But they can communicate an ability to look outside ones self,
and above all, a willingness to help.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I too will keep it
simple and straightforward. Thank you, kind, shiny pony-tailed Norwegian lady,
for coming to my rescue. I know I didn’t ask for your help, but you sure knew
when I needed it. It’s good to know that
although Norwegians may not burst a blood vessel trying to be your best friend the moment
they meet you, they are there when it counts. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07408386296156301015noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6791534319164167426.post-25652527320695242992013-09-24T08:15:00.000-07:002013-09-24T23:50:26.659-07:00Things That Make You Go, "Hmmmmm...."<div class="MsoNormal">
There are certain adjustments that one must make as an
expat. When I decided to move away from Canada for the second time, at age 39,
I had a much better idea of what awaited me than the first time I left, at age
27. I knew that I would have days in Norway when the cultural differences would
become too much and I’d just want to go home, where everything was easy. I knew
that there would be days when I’d be so inexplicably happy with my life that I’d
never want to leave. But I knew on most days, my life would be very much the
same as it was back in Toronto, except for the incessant threat of rain for 9
months out of the year, and the proliferation of my beloved fiskesuppe.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At first the confusion is constant, but as time goes by in
my new country, some of the things that once seemed so foreign are now
completely commonplace. Like the Vinmonopolet closing at 3 pm on a Saturday, brown
cheese, and taking numbers from little machines instead of queuing. I get it,
and although I didn’t grow up with it, it makes sense.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But despite this, there are still a few things that
continue to puzzle and bemuse, and which have not become any clearer with time.
And so, in my continuing quest to understand my adopted hometown, I present you
with:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><br /></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Everything I Still
Don’t Get About Stavanger ( But Was Not Afraid to Ask</u>) <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
5) <b>Tattoo
Parlours/Hair Dressers</b>-If you were dropped down in Stavanger out of the blue,
you really would think that most of us were a cross between Paris Hilton and a
Hell’s Angel. Since I reckon that the average young person will have no more
than 2 tattoos in their lifetime and needs only 1 haircut every couple of months,
how can there be so many of these establishments? Is there a secret tribe
somewhere in the fjords tattooing their entire community while simultaneously subjecting
them to weekly perms and bang trims?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4)<b>Graffiti</b> –For a
town that is as picture postcard as Stavanger, why is graffiti as prolific as
it is? And it does seem to be left up for longer than it should. Of course, I
don’t count the smoking pineapple doodle down by the Aftenblad building. That
should be left up indefinitely. Cause every town needs a smoking pineapple.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3) <b>The Raptor Dino-Bike</b>-
I have seen it once, outside Wayne’s Coffee on Klubbgata Street, but the
monster disappeared before I could capture it up close. All I was left with was
a grainy, blurred snapshot, while the owner of this masterpiece remains a
mystery to this day. Unlike the Scottish version, Stavanger’s elusive monster
comes with two wheels and is a convenient and environmentally friendly mode of
transport. Take that, Nessie.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2) <b>The Flea Market</b>-
I went there once. Amongst the most intriguing trinkets for sale was a photo album
full of cat postcards. Cats playing with yarn, cats in a tree, cats sleeping on
hot male model’s chest, all lovingly arranged in a faux- leather, bound
scrapbook which someone obviously pulled out of their 8 year olds dresser
drawer and decided to make a few kroner off of. I am not going to lie, I was
tempted. If there had been some unicorns involved I might have even gone for
it. As it stood, I decided against it since I would have to explain to Scottish
partner why I spent 100 kroner on kitty-cat pictures.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And lastly…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1)<b>That Alligator Statue</b>-
Come on, you know the one. It sits in the center of town next to Breiavatnet.
It appeared overnight and I am pretty sure it was snuck in by a group of
hooligans hoping to scare the crap out of the (very real) swans. A few weeks
later I noticed another animal statue, this time of a beaver, outside H and M.
Although as a Canadian, I believe the beaver is a proud and noble animal, I am
unsure as to why said animal statues are appearing around the city. But as long
as we are doing random beast statues around Stavanger, I would like to submit
the following requests: pigeon, sloth, hamster,
platypus, armadillo and… raptor. With or without the bike.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraph">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07408386296156301015noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6791534319164167426.post-19820287641929597942013-08-28T09:16:00.000-07:002013-08-28T09:16:10.216-07:00Happy Up Here<br /><div class="MsoNormal">
It’s that time again. The party’s over and we are all
trudging back to work after our summer holidays. The kids are resigned to it,
the parents look quietly relieved and reasonably rested, and me? Well let’s
just say as my first summer in Norway comes to an end, I can’t say I am ready
for the finale. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Summer vacation in Stavanger really has borne little
resemblance to summer vacation in Canada, with the exception that Norwegians,
like Canadians, prefer to do most things outside during the summer months. This
is manifested in our intense need to eat every single meal on a patio, balcony
or in some sort of garden. Basically, you will find us anywhere we can drink
while wearing sunglasses and pitying those who are NOT on a patio. Poor suckers.
Of course, my tolerance for sitting
outside is drastically reduced when you throw in a temperature of 12 degrees,
an Ikea polar blanket and electric heaters. But the sunglasses and the pity are
the main criteria for enjoyment. Oh, and the beer.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So it was in this spirit of summer that I decided to take a
last minute trip back to my homeland. In early August, I spent a week in
Toronto visiting friends and family, dedicated to hitting every patio within
city limits. I should mention here that a week back home usually does little
for my attitude as an expat, and never has. I generally come back homesick with visions of a cheap, carefree lifestyle of nightly get-togethers and
restaurant dinners dancing in my head. Consciously, I know it is ridiculous to
make comparisons but realistically, I like buying lots of cheap stuff and being
able to afford to go out to a different part of the city ever night with a
never ending round of friends and family who are ridiculously excited to see
me. Things weren’t exactly like that when I lived in Toronto. Especially the bit about
being able to afford stuff.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I arrived back in Stavanger, it was clear that the
aforementioned bad attitude was firmly in place. For the first time since I arrived in Norway over 9 months ago, I
started to question whether I really was happy up here. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I rolled back into work, brain and body
still in a big city state of mind. Everything in Stavanger was exactly as I
had left it a few weeks before. Same buildings, same weather, same old same
old. I walked back and forth to work with tunnel vision. Nothing new to see
here. The bright lights and big city of Toronto had left me totally tuned out.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It took 4 days for me to see it. A great big banner in the
center of town, that in my zombie state, I had been too blind to see. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The event; a festival in Stavanger sentrum in one week’s time, and the
headliners, a Norwegian band I, and a good number of my friends in Toronto,
would be thrilled to see. Should I mention the fact that they were playing for
free? I can only pray my 36% income tax contribution is going towards some more of this.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I stopped jumping up and down and squealing like a pre-pubescent Belieber,
I had to recognize that maybe at the end of the day, life here is not about the
non-stop excitement of the big city kind. For all this city has to offer, it
will never be London, Houston or Toronto. Up here it’s more about the enjoyment
of the everyday, punctuated by moments of unexpected delight. The party of summer may be over, but something tells me that in this town, those perfect moments of summer happiness will never be too far away.<o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07408386296156301015noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6791534319164167426.post-41285016266096794382013-08-07T05:27:00.002-07:002013-08-07T05:34:09.563-07:00Four O'Clock, Norway Time<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
So a month ago, I took the plunge. I went out and got myself
a job. I know, I know. The last time we spoke I was visa-less in Stavanger,
waiting for the gods of Norwegian immigration to smile upon me and offer me sanctuary
in this eye-wateringly expensive, slightly soggy, albeit perfectly formed little
town. Well, I am pleased to announce that I recently became the proud owner of
one extremely attractive residence permit which has allowed me the dubious
pleasure of employment. And as hard as it may be to believe, I couldn’t wait to
get back to work.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now if I believed the expat whispers around me, I was about
to hit the coziest, cushiest, most laid back work environment outside a vegan
pet yoga spa in rural California. My day
would begin at eight and end at four, there were five weeks of holiday on
offer, and the entrenched Norwegian belief that “alle er likverdige” (everyone
is equal) meant that we were all going to be one big happy work family.
