Two Years and Counting...

Next month marks two years since I moved to Stavanger, and as with all anniversaries it necessitates a certain degree of retrospection. Fortunately for anyone reading this, I have a lousy memory when it comes to remembering day to day feelings and emotions and all that sentimental stuff, although I remember every single detail of that time my mum made my sister and I eat fried liver and onions as a punishment for our non-stop bickering. Thank god for the invention of ketchup.

What I CAN remember about moving to Stavanger is that from the beginning, I was excited about making a fresh start in a new country, and particularly the prospect of learning the Norwegian language. It seemed so niche. Like one evening, many, many years from now at something that can only be described as a soirée, I would be sitting across from some terribly learned and posh aristocrat whom I would dazzle and charm with my vast knowledge of the nuances of Nynorsk and Bokmål. I was sure that “På Vei Workbook 1” was just the first step on my path to becoming that sophisticated woman. Oh sure, I was bound to make mistakes and I would maybe even get laughed at, but four years of living in Asia had long since taken away any pride I had in my language ability.  Once you have publicly embarrassed yourself by crying all over your Thai teacher’s alphabet chart while wailing, “I’ll never get it, never ,never, never!” , there really isn’t much more to say on the topic of linguistic humiliation. Norwegian would be a breeze in comparison. At the very least I hoped it wouldn’t end in tears.

Upon my arrival in Stavanger, I promised myself that I would take advantage of its proximity to fresh seafood. In reality, this basically involved eating salmon on Wasa crackers, twice a day, for 3 months on end. Why? Because I read in some crappy beauty magazine that it was supposed to give you glowing skin.  I was convinced that if I ate enough of it I could undo the damage caused by wearing only baby oil to the beach and smoking far too many Vietnamese old man cigarettes when I lived in Thailand.  And because I didn’t yet quite know how to convert Norwegian Kroner into dollars, I had no idea I was practically bankrupting Scottish partner and I every time I went to the supermarket. Ah, those blissful days of innocence.

Something that seems incredibly naive now, I was also hopelessly optimistic about getting a job. And even if that weren’t to happen, I had my blog, I had the gym, and maybe, I mused, I would finally learn to cook- proper gourmet meals made with exotic local delicacies like reindeer and hot dogs. I would host lively dinner parties where my Norwegian friends would exclaim that they have never tasted anything so entirely delicious in their lives, and that I absolutely must give them my recipe for twice baked brunost soufflé with cranberry compote. Then I got a job, and the learn to cook thing went right out the window. Who really needed gourmet cooking anyway when, after a long day at the office, you could come home to a freshly assembled and lovingly selected plate of Wasa crackers and salmon?

And so, in retrospect, my life in Norway now isn’t quite what I imagined it to be back in 2012. Or maybe I am not quite what I imagined myself becoming, but I have little to complain about. I dropped out of A2 level Norwegian classes because I got a job where I speak English all day. The salmon makes an appearance as part of my once a month trip to the sushi restaurant in town-one of the best I have ever been to outside of Japan. Neither “glowy” nor “dewy” are words I would use to describe the current state of my skin, but a good set of bangs conceal a multitude of sins. And the cooking thing? Well, let’s just say that Scottish partner is happy I stay out of the kitchen, a place I clearly don’t belong. And believe me, we both have Stavanger to thank for that.

Lights Out

You are always there.  Lurking behind curtains and blinds, peeking at me from under doors. I try to ignore you, forget about you and pretend you are not there.  I squeeze my eyes shut as tightly as I can, willing your intrusion to stop. It’s no good: I can still feel your presence. Unrelenting and omnipresent, driving me to the brink of insanity. Well, extreme irritation, anyway.

Yes, I am talking about YOU, Mr. Sun.

I have really had it with you. What is the big idea? You disappear almost completely for months at a time, and then all of a sudden you are the life of the party around here. Only you are like the last house guest to leave;  unable to read the signs that your hosts are rubbing their eyes and yawning behind their hands. For most of June and July, you were still hanging about at 1 am, reluctant to retire. That’s right: I saw you. Peering at me over those mountains, just waiting for your moment to burst back onto the scene with all your warmth and stupid shimmery sunshine.   I am here to say that enough is enough. It’s time to start going to bed at a decent hour, a lot of us have got to go to work tomorrow.

