Norwegian Christmas, Take 2

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.

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.

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.

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 very Norwegian Christmas, indeed.

Inside Out

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.

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.

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.  

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.

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.

“Unnskyld!”  she said, and then something incomprehensible to me and my pathetic Norwegian.

“ I am sorry, my Norwegian is terrible,” I answered back feebly.

“ Your trousers are on inside out,” she answered back in flawless English and then gave me sisterly smile.

“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.

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.

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.

And I thought people were staring at me for my super ripped abs.

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.

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. 

Things That Make You Go, "Hmmmmm...."

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.

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.

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:

Everything  I Still Don’t Get About Stavanger ( But Was Not Afraid to Ask)  

5) Tattoo Parlours/Hair Dressers-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?

4)Graffiti –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.

3) The Raptor Dino-Bike- 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.

2) The Flea Market- 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.

And lastly…

1)That Alligator Statue- 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.

Happy Up Here

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

 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.

Four O'Clock, Norway Time

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.

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.

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.

So what happens when a clock watcher is plopped down into this land where no one seems to be watching?

Not a lot. Until the clock strikes four.

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.

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.

“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.

And he’s got me wondering, too.

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. 

Sky High

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.

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.

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. Passport, tickets, money  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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

A Tale of Unrequited Love

   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.

    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.

    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.

   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.

   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?

   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.

   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?