Norwegians, I was told, do not really socialize too much with their fellow
co-workers, but instead prefer to come in, get the job done in the eight hours
allotted for that stuff, and head home to their families. Great, I thought. I
will be there at eight every morning, work my hours and disco on out of there at
four-thirty or five at the latest. OK, five if I don’t take a lunch and five-
thirty if I happen to get distracted on Facebook at lunchtime. Six at the
absolute latest. Sweet.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It all sounded so easy to adapt to, this eight to four
lifestyle. But there is something entrenched in the Canadian psyche that tells
me that eight hours is not enough. Canadians count every millisecond they are
at work. We wear it like a badge of honour if we spend more than eight hours
there a day, bragging to our friends about the time we slept under our desk or
worked a twenty hour shift on heavy machinery without losing an appendage. If
we spend less than eight hours at work, we are the masterminds of the most
elaborate scam since Oceans 11 (“At ten
to five, while my boss was reading over the month end stats, I , like, did this
baseball slide, right under her desk and straight into the elevator, it was
awesome, man. She didn’t see a thing”). Work hours are counted on a daily,
weekly and monthly mental abacus, added and subtracted constantly to account
for our presence or absence, and justify the funds bestowed upon us each month.
Sick days and holidays are unequivocally viewed as a sort of weakness,
something you are forced to take when the guy who sits across from you really
cannot stand to look at your sad mug for another day. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
So what happens when a clock watcher is plopped down into
this land where no one seems to be watching?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not a lot. Until the clock strikes four. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is the moment when everything changes. Home time. The
Norwegians, looking calm, cool and collected, are capable of getting out the
door in a flash. Me? I can feel the tension mounting as I see them packing up.
I know it’s time to go, but there is reticence, trepidation, and yes, even a
little bit of guilt in my demeanor. Four o’ clock is not my leaving time. I
wasn’t brought up on it, and it feels all wrong. It’s like being in a new time
zone, like my body can’t quite adapt to the rhythm and routine of daily life in
this new part of the world. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I can easily spot those expats who have adjusted to the
Norwegian time zone and those who haven’t. Those of us who have learned that
the day comes to an end at four regardless of how late you COULD stay to pour
over another spread sheet, breeze easily out of the office, while those who are
still living in their own native time zone stand around, awkwardly packing and
repacking their bag while they mutter excuses.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I have to go pick up the twins at barnehage (daycare),” a
fellow expat once sheepishly announced to our office, directing his gaze at the
boss. “I came in a little late this morning so I owe you about twenty-seven
minutes.” His Norwegian boss looked at him and raised one eyebrow. “O-kaaaaaaaay,”
he said quietly, obviously wondering why in God’s name anyone would count their
work hours by the minute.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And he’s got me wondering, too. <o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I wonder if there there a way to let all of this
incessant hour counting go. I wonder if my mental calculator will ever stop,
and repeal the time constraints it has lived by for so long. I wonder if four
really will eventually become the new five-thirty. But mostly I wonder if I
will ever be able to change this habit in the way that I change time zones:
have a coffee, adjust my watch and sit back and wait for my jet-lagged body to finally
adapt to the fact that things are not the same. </span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07408386296156301015noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6791534319164167426.post-88063591438007871792013-07-14T09:44:00.002-07:002013-07-14T09:47:29.420-07:00Sky High<div class="MsoNormal">
I have never truly got over the excitement of getting on a
plane. My first plane trip was in the late 1970’s, a time in which the average
person got pants-wettingly excited about flying. I was about 4 or 5 years old
and my parents bravely decided to take my younger sister and I on a family
holiday to Florida. These were the days of elegant air travel, and my mother
intended to stick to that directive. To that end, she purchased matching
Colombo-esque trench coats for my 3 year old sister and I. In pigtails, we
dutifully trotted along behind my parents in bell bottom trousers, carrying our
matching sky-blue, faux- leather suitcases. I am sure we looked, at best, like
miniature businessmen on their way to a door-to -door vacuum cleaner
convention. At worst, we were a hair’s breadth away from standing on a street
corner with one side of the jacket open, murmuring under our breath, “Pssst,
hey pal, wanna buy a watch?” A few years
later my sister would plop a fedora on her head, stick a fake cigar in her
mouth and use my coat to go as Humphrey Bogart for Hallowe’en. So I guess you get the picture.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The days of dolling
oneself up for flights however, have long since passed. I now must admit that
comfort, rather than costuming, has become of paramount importance. I try to achieve this pajama level ease
through the magic of the leggings/dress combo. I have no idea what I am going
to do when this eventually becomes an unacceptable fashion choice. As it
stands, I am certainly long past the age of being able to make pigtails and
trench coats look anything but mildly creepy. And let’s not even mention the
bell bottoms.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Since the 70’s, I have practically dedicated my life to
trying to recapture my first experience of elegant plane travel. Through the
years I have developed military level precision when it comes to my flight
experience. <i>Passport, tickets, money</i> was the mantra repeated to me from childhood, with the proviso that those three
things would allow you to reach your destination and purchase anything else
forgotten in the rush to make your flight. For most of my adult life this
mantra has stood me in good stead.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Until I met Scottish partner. His level of preparation for
international flights would put the keenest boy scout to shame, and elegance is
not exactly top of mind. “Tickets, passport, money” was really never going to
cut it in his book. There are boarding passes to be printed, frequent flyer
cards to apply for, and bags that must go through a pre-pack ritual which,
after 4 years together, I am only beginning to understand.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He likes to be the
first person on the plane, I am happy to wait until the last person is on before
I make my way. I have no problem spending an exorbitant 12 Euros on a glass of
wine in a random airport bar. He likes to keep a sober head and an eagle eye on
the possible gate, which he will dash for, leaving me behind with my half-drunk
glass of 12 Euro wine, the second “our” gate appears. It’s hard to be refined
when you are belting back your merlot like a shot of Jagermeister while
searching frantically for your boarding pass in a handbag that has one too many
pockets. In my mind I generally start the journey with perfect lipstick and a
pristinely packed carry on,but the journey inevitably ends with a lost customs
declaration form, a wine stained passport, and deep vein thrombosis from trying
to jam my knee into the seat pocket in front of me while attempting to find an
acceptable sleeping position. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In short, elegance, once the cornerstone of my 1970's air
travel experience, is now out the window. Gone are the days of calm refinement,
first time flyers clapping when the airplane lands, and something resembling a proper
metal knife to cut your reheated chicken or fish with. Instead, I wear the
closest thing to a onesie that a 40 year old woman can get away with in public
and try not to cause my relationship irreparable damage in the departure lounge.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Funny then, after all these years, that I still get that
same thrill from getting on a plane. There will always be magic in the closing
of the doors on one side of the world, and the opening of them in another. The
liftoff, the touchdown and the anticipation in between. Whether I’m watching
Scottish partner eye the departure gates like a collie waiting for his master
outside the front doors of Tesco or handing over an entire paycheck for a glass
of wine in a regional Norwegian airport, there is nothing that makes me
happier. Except maybe an upgrade. Ah,
First Class. It’s definitely elegant up there.<o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07408386296156301015noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6791534319164167426.post-25220513050914363372013-05-26T04:25:00.003-07:002013-05-28T10:44:24.093-07:00A Tale of Unrequited Love<div class="MsoNormal">
I am getting a little desperate here, and it’s all Norway’s
fault. I arrived here 6 months ago now and the immigration process has been
slow and painful. Not that I really should have expected anything different. I
mean, Norway is widely regarded as one of the finest countries on the planet to
live in. And frankly, they deserve this reputation. Everyone gets free health care, the library
has a ukelele for loan (Black Sabbath sheet music included), and “Verdens Beste”
IS actually the world’s best cake. Heck,
even their graffiti says upbeat things like, “God Morgen!” (good morning) ,
with a happy face next to it. Of course, there is the minor inconvenience of
the vinmonopolet (wine store) being closed on Sundays and the fact that spring
seems to be something that happens to OTHER countries. But let’s not gripe over