I am sorry. I don’t mean to be rude. Honestly, I used to like you. A lot. I once spent a whole day with tinfoil under my face, trying to attract your attention. It didn’t work out well and I ended up with a sunburn that resembled a bright pink goatee, but at least we were on good terms then. As it stands now, you are seriously getting on my last nerve.

It’s the exhaustion, you see. You make me so incredibly tired. I am getting on a bit now and just can’t party the way we used to. You remember, don’t you?  You, me… a bottle of baby oil and some drugstore sunglasses…boy, those were the days. But they are over. I am 41 and I have responsibilities. Bad things happen when I don’t sleep. I lose random stuff and send emails to the wrong people and get my heels stuck in cobblestones in front of hordes of visor-wearing European cruise tourists. If I could just get a solid night’s sleep without you bugging me, this could all improve.

I didn’t move to Stavanger to pursue a relationship with you, I swear. I mean, I knew you would be around a lot during the summer, but thought that it was nothing a sleep mask and the odd whisky nightcap couldn’t fix. You have now reduced me to duct-taping heavy duty black garbage bags over my windows in some kind of trailer park version of the black-out blinds I am too cheap to buy. But then again, I also didn’t think your presence would bother me as much as it has. So maybe it’s not entirely your fault. After all you WERE here first.

I really do look forward to meeting you again under better circumstances, Mr. Sun. But until then, you might want to go and hang out in Australia for a while. I have heard they appreciate you more there. As the days get shorter and your buddy the moon starts to take your place as our almost constant companion, I will not mourn your loss. It’s nothing personal. I will be too busy sleeping. 

The Mummy Club

Aw, babies. They are everywhere in Stavanger.  And who doesn’t love ‘em? Can’t say their scrunched up reddened faces are particularly endearing to me in the first few weeks of life on this planet, but once they hit the pudgy milk-fed phase I generally warm up to them. And toddlers? Well, they have their fussy moments, but how can anyone resist their straight -legged, wobbly, slightly drunken looking swagger? Not to mention those pudgy cheeks. As they get older, it’s wonderful to see them develop their likes, dislikes and dreams for their future, watching a sense of humour and outlook on life emerge from a tiny being you created. I am sure most people’s children don’t turn out exactly as their parents expected, but as long as it doesn’t involve jail time, full facial tattooing or an unnatural obsession with Justin Bieber, isn’t that half the fun?

I wouldn’t really know, you see. For all the goals I ever made for myself, having children just never made the cut. In some circles, there are individuals out there who simply cannot believe that having a baby would not be on my to-do list. The fact is, my life has not really been conducive to having offspring, and it obviously hasn’t bothered me enough to do anything about it. So, being at the age where most women I know have young children and toddlers at home, what’s a girl to do when she is living in a place like Stavanger, where the most obvious way of meeting people her own age means going to soft play with a 3 year old or discussing report cards with the other mums?  How do you get into that club without actually getting in that club?

 In Stavanger, as in just about all the other places I have lived, the mums seem to travel in packs. In the parks I see these mums striding confidently along the paths, three abreast with their prams, chatting amiably to each other while their children get their daily dose of fresh air. I can’t help but be slightly jealous of the camaraderie. I smile and nod to them as I pass by, only to be met by slightly bewildered gazes. Nope. Not going to make any friends that way. Might get slapped with a restraining order, though. I hope they know I am not insane, just foreign, a bit weird and overly keen to meet new people.

