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?

To Skål or Not To Skål

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Vivat Regina

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.

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^th 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“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.

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.

(Stay tuned folks, for the story of me attempting to keep my cool on a private tour of the House of Lords.)

Ya Gotta Kiss A Lot of Frogs

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

So, can I buy you a drink?

Trust Issues

     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.

     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.

     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.

      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.

      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.

     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.

     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.

     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.

So here it goes. Today I will put my full name on the mailbox. I promise. Trust me.

Becoming Beth

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.

 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.

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.

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. Better break out the hair dye and the preppy handbook, I thought when I moved here, here we go again.

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.

1)      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.

2)      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.

3)      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.

4)      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.

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.

Take that, Beth Johnson.

Home from Hjem

Hjem="Home" in Norwegian, pronounced "yem".

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. No, I would think. It’s not. Who in their right mind would choose here over there?

 Hence my lifelong struggle with “home” began.

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.

 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, 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.

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.  You have something to prove S-town, I thought. You’d better bring it.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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 PRONOUNCE  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".

Thank God for that. 

Land of Smiles, Stavanger Style

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

"Sawat dii kha," says the therapist as she enters the room.

"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.

This is the last word I understand for the next 10 minutes.

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.

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.

"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!"

I can feel Thai therapist, who is now bending me into a bow shape, bristle with excitement.

"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.

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.
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.