trivial matters.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My main problem is that I really looooove Norway. Like with
a crazy, slightly stalker-ish kinda love. None of the things that are supposed
to annoy me as an expat (see above) seem to bother me at all. I spend an
inordinate amount of time staring out windows appreciating scenery, or gushing
to Norwegians about how much respect I have for this place. Trust me, coming
from a Canadian who has visited and /or lived in over 50 countries, this
compliment should not be taken lightly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So why can’t Norway love me back? Just when I think I am
close to consummating our love, she pulls away. Another document is needed, I
forgot to fill in a space on form 12 B, not enough proof for question 8. This
country is a bit of a tease. Every day I wake up with the bait being dangled in
front of me-my friends here have cards and visas in their passports, they know
their status and their future in this country is relatively secure. They got
the Tiffany ring, and I live in constant fear of rejection. There is the very
real possibility that I will be spurned by my love at any point, and this limbo
is not the most comfortable place to exist. Although if they do eventually kick
me out, the thought of being “in exile from Norway” does have a certain poetic,
slightly Napoleonic ring to it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her fickle nature has led to some rather embarrassing public
displays. First, there was the time I cried in the Stavanger Foreign Workers
Service Centre after I was told by bureaucrat having a bad hair day that they
would not accept my application and I would have to return in a month’s time to
resubmit. Cue embarrassing emotional meltdown, and burly Eastern European oil driller
dudes eyeing me with bewilderment.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Since then I have had some special times with Norway. We are
courting, she and I, but the constant flirtation is far from being carefree. I
take a number, wait in line with the rest of her suitors, only to be told I am
in the wrong queue, in the wrong place. If I come back next week or next month
with a better offer, she might reconsider me. Our dates are rather
unconventional and require a lot of preparation on my part. I gave her my
university transcripts. Shouldn’t I get something equally valuable in return?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then there are the
precious hours spent on the phone, in delightful banter with the powers that be
in Oslo. Nothing better than being told you are number 133 in the queue to
speak to an actual human being while obscure mid 90’s ballads play on a
constant 4 song loop in the background. Ah, these are the times to remember,
Norway.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And yet time and again, I forgive her. She pushes me away,
but I keep coming back. One of these days, when I have answered all her
questions, and proved myself to her, she might finally let me in. This is all I
can think about, and for that, I can be patient. What else can you do when you
are in love?<o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07408386296156301015noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6791534319164167426.post-4893399916095767692013-04-24T06:30:00.000-07:002013-04-24T06:30:52.551-07:00To Skål or Not To Skål<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
A few weeks ago, after one of my speaking engagements, a
young woman from a local newspaper here in Stavanger asked if she could
interview me. Naturally, I was flattered, albeit pretty convinced that I would
either a) be so excruciatingly dull that she would give up half way through and
start drawing hearts and happy faces on her notepad while texting her boyfriend
under the desk or b) be so excruciatingly dull that the story would never
actually see the light of day, her candid interview shot-down by some gin-soaked,
mustachioed editor chomping on a cigar. Fortunately for me, neither of those
possibilities came to pass and my rather straightforward answers on ex-pat life
in Stavanger were published. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was however, one question which was not published, and
one which I struggled to answer with any degree of accuracy. Reporter and I had
been chatting amiably for a few minutes about working in Norway and the
cultural similarities between Canadians and Norwegians when she dropped the
bombshell. “What do you think of the drinking culture in Norway?” she asked,
all doe-eyed innocence. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wasn’t falling for it. She was looking for an angle, I
just knew it. I had been in Stavanger for 2 months by this point and had
managed NOT to insult any Norwegians up until then. Have you seen the size of
the average local? I wasn’t about to start. Quickly, the cotton wool and flies
that so often cloud my brain cleared as I tried to decipher what kind of answer
might be acceptable in this situation. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Option 1 was a direct comparison. As in, “Bwahaha, you think
YOU guys drink a lot? I am Canadian and I live with a Scot. We haven’t been
sober since the Thatcher era”. This was quickly vetoed when I realized it might
become competitive and in order to win this argument I would have to prove that
I drank. A lot. Hmmm, not ideal. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Option 2 was just as bad. As in, “The drinking culture in
Norway…yes, it is indeed an unseemly state of affairs here, old chap. I am
shocked and appalled by the behavior I have seen in my short time in your fair
country”. Way too prim and proper, and might require me to prove that I DIDN’T
drink. Ever. Also not ideal.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By process of
elimination, option 3 sounded like the best way out. I would feign innocence,
then deftly change the subject to something less personal, like Norwegian’s
inexplicable love of hot dogs and 53 types of frozen pizza.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, I don’t know,” I said, “I haven’t really gone out
that much here yet. But I have been to Dolly Dimple’s. Pretty good pizza.” I
smiled encouragingly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Young reporter frowned. I guess pizza is not that
interesting when what you are really looking for is some insightful commentary
on how Norwegians drink more/better/faster than the rest of the world. I must
confess, before I moved here, I DID have a mental picture of what Scandinavian
drinking culture would entail. It involved some sort of homemade alcohol
product strong enough to strip paint off the walls and hours in a sauna
followed by a dip in some sort of cold plunge pool, like say, the North Sea. I
think there was some nudity and hitting each other with branches involved too,
it’s hard to remember now. Perhaps
understandably, I wasn’t really looking forward to it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By this time, I had already experienced the booze fest that
is the Julebord ( Christmas buffet) in Norway, which, to me, looked pretty much
the same as your average work Christmas party in the UK. No matter what country you are from,
intoxication while wearing Santa hats and snowflake jumpers is never a pretty
sight. Even worse when it’s your Aunt Helga, or Betty who works in accounts.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
More recently, in my
attempt to experience the true Norwegian drinking culture, I decided to sign up
for a local drinking “event” here in Stavanger. I have become pretty decent at
disguising myself as a local, at least until I am asked anything more
complicated than, “Do you like fiskesuppe?” in Norwegian, so I thought I could
observe without undue disturbance. Much to my chagrin, the drinking event in
question involved cocktails with bits of tropical fruit in it, a lot of women
teetering along cobblestone streets in super stilettoes, and a distressing lack
of hitting each other with branches. Also, absolutely no nudity whatsoever. My
disappointment knew no bounds.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Surely this is not what young reporter meant by “Norwegian
Drinking Culture” because if it was, then it looks pretty much the same as it
does in Toronto, Vancouver or Calgary to me. I do however, have one more
drinking opportunity left to discover, and one which will surely top them all: May
17, Constitution Day. Will this be the day when I at last uncover the mystery
of the Norwegian Drinking Culture? Come on Norway, bring it on. I can take it.
Just give the fruity cocktails a miss and keep your clothes on, please.<o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07408386296156301015noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6791534319164167426.post-41330704165664011872013-03-31T05:59:00.001-07:002013-03-31T05:59:14.235-07:00Vivat Regina<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have a confession to make. From the ages of 8 until 12, a
time when many of you were gazing lovingly at your Beatles, David Cassidy,
Duran Duran, or Backstreet Boys album covers, I was harbouring a deep, dark
secret. No, it wasn’t a misguided crush on Boy George. In fact, I cared very
little for the boy bands of my time. I was too busy cutting out pictures for my
scrapbook and pouring over books featuring my REAL interest: The British Royal
Family.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, it’s true. I was a staunch 10 year old mini-
monarchist. I would have worn kid gloves and a tiara to school if my mother had
let me. By the time I went to middle
school I could rattle off the birth dates and full names of most of the
principal members of the royal family, the schools they went to and the names
of their polo ponies. I knew what they liked to do in their free time (polo and
skiing) and the intricacies of their social circles (polo team players and
managers). The wedding of Prince Charles and Princess Diana on 29<sup>th</sup>
July 1981 in St Paul’s Cathedral (see what I mean?) intensified my interest,
but I was hooked long before that. I blame it primarily on my grandmother, a
devoted anglophile and devout monarchist.