Next stop, the gym. On your average day I see at least 3-4 women drop their kids off at the childcare facility in the gym while they work out. Surely if I show them I am child-friendly, that will be an opener? From my treadmill perch I watch a few wee ones toddle along, racing to the change rooms in a mad dash to be rid of their Michelin man snow suits. Mother in pursuit, I smile and wave at a little boy while I keep a death grip on one handle of my running machine. No sense in traumatizing the kid by having him watch me get tossed off the back of this torture machine. Unfortunately, the mother is too engaged in catching up to him to pay much notice to me. Why she needs a gym with this kinda exercise at her fingertips I will never know.  Strike two in the “make friends with mummies” world series.

Down but not out, I have decided that maybe I am just destined to hang out with the child-free group. It’s not so bad. After all, they are the ones who can drink wine in the middle of the day on a Saturday, spontaneously meet me at the kino (cinema) on a Wednesday night, and I never have to hear about the woes of barnehage (daycare) closures . Membership in that group certainly has its perks.

And so it has happened that I have found my niche. Although most of my current pack are a good ten years younger than me, I reckon the mummies my age just need a little more time. From an outsider’s perspective, it is easy to see that Stavanger is a great place to raise a family, but not ideal for those of us with 'alternative' lifestyle choices.

Still, no matter what support Norway offers through its schools and barnehager or where you come from, we can probably all agree that parents need to be there for their kids. Until they hit their teen years, that is. Then you mums will be begging me to come over in the middle of the day on a Saturday with a big bottle of wine.

Don’t worry, I can wait.

We Are the Champions, My Friend

Confession time: I think I might hate the Olympics. This in no way means that I dislike sport. On the contrary, I have participated in every sport short of camel racing at some point in my life, and I would probably give that a go if I could be guaranteed not to come away smelling like the back end of a Tasmanian devil. Or the back end of a camel for that matter.

 I have simply never enjoyed  the sly insults and  international rivalry that it inspires. We are told that the Games are supposed to bring the world together in a way that no other sporting event does because no matter what the Americans try and tell us, the Olympics IS ACTUALLY THE REAL WORLD SERIES OF EVERYTHING. All of this comes together to create a dilemma in a town such as Stavanger, where every other person you meet is from somewhere else.

So what’s a gal to do when she is a visitor seated in the home section? I just knew that I would not be able to escape the Olympic fever in Norway.  Norwegians are annoyingly good at winter sport so how could they fail to be obsessed by the successes and defeats of the world’s best winter athletes? I knew that I would have to show some kind of interest in this spectacle and probably have to talk some “smack” about how Canada was gonna take Montenegro down in something I am sure is called Super G slope style short track speed curling. This enthusiasm would be expected of me since my native land, Canada, also takes its winter sport seriously. Well, we take one sport seriously.  That sport would be hockey, or when that doesn’t pan out, hockey fighting.

As the Olympics approached, I could feel a sense of unease creep over me. One thing I love more than anything else about Stavanger is the harmony that seems to exist amongst the expats and Norwegian community. I know not all Stavanger residents would agree with me on this, but my experience has been that expats and Norwegians work and play quite well together in this sandbox we call Rogaland, and I hate the idea of anything upsetting that fine balance.

Then the stinking Olympics had to come along.

On the day after the Games began, I noticed a strange silence fall over our office. I must state, for the record, that my office is quite international, and boasts 10 different nationalities amongst a group of 20 people. We were all on high alert for the first person to strike. Would it be the American, who would most certainly be eaten alive by just about every other nationality for being over-confident or boastful? Or would it be our hosts the Norwegians, who may have every right to be as confident as the Americans, but could be over powered by their sheer lack of numbers?

It was day three before the insults really started flying, over e- mail and office communicator at first, and gradually escalating to an all -out war of words on how certain teams were getting certain parts of their anatomy kicked. By the end of week one, pretty much every nationality in the office had been battered, bruised and served up a big plate of you guys suck. What had happened to the sweet little multi-cultural utopia of Stavanger?

Maybe she will return once the final medal count is done and the last closing ceremony fireworks have been extinguished. At that point, it’s possible we can all come together once again and be friends, without any of these petty clashes or  the cut-throat competition. The unity and peace we once had here can return.

Unless Canada loses at hockey, of course. Then all bets are off. 

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.