We Got the White Stuff, Baby

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

 I wonder if Ikea sells crampons?

Let's Jule It Up, People!

Jule: Norwegian word for Christmas. Pronounced “Yool-a”.

Skål: Cheers! Pronounced “Skol”.

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.

 I have never really counted myself as one of them. The Christmas fanatics. The people who get nosebleed-level excitement at the mere thought 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.

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”.

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.

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?

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.

Cream soda. Give me a break.

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.

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.

Merry Christmas, Norway. You may well make a fanatic of me yet.

The Real Housewife of Stavanger

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.

Which begs the question, what exactly is it that I DO all day? Let’s examine a typical day in the life.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

9.35 AM Swedish instructor switches to English after she realizes I am still in savasana position while everyone else is in downward dog.

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.

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.

 “What country?” she asks. I point to the last line of the address.

“UK”, I respond. “United Kingdom?”

 “You write “England” here.” she says, and points to the line under the city, Swansea.

I look quizzically at her across the desk. “But Swansea is in Wales.”

“You write ENGLAND here.”

O.K. England it is. I will inform Welsh Wales.

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.

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?”

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For God's Sake, Shut Up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Made it. Phew.

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

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

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

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

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

Formidable Blonde Officer: Hallo. Welcome to Norway.

Me: Thank you. (Hands over passport, keeps immunization card in pocket).

FBO: How long are you staying in Norway?

Me: (getting ready to defend my right to be on viking soil) Um, well my partner has a job here, so I am coming to join him.

FBO: Have you been to Norway before?

Me: Once. About 15 years ago. ( Pleased I can be so precise).

FBO: (Handing back passport) Good. Welcome to Norway. Have a good time here. (Smiles).

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