When I stayed with her and my grandfather in their tiny D.I.Y Tudor-style
cottage, my bed time stories were from books with catchy titles like, “The Six
Wives of Henry VIII in Excruciating Detail” and “Debrett’s Peerage and
Baronetage for Insomniacs”. For me, this
was compelling stuff. Certainly not average reading material for a pre-teen
girl, but there you have it. I was an odd child.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As a consequence of this early indoctrination, I dreamed of
having a life surrounded by the people in these books. They were my fairy
stories, only they involved people and places that really and truly existed. By
the time I was 11 my imagination had me married off to Prince Edward, the
youngest son of the queen. Never mind that I hadn’t yet even been to England
and I was the daughter of a grocer, living in a town the size of a postage
stamp in rural Canada. My parents cared passionately about good manners and
social graces and endeavored to prepare me for whatever situation might come my
way. I have always thought myself lucky that they did.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I was 27 I moved to the UK, and briefly married a
British diplomat. During those few years, I became a part of the world I had
only dreamt about. Garden parties in Kensington, balls and receptions at
Whitehall Palace, dinner conversations with people called “Sir” and “Lady”. Frankly, I faked my way through most of it by pretending to be Princess Diana. Most of the time, I felt accepted. And it was wondrous. I had unexpectedly
become a part of the world I had always dreamed of and had, until that time, only
really existed in my childhood scrapbook.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It all came
crashing down when my husband and I divorced. That world had always seemed too
good to be true, and now it was gone. But the little girl inside me wasn't able to let it go. Not entirely. For the next
few years, I continued to visit the UK . I felt the need to return to what I
knew and the places that brought me such childlike comfort. The people and
places in my scrapbook were so much more real to me now, and I could still see
and touch them, even though I was once again on the outside looking in. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On one of those flights to London last fall, I was seated
next to an English gentleman and we struck up a lively conversation. I was on
my way to the UK to spend time with Scottish partner, he was on his way home to
Wiltshire after a conference in Toronto. He was older than me, a great
conversationalist with amusing stories to tell. He told me about his wife and
sons, his career in the military, the time he spent in India. We each had a
couple of those lovely mini-bottles of wine, our rectangular beef or chicken
frozen dinners, and a good old chat as we crossed the Atlantic. By the time we
reached Heathrow and started the race to immigration, we were fast friends. As
we parted ways, he handed me his card and I tried not to smile as I saw the
insignia.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Any time you and your partner are in London and you want to
come see me at the House of Lords, just drop me an e-mail. I would be glad to
give you a personal tour,” he said as we waved good bye.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stood and stared at the name on the card, just for a
moment. And then, right there in the middle of passport control at Heathrow, I
did a little dance, before calmly placing his card in my wallet and continuing
on my way. I still had another flight to catch. And possibly a scrapbook to
update.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>(Stay tuned folks, for the story of me attempting to keep my cool on a private tour of the House of Lords.)</i></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07408386296156301015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6791534319164167426.post-22345656465742029292013-03-22T03:11:00.001-07:002013-03-22T03:19:10.589-07:00Ya Gotta Kiss A Lot of Frogs<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Making friends is never easy, we all know that. I am sorry
to say it gets harder as you get older. As time goes on your standards change
and it’s no longer simply about whether the girl next to you also likes pink,
or can consistently colour inside the lines or wants to join the Michael
Jackson fan club that you are currently running out of your parents’ garage.
You become picky and start looking for complex, intangible things like
integrity, values and the ever elusive ‘good sense of humour’. Although most of us will naturally gravitate
towards those with talents, likes or dislikes similar to our own, the criteria
for friendship naturally broadens a bit as time goes on. But just between you
and me, I will confess to a continuing fondness for those who know all the
lyrics to “Thriller” by heart. Bonus points if you include the Vincent Price
bit.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Moving to Stavanger and facing the prospect of making new
friends at age 40 was, and sometimes still is, a daunting prospect. While it is
true that I don’t generally have problems meeting people and inflicting my
friendship upon them, in the back of mind I always have a fear that THIS time
will be different. This time I won’t meet anyone I like, or worse, no one will
like me. I become 16 all over again, full of all the angst and anxiety but with
a few less pimples and way more wrinkles. It doesn’t seem to matter that I have
been doing this expat thing for the better part of 12 years, and that this is
at least the seventh time in my adult life that I have had to start all over
again in the friendship department. In my head I am still somewhat convinced
that there are a finite amount of friendships to go around and that I have to
get in there quickly and impress someone or I am never going to get invited to
the prom. Instead, I will be left standing by the gym wall swaying back and
forth to some Celine Dion song while everyone else gazes lovingly into their
partner’s eyes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It all sounds so frantic and slightly desperate, doesn’t it?
That’s because it is. It’s like blind dating for months on end. Frantic,
slightly desperate AND exhausting.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In all the cities I have lived in, there has always been an
expat circuit, and Stavanger is no exception. If you are the temporarily
jobless, accompanying partner, you have to do the rounds. The events organized
for us are often similar to going on a cruise or package holiday except that
sadly there is no free nightly Viking musical show and the drinks are
reaaaalllly expensive. The purpose of this circuit is to create a sense of
community among the community-less, and for the most part they achieve that aim.
Pub quizzes, coffee mornings, mum’s
groups, they are all about trying to get us to meet as many people as possible
rather than throw our hands up in the air and admit social defeat.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you are lucky, you meet your friendship soul mate in the
first few weeks of this circuit, after which you can just sit back and watch
all the other poor souls drift aimlessly about, clutching their expensive drink
while the love theme from Titanic plays wistfully in the background. If you are
unfortunate, or have special friendship needs, you could be hanging about for
months waiting for that certain someone to come along. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
But we must not lose heart. The flip side of this whole
situation is that we are in a town full of comings and goings. Yes, it can be
heart-wrenching when your new found BFF suddenly decides that they are moving
to Azerbaijan or Alaska, but if someone is leaving, someone else is just
arriving. And you can bet your bottom Kroner that they will be looking for
friends, too. It’s like having an eternal, self-replenishing dating pool at
your fingertips. Even New York can’t claim that.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Despite our individual needs and relatively small numbers, there
is a diverse and social expat community here. Stavanger may not have the
non-stop excitement of a Bangkok or London, but there are always new people to
meet if you are willing to make the effort. As for my new-found friendships,
well, I suppose I can modify my criteria on the Michael Jackson thing a little.
As long as you don’t listen to Celine Dion. That, my friend, is out of the
question.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, can I buy you a drink?<o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07408386296156301015noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6791534319164167426.post-49606355319216056072013-02-22T07:35:00.000-08:002013-02-22T07:42:24.555-08:00Trust Issues<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Trust is a funny thing, isn’t it? As children, we all start
out with heaps of it, possibly so that we don’t think our mother is trying to
poison us with strained pears, or that our father really IS going to leave us
on the side of the road because he has had it up to here with the backseat
bickering. If we are lucky enough to have had a stable family life, we generally
grew up believing that it’s others that harm us. As we get older, the proof
presents itself in the form of friends who mock us behind our back, colleagues
who are nasty to our face, and lovers who make betrayal an art form. On top of
this you add the odd experience of theft or other criminal activity, and bingo,
we become fairly convinced that anyone outside our nearest and dearest is waiting
for their chance to pounce. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With that being said, Canadians have the reputation of being
relatively trusting. We haven’t had a fight with the guys next door to us in
two hundred years and up until 10 years ago, they didn’t even need a passport
to get into our country. On the other side of the spectrum, my partner is
Scottish, and they don’t trust anyone. This surely comes from years of clan
infighting and outfighting and and beating up (and being beaten up by) the guys
next door to THEM. Suffice it to say they are probably a bit suspicious of
their own grandmother at this point. After all, who knows what she’s been up
to.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Norwegians, though, seem to have a ton of this trust thing.
This characteristic was evident from day one, when on arriving from the UK with
4 massive bags and a mountain of paperwork, I steeled myself for passport
control and an interrogation of Soviet Cold War proportions. Of course, this
never happened. I even put off getting a Stavanger library card for months
because I didn’t have any documents to prove my name and Norwegian address. How
would I ever be believed? In Canada they would probably want to finger print
you and have you sign some sort of document giving up all rights to ever read
again if you didn’t provide this proof within 7-10 working days. When I
mentioned this to a Norwegian colleague she just shrugged. “You just need to
tell them your name and e-mail,” she said. In my world, it’s been a long time
since simply telling someone something was enough. Even to get a library card.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But the ultimate
example of Norwegian trust came just a few weeks later. One cool December
Sunday afternoon, Scottish partner and I decided to go for a walk and as we
neared one of the few restaurants open on the Sabbath, I heard a baby crying.
Scouring the horizon for the owner of this precious cargo, I realized there
were no parental units to be found. My next thought was to scan for a sound
system, maybe I had chanced upon Norway’s version of a hidden camera show,
probably called “Fool the Foreigner”? Still nothing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Staring into the floor to ceiling windows of the restaurant
I saw a table of family members enjoying a meal, chatting and laughing in the
warmth of a Sunday at leisure. Glancing to my right, outside of the restaurant,
I discovered the source of the cries. Stationed up against the outside windows
I saw a pram. With one slightly unhappy baby inside.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At first I thought this must have been an oversight. What
kind of mid-afternoon drinking binge had this mother been on to forget to bring
her child in from the cold? Norwegians had always seemed so sensible to me,
maybe I should report this to the proper authorities? Surely they would help
get her off the schnapps and back to being a model of maternal propriety. Tsk
tsk.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Luckily, I did nothing of the sort. As it turns out, this
would not be the last time I would see a child in a pram outdoors while the
parents sat inside. Apparently, Norwegians believe that the cold, fresh air is
beneficial to children, so they aim to get as much of that into them as
possible. Naturally (and who can blame them when it’s February) they are not
about to stand out there with them. Now I am not a mother, but I am pretty sure
leaving your child on the street while you are inside having coffee is
displaying just about as much trust as I can imagine. I can’t even leave my
bike outside without a monstrous lock and a trained attack dog there to guard
it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Will I ever reach the
Norwegian level of trust and openness? I am not sure. I may be too far gone. In
a country where anyone can access your personal information-salary, job title,
maybe even what you ate for dinner last night-I struggle with putting my full
name on my mailbox. I am what my experiences have made me, so I will start with
baby steps.Heck, If Norwegian mothers can trust us with their children, then maybe
I can return that trust, in my own way. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
So here it goes. Today
I will put my full name on the mailbox. I promise. Trust me.<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07408386296156301015noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6791534319164167426.post-59071379248628575792013-02-07T04:34:00.000-08:002013-02-07T04:34:41.737-08:00Becoming Beth<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
We all know them, the “IT” girls. Usually, in North America
anyway, they are named Ashley or Shawna, or maybe Shannon, depending on how old
you are and who happened to be in your class the year you started noticing
them, and henceforth started feeling like crap about yourself. You might even
BE Ashley, Shawna or Shannon, and if that’s the case, you’ll probably want to
stop reading right now cause you won’t get a word of what I am about to say. You
most likely have a golf game, hair appointment or meeting with the partners to
get to, anyway.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In my case her name
was Beth Johnson, and despite our shared moniker, I can assure you we had very
little else in common. I first “met” her at tennis camp, which should tell you
about all you need to know. She was cute and blonde and ponytailed and sporty
and consistently clad in the newest Ralph Lauren attire. In short, all the
things the 12 year old me desperately wanted to be, and maybe my parents hoped
I would become by sending me to said tennis camp. But since my mother insisted
that dying my hair at that age would make me look like a “mini-hooker” I was
stuck with polyester polo shirts from a place called Bargain Harald’s, mousy,
permed brown hair and the tennis skills of a visually impaired sloth. No chance
the likes of Beth Johnson were talking to me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Since that day, I have been consistently aware of these
women around me. I have tried to emulate them in Rome (disastrous sweater tying
incident), London, (unfortunate high heel/cobblestone street episode) and the
French Riviera (ridiculous nude beach fiasco, don’t ask). So far I have failed
miserably at becoming these bastions of feminine style, grace and
sophistication. For many years, about the best I could hope for was not to have
them point at my Asda/Walmart jeans, scream and have me forcibly removed from
their sight by their football playing boyfriend, Chad. Eventually I accepted
the sad fact that I was never going to be one of those women who could master
the perfect ponytail. Comfort would never be on my side, I was going to have to
make an effort. And it was probably going to hurt.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So it has been since
my mid-twenties; pulling it together, but never quite achieving that effortless
clean beauty that Beth Johnson seemed to take for granted, and that these
European women continued to taunt me with. Lucky for me then that I moved to
Norway, where I have been met by an entire nation of Beth Johnsons. <i>Better break out the hair dye and the preppy
handbook</i>, I thought when I moved here, <i>here
we go again</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In keeping with this eternal quest for self-improvement, I
began checking out the Norwegian women. No, not in THAT way. In a kinda sad, 40
–something trying to fit in kinda way. I am now pleased to share with you the
results of my findings.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->1<span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">)</span><span style="font-size: 7pt; text-indent: -0.25in;">
</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Many Norwegian women have a natural elegance.
Maybe this comes from generally being a pretty tall race. Maybe I just have to
say that or they will kick my a**. Being 5’8 ish myself, it is rare I feel
“dainty”, except once in Fiji. That was a good week. Anyway, tall girls, this
is your place.</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->2)<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->They are seriously sporty. I am often at the gym
or outside for run, but these women are ALWAYS outside doing something athletic.
Most of the time I notice them bounding past me in running tights that make
them look like really powerful gazelles. Me? I am probably closer to one of the
running bulls of Pamplona, if they wore light reflective jogging jackets and
Ipods.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->3)<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->They somehow make winter dressing look stylish.
OK, so Trinny and Susannah from What Not to Wear might disagree with me here,
but I have yet to see a ridiculously dressed Norwegian woman in Stavanger.
Well, there was that one girl making her way across an icy parking lot last
week in a humongous parka and those Lady Gaga heels that make you look like a
satyr. But surely she was the exception.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->4)<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->They have the complexions of a Disney Princess.
I almost always have a zit, which is categorically un-called for at my age. I
may be able to fake the blonde hair but even with the kilos of salmon I
regularly jam into my gob, I have never been able to achieve that skin. Except
once, when I was three. That was also a good week.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
It could be the fact that I turned the big
4-0 last month, or possibly it’s the fact that SOME of the characteristics of
Norwegian women are achievable for me. I
mean, let’s face it, trying to make myself over into a 5’2, 100 pound Gitanes smoking Coco Chanel clone was always going to lead to disappointment. The scarf
tying alone was killing me. But here, I can work with what I have . I am tallish,
blonde and have finally found a sport which doesn’t make me feel like a
visually impaired sloth, so I guess I am sporty too. For once, I think I might
just have a chance at fitting in with these women. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
Take that, Beth Johnson.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast">
<br /></div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07408386296156301015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6791534319164167426.post-41538979904631376382013-01-23T04:03:00.000-08:002013-01-23T04:14:27.977-08:00Home from Hjem<i>Hjem="Home" in Norwegian, pronounced "yem".</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">From the time I was a little girl, I can remember the thrill of
getting on a plane. I loved the weeks or months of build-up to the event of
going away. I would write feverishly about it in my diary, counting down the
days, hours and minutes until I could leave the dreary burdens of my fourth
grade Canadian life for more exciting climes, and presumably a more exotic type
of cheeseburger. Equally, I can remember the return trips home and the dread
that would insidiously work its way through my entire body as we neared the
unavoidable conclusion of the holiday. “It’s good to go away, but it’s always
nice come home, too,” my mother would say as we walked through the front door. <i>No</i>, I would think<i>. It’s not</i>. Who in their right mind would choose here over there? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"> Hence my lifelong struggle with
“home” began. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">To the chagrin of many around
me, I have been choosing there over here for most of my adult life. Even when I
moved to Stavanger in November, I had mixed feelings about going back to Canada
for Christmas. Seeing your friends and family is undoubtedly a wonderful thing,
but going back to your hometown is like getting back together with the ex you
still have feelings for, for one night. It makes you feel really great for a brief moment, but at some point you have to learn how to make it alone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"> And so it came to pass that getting
on the plane from Toronto back to Stavanger was a ridiculously emotional affair
for me. I thought I had the whole “stiff upper lip” thing covered until we got
in the taxi to go to the airport, at which time the sight of the CN Tower
caused me to blubber like a baby. I tried in vain to cover it up by feigning
insane interest in the contents of my carry-on<i>, </i>but as I stared into the oblivion which is the bottom of my
handbag, it hit me. I was now struggling to leave the place I had always taken
great pleasure in running from. Clearly Toronto no longer bore the curse of
being called ‘home’, which could mean only one thing: this dubious honour now
belonged to Stavanger. Sorry, Norway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">By the time I arrived back on Scandinavian shores, I had a huge chip
on my shoulder and my mum’s “no place like home” assertion running through my
head. What had seemed a fun six week Norwegian holiday cum cultural exchange
before Christmas had, in the intervening two weeks, become much more serious.
This was commitment, not the silly fairy tale place that Judy Garland can’t
stop going on about in her dumb rainbow song. Stavanger was now home and home had always been
the enemy. <i>You have something to prove S-town,</i> I thought. <i>You’d better bring it</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">The flight into Sola was not encouraging. Battered by two weeks of too
much festive cheer, and bruised from the withdrawal from my beloved sugar and
wine, things were already not going in its favour. A heavy pea soup fog covered the coast, and it was raining.
Super. My last port of call, Aberdeen, had been sunny and bright, a balmy thirteen
degrees. I had left a full fridge there stocked with enough goodies to put the
most hard core junk-food addict into hypoglycemic shock. The holiday was well
and truly over, and I was pretty convinced that that my honeymoon with
Stavanger was, too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">The one bright spot on the horizon was a planned evening with a
friend. In a last ditch attempt to pull myself out of the doldrums, I invited a
Norwegian American friend over for dinner. She would undoubtedly be able to
remind me of Stavanger’s merits, rather than allow me to dwell on the fact that
it was now nothing more than boring old home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">In an effort to impress my friend with my superior culinary skills, I
decided to order take out sushi. Nothing says “great hostess” like a plate of
raw fish that I didn’t assemble or, god-forbid, catch. I google mapped the
restaurant, and set off on my solitary fifteen minute walk in search of the
evening’s vittles.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">The path I had chosen was unfamiliar to me and I was conscious of the
possibility of getting lost, although the idea was strangely exciting. The
restaurant was in a new part of town, and I had only a vague idea where I was
going when I set off. I contemplated printing off a copy of the map but
dismissed it. Grid pattern, schmid pattern. If Europeans could find their way
around without having everything set along a perfectly formed matrix, so could
I. I lived here now, I would figure it
out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">As I headed through town to my destination, I passed the church and
the tourist office, the restaurants and bars I knew, and shops I had been to
many times before. But as I got to the edge of my mental map of Stavanger, the usual
landmarks started to disappear. The less familiar my surroundings were, the
more energized I became. I passed by
buildings under construction, making up stories in my head about what they
would eventually be. I passed by restaurants full of end of day coffee drinkers
and new mums with prams, shops full of displays of items I might one day need.
Is this all it took? Spin me around
twice and send me in a new direction, and “home” instantly becomes a brand new
and enticing place?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">I found the restaurant exactly where it was supposed to be, picked up
my fish and turned for home. As I passed the buildings that had become
recognizable landmarks only in the last thirty minutes, I realized there was no
way that Stavanger could already be called my home. For one, I still don’t have the slightest clue why there are hundreds of baby's pacifiers tied to a tree in the middle of Mosvatnet Park. Heck, I don't even know how to<i> PRONOUNCE</i> Mosvatnet Park yet. And I haven't had the chance to ask a really in depth wine question to the lady at the information kiosk in the liquor store. I have yet to be airlifted off a fjord because it was waaaay too far to walk, or witnessed the great displays of national pride and public intoxication on Constitution Day. So much to see and do before this place can truly be called "hjem".<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Thank God for that. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07408386296156301015noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6791534319164167426.post-76121802601855091362013-01-09T01:55:00.000-08:002013-01-09T02:02:18.797-08:00Land of Smiles, Stavanger Style<br />
<br />
Many moons ago, when I was just a young
whippersnapper, I lived in Bangkok, Thailand. I would like to say this was a
magical time in my life; but actually it was marred by divorce, infidelity (not
mine) and a mild allergic reaction to oyster mushrooms. But that, as Hammy Hamster used to say, is another
story.<br />
<br />
The upside was that Thailand also had incredible food and stellar
spa services, which I availed myself of at every opportunity. Birthday? Time for
a massage! Anniversary? Massage and foot scrub.Indigestion from aforementioned
oyster mushrooms? Well, you get the point.<br />
<br />
Now, having grown accustomed
to a wide array of these services in South East Asia, I am forever on the look
out for their equivalent in the countries I live in. Hence, upon arriving in
Stavanger, one of the most burning questions on my mind was not, "When do I get
to eat reindeer?" but "Where am I gonna go for a back rub?" Logical question, it
seemed to me, but I wasn't getting any help on the home front. Scottish
partner thinks massages are a waste of time and money. Apparently the Scottish
people rarely get sick or injured, and never complain about it or see a doctor
if they do. They just stoically live to be a hundred and then finally keel over,
golf club in hand, with a mighty cry of "Freedom!" Or maybe that's Braveheart with Mel Gibson, I forget.Regardless, as a
distance runner and self-confessed gym-a-holic, I was on the hunt for a decent
massage, like the ones I used to get for 15 bucks in Thailand, although
obviously approximately 8 times more expensive.<br />
<br />
Imagine my utter delight
when, on one of my "I have nothing to do this afternoon and it's not pouring with rain so better get out there" walks, I stumbled upon the Thai massage
STREET. That's right. A whole street dedicated to one of God's greatest
gifts to humanity. I practically drooled all over my Norwegian sweater and
collapsed in a heap outside one of their doors. Maybe they would take pity on me
and drag me into the incense-filled, aromatherapy temple of all things good and
right in this world.<br />
<br />
Within seconds of me fogging up their front window,
a young Thai woman appeared at the front door of one of the places and handed me
a brochure. "We have many kind of massage," she said. "You can phone and make
appointment." I nodded and smiled, taking the pamphlet from her gingerly. Quite
frankly, all the "kind of massage" looked the same to me, but who was I to
complain? Sixty quid for an hour of peace, quiet and
well-being.Surely even the Scot couldn't argue with that?<br />
<br />
A few
days and a couple of brutal gym sessions later I found myself back at the same
front door where the kindly Thai woman had given me the brochure. Before I know
it I am wrapped up in a thin cotton blanket (which I must say, was better suited
to the heat of Bangkok than the frosty temperatures of Stavanger) and face down
in a massage table. I hear the familiar sounds of the Thai language around me as
the other therapists have a chat about what to eat for their evening meal. Thai
"spa" music plays in the background, and there is the soft splash of a water
feature somewhere which, while slightly annoying, is also putting me right off
to sleep.<br />
<br />
"Sawat dii kha," says the therapist as she enters the
room.<br />
<br />
"Sawat dii kha," I respond in kind, happy to get some practice in
with my Thai in such an unlikely place. I smile to myself,
satisfied.<br />
<br />
This is the last word I understand for the next 10
minutes.<br />
<br />
Off goes Thai therapist in a blaze of Norwegian. At first,
because my Norwegian is baby-level, I am not sure if she is even talking to me.
Or if she is speaking Thai with a Norwegian accent, or Norwegian with a Thai
accent, or English and I am just too ridiculously into this massage that my
brain has stopped identifying language at all. There is a dark but flimsy
curtain which separates our treatment space from the others, and there are
therapists and customers passing on the other side of our curtain all the time.
Maybe she is speaking to one them? I make heavy mouth breathing noises like I am
in deep sleep just to cover my tracks. I only hope she can hear it over the
ruckus of that damn water feature.<br />
<br />
We finally reach an appropriate
moment, where I wholeheartedly believe she has just directly asked me a
question. I sniffle, yawn loudly and pretend to rouse myself from my Rip Van
Winkle-esque slumber.<br />
<br />
"May kowjay phasaa nohweh. Phuud phasaa
angkit, I don't understand Norwegian. I speak English." I say in my best
Thai. Which instantly sounds like a sentence that would be in some ancient
Siamese textbook and you would burst into laughter saying, "As IF I will ever
use that!"<br />
<br />
I can feel Thai therapist, who is now bending me into a bow
shape, bristle with excitement.<br />
<br />
"Ohhh, you speak English," she says in
Thai, "And you speak Thai too! Dii maak, very good!" I breathe a sigh of
relief, happy that we have found a common language. Even though my
conversational Thai is pretty rusty and rudimentary at best, I am pretty fluent
in massage Thai. This hurts, that hurts, I like that, stop that right now.I can
handle this. And pathetically, it's more than I yet know in
Norwegian.<br />
<br />
And so Thai therapist is off again, chattering away to me in a
language I thought I would probably never really use again, let alone flat on my
stomach on a massage table in a town 2 minutes from the North
Sea.<br />
Surprisingly, none of it seems strange. There is a comfort in our
interaction. I can predict what she is going to do from moment to moment, what
she is going to ask, where she is going to move my arm, head, leg. I have heard
this all before, and it's comforting to know that this at least, hasn't changed.
I realize that I have been living with unpredictability for what seems like
months now, and that this is possibly the first time I have known exactly what
would happen next. In this moment, there is no what if I can't, what if it's
not, what if we don't. The familiar takes over from the unknown. And after
months of uncertainty, face down in that massage table, I finally let myself
relax.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07408386296156301015noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6791534319164167426.post-50564391476993538692012-12-19T06:12:00.000-08:002012-12-19T06:19:36.048-08:00We Got the White Stuff, Baby<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">Winter has arrived in Norway, or shall I say, has been dumped on
Norway. And in a town that already has the tendency to look like the perfect
storybook version of Santa’s village, Stavanger in snow is almost too much to
take. Like cotton candy mixed into a can of Duncan Hines frosting, what started
out as pretty darn sweet runs the risk of becoming cloying. On one
pre-Christmas evening walk home, I actually felt like lying down in the snow
and screaming, “I can’t take it! Enough with the white clapboard houses and
twinkly fairy lights and perfect snow-capped mountains!” Honestly the sheer
perfection of living in this Ikea Christmas catalog can make your whole world
seem strangely artificial.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">Now being Canadian, I know my
snow from my snow. And I can wholeheartedly say that I feel differently about the
snow here than I ever did in Canada. It doesn’t look any different falling from
the sky, and it still makes that luscious crunch under my boots after a proper
heavy snow. But there is something about only 6 hours of daylight that
transforms a place. In this neck of the woods, dusk begins at 3 pm, and if I
position my computer in front of our living room windows on a clear day, I have
a front row seat as the sun goes down and the light fades. Twilight is a 2 hour
affair here. The white streets and houses gradually become one big blanket and
single candles are placed in perfectly rectangular windows. White Christmas
lights that delicately circle trees and shrubs start to shine. Window curtains are
left open and if you wander the winding streets of Gamle Stavanger (“Old
Stavanger”) after dark, no one seems to mind you staring in at their immaculately arranged dinner party. And why would they? Life looks pretty good from the
inside of Magnus and Ingrid’s gingerbread house. It’s as if they have given up
hope that they can be part of the frosty outside world, so we are cordially
invited in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">If this is starting to sound
like a love letter to my newly adopted country, let me, for the sake of
authenticity, paint a more balanced picture. As anyone who has made it through
a winter in a snow-afflicted city can attest, there is a serious downside to
all this white stuff. Stavanger is no exception. I have decided to keep my “Yak
Trax” ice grips on my running shoes this winter, and the relatively stylish boots
that were perfectly acceptable for the generally slushy streets of Toronto have
been abandoned in favour of their more heavy duty ( and uglier) cousins. In
Stavanger, the hilly topography combined with the smooth stone streets would
make short work of even your most adept mountain goat. Sitting in a cafe I watch as shoppers in less dependable footwear
slide, conveyor-belt like, down a
vertical 10 meter stretch of cobblestone street, arms outstretched and mouth in
a perfectly petrified “O”. I shake my head and stare down at my coffee.
Tourists. Never see pictures of THAT in the Ikea catalog.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">Of course, I am convinced that this is all one massive ice-induced
conspiracy. And it goes deep, my friends, to the seamy underbelly of this crime-ridden town. But Norway has a reputation for being so upright, uncorrupt
and law-abiding, you say. Ha! What does the UN know anyway? This place is
filled to the brim with chiropractors, physiotherapists, pharmacies and clinics
for something called a naprapath. Never heard of it? Neither had I. Apparently
they are the chiropractors of soft and connective tissues. Sounds like a nice
bit of massage, but is probably painful as hell when you have fallen smack on
your back while carrying two tons of Christmas presents and there is an evil Canadian
woman in ugly boots snickering at you from a coffee bar window. Still, someone
has got to keep these therapists in business. And I am beginning to see the
connection. Maybe Magnus and Ingrid have a vested interest in all these
practitioners?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">Whatever the story, the snow
seems to have brought out the best and worst of Stavanger, and Yak Trax on, I am
ready to ride it out. These sneaky Norwegian naprapaths may have the UN fooled, but they haven’t got me yet .You are pretty Stavanger,
but you sure are deadly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"> I wonder if Ikea sells
crampons?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07408386296156301015noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6791534319164167426.post-32204252671297070082012-12-11T03:16:00.001-08:002013-01-09T02:05:36.132-08:00Let's Jule It Up, People!<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">Jule:
Norwegian word for Christmas. Pronounced “Yool-a”.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">Skål:
Cheers! Pronounced “Skol”.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">It began slowly. A festive looking product here, a bright red
display there. This being my first Christmas out of Canada in 5 years, I was
slightly intrigued by the Jule chocolates and pepperkaken (gingerbread). It
gave me some degree of comfort to know that these familiar items would be
available for my enjoyment as the season approached, even though I can’t
remember the last time I ate gingerbread unless it was forced on me by a
well-meaning Christmas fanatic. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> I have never really counted
myself as one of them. The Christmas fanatics. The people who get
nosebleed-level excitement at the mere </span><i style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">thought
</i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">of the office Secret Santa draw. They have jingle-bell earrings and hum
along to Christmas tunes in the shopping mall whilst their kids belt the crap
out of each other on Santa’s lap. I am sure there is some gene I am missing,
but I just cannot get that into it. Probably spending the majority of my youth
working in retail has something to do with it. Once you have seen the crazed
look of desperation on the face of the last minute shopper banging on your
store window at 5.30 on Christmas Eve, it pretty much destroys any thought you
have that this holiday is anything more than a very useful marketing ploy. But
I digress.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">It seems that the majority of Norwegians could not disagree with
me more on this point. These are the people who helicopter in a Christmas tree and
deposit it at the peak of the highest suspension bridge in the region. Fast and
furious, the Jule products have been hitting the shelves. Bags of “pinnekjøtt”,
a traditional dish of salted and dried mutton rib that wouldn’t look out of
place in a Flintstones cartoon take pride of place in the grocery aisles. I
can barely keep up with the variety of pre-packaged Christmas goodies, the most
infuriating of these being the rather innocuous sounding, “Jule Brus”. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">Having found this item amongst the colourfully decorated Christmas wines
and the normal selections of beer and hard cider, I was swayed by the brightly
coloured red-liquid inside. “ I am gonna try THIS!” I declared to Scottish
partner, who took one look at it, scrunched his nose and went back to comparing
the prices on the tins of cider. He’d be sorry. On Jule Brus’s label there was
a jolly drawing of an elf -type creature looking mildly inebriated which seemed
like the best reason of all to buy an alcoholic product. If it works for the
most-trusted of Santa’s helpers, then old Grinchy over here needs to give it a
try.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">Taking it home I decide that I need to choose just the right moment to
open this greatest of Norwegian Christmas treats. Red alcohol, what will they
think of next?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">Jule Brus sits in my fridge for a week. Dinners and a Saturday evening
go by, and finally by Sunday I am ready for a taste of Norway’s finest festive
brew. I take a swig. The sugar nearly knocks my front teeth out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">Cream soda. Give me a break.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">As it turns out, “brus” does not mean “brew” as would make sense to
most English speakers, it actually means “soda”. And apparently just because
some sort of liquid is stored in a bottle in the alcohol section of the
supermarket does NOT mean it will get you loaded. Also, always bring a
dictionary to the liquor store.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">I hurtle into the bathroom and grab my toothbrush, looking forward to
removing the saccharine taste of the brus. As I glance around the apartment and
out the window I realize there is so much more to a Norwegian Christmas than
disappointing red pop and left-over lamb bones. The Christmas loo paper I
purchased thinking it was just the normal white stuff really does add a touch
of class to any toilet situation. And the choo-choo train and candy cane
Christmas lights that decorate the booze palaces in town make it so much easier
to find your way home after a night of too much Yule-tide cheer. Not so bad,
really.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">Merry Christmas, Norway. You may well make a fanatic of me yet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07408386296156301015noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6791534319164167426.post-36198753524110113832012-12-05T03:59:00.001-08:002012-12-06T00:31:54.156-08:00The Real Housewife of Stavanger<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of my biggest
concerns when I decided to move to Norway was giving up my job. Many years ago,
I dabbled in the “ladies who lunch” lifestyle, now glamourized to the hilt in
all sorts of lame TV shows that I secretly like to watch. Why so many of us are
interested in following Barbies who are very busy doing nothing is beyond me,
but it seems I am not alone in this guilty pleasure. Not that I ever aimed to
follow in their footsteps, but when you have no work visa you are pretty
limited in what you can get up to during day time hours. However, having been
placed in this position at least once before, I figured I had the skills to
carve out something useful for myself beyond trips to the nail bar and drinking
myself into a stupor on Aquavit.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Which begs the
question, what exactly is it that I DO all day? Let’s examine a typical day in
the life.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
6 AM. Alarm goes
off and Scottish partner drags himself out of bed. Since this is autumn, it’s
still pitch black dark outside and won’t get light for at least another 2 hours,
or possibly in June sometime. No point in trying to continue to sleep, pretty
soon there will be practically no daylight hours at all so had better get used
to roaming around in the dark now.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
7 AM. Partner
goes off to work and coffee in hand, I sit and stare at BBC World News. Boy,
there is a lot happening in the world. Like, serious stuff. Nothing happens in
Norway.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
7.30 AM I start
the morning clean up. I seriously love to clean. Dishes, bathrooms, laundry, I
adore it all. No, I am not being facetious. And no, I cannot come to your house
on Wednesdays to clean your bathroom. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
8.30 AM Get ready
for yoga class. I have figured out from the schedule which instructor teaches
in English at my yoga studio which is helpfully called “Yoga Yoga”. Can’t miss
Belinda’s class.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
9.15 AM Arrive at
Yoga Yoga studio. Where is Belinda? There is a woman here who is attempting to
speak to me in something that sounds like Norwegian. I catch a few words and
nod enthusiastically as I hand over my membership card. I tell her I am new
here so my Norwegian is not great. She smiles sympathetically and responds in
perfect English. “Oh, well I teach my class in Swedish, anyway. Do you think
you can follow?” Nod again. Gulp.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
9.35 AM Swedish
instructor switches to English after she realizes I am still in savasana
position while everyone else is in downward dog.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
11 AM Finish class and head to store to pick up
some groceries. No major hurdles here as I have learned that “wienerpølse” is a hotdog, “svin” is
pork and “skinke” is ham. That pretty much covers the bulk of Scottish cuisine
so I am stocked up for the day.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1 PM I have been
charged with mailing my partner’s remnants of the British driver’s license for
disposal and renewal. Instruction numero uno: Send it registered mail and get a
tracking number. Alrighty. I head to the Posten with purpose. As I enter, I
scan for my appropriate queue and take a number. My turn comes and I pass the envelope
with cut up pieces of license to the clerk. She squints at the address.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What
country?” she asks. I point to the last line of the address. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“UK”, I respond.
“United Kingdom?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You write “England” here.” she says, and
points to the line under the city, Swansea.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I look quizzically at her across the desk. “But
Swansea is in Wales.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You write ENGLAND here.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
O.K. England it
is. I will inform Welsh Wales.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2 PM At this
point in the reality show, the housewife usually goes shopping and buys herself
“somethin’ perdy” which she will then spend the rest of the episode justifying
to her long suffering mega-rich beau. I too decide that shopping is necessary,
but I end up scouring the shops for a pair of gigantic, waterproof, fake
fur-lined boots so I don’t lose a toe from frostbite this winter. The glamour
never stops.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3.30PM Norwegian lesson. As my attempts at finding a
language exchange in Stavanger have so far been unsuccessful, I have settled on
an online lesson based on a textbook called, “På Vei”. As a rough translation I
think this means, “Why bother when we speak English?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4.30 PM That
pretty much takes me to where I am now. By far my favourite part of the day is
when I get to sit at a computer and write about (read: exaggerate) the minutiae
of my day. It may not pay anything yet, but it beats having to flog a cheesy
perfume line on QVC like the real housewives of New Jersey or Milwaukee or Red
Deer. And until that work visa comes through, it’s enough.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07408386296156301015noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6791534319164167426.post-3733401955114326612012-11-28T23:29:00.000-08:002012-12-06T00:10:04.441-08:00It's Like that "Ratt" Song from 1984.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: "Arabic Typesetting";">Out on the streets, that's where we'll
meet<br />
You make the night, I always cross the line<br />
Tightened our belts, abuse ourselves<br />
Get in our way, we'll put you on your shelf<br />
Another day, some other way<br />
We're gonna go, but then we'll see you again<br />
I've had enough, we've had enough<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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 <i>someone </i>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.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
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?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Spotty Scandinavian kid rescues <i>someone </i>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.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
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.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
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.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
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. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
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?<o:p></o:p></div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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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 <i>someone</i>
is going to be getting his license renewed very soon.<o:p></o:p></div>
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