::pausefisk::

I'm Not In Reverse

2010-10-27T18:11:00.002+02:00

This is a rare day: I’m sitting at home with Pirate Booty Snacks to my left, a cup of warm apple cider to my right and a laptop in front of me. We always intended to get another laptop, but things have been moving at SUCH a fast clip.Anders has been fantastically busy at the Museum (where the PC resides from 9 to 5) and I have been crazy busy taking care of the kids, the house, and traveling from NYC so I can see family & friends. Hopefully, this gives some explanation as why my updates, blog or otherwise, have been relatively spotty.

When I tried to “revive” my blog (see the previous entry from a lifetime ago), I figured I’d have the time, the laptop, and the energy to write my commentary on what I thought would be reverse culture shock. There have been bits of that, for example, my frustration with American car culture or the unbelievably crappy cell phone service. What really threw me for a loop was realizing that I’m dealing with culture shock. After all, I’m living in New York City, with kids, in a neighborhood where the taxes paid per head are most likely more than my paid salary. This resembles nothing of the life I was living when I left the States nine years ago.

In a way, culture shock is much better than reverse culture shock. There are challenges to overcome (finding an apartment & a day care was a fright), new places to explore (Central Park, playgrounds, museums), and cuisines (surprising boring in this neighborhood). While these things can be frustrating, they are often exciting, too. I’m learning a lot about being a stay-at-home mom, American style. Theo goes to day care three days a week, which is extravagant, considering I’m at home with Livy. I was shocked to find out most day care facilities cost more per academic year than I paid for my college degree per academic year. What’s worse is so many of the day cares or pre-schools are only open 3 hours a day! (What’s the &%!* point?) Norway really outshines the US when it comes to gender equality, child support & education.

A pleasant surprise has been the overwhelming positive reaction people have to the kids, especially Livy. She rides on her tummy in her baby carriage, prompting all kinds of exclamations, smiles, and sometimes, debates. There’s a secret army of women who help me get Theo around on public transit and an amazing support staff of men who offer me their seats on a crowded subway. I am incredibly grateful for these small courtesies, since public transit is such a beast in this city (and that's when it's working).

And if you haven’t guessed by now, I’m seeing NYC through the lens of a child. I chuckle at the vision of myself, some twelve years ago and my trips to NYC. Twelve years ago, I basically partied my way through the city, its galleries and its venues, always ending the trip with a fantastic brunch. With the kids, eating out is not relaxing and seeing concerts is not a reality. (There’s just no way I can stay awake through the opening bands to see the headlining act.) Now I skip from park to playground, scour the city for cheap & tasty eats and find fun venues for Theo. I am far from bored, and I know we’re spoiled, living the good life thanks to the generous travel stipend Anders received from the University.

To be honest, I look forward to getting back to work, but there in lies the rub: work is in Norway. Fantastic Norway, organized Norway, ahead-of-the-curve Norway, sterile Norway, cold Norway. Never in my life did I imagine that I might suffer reverse culture shock in a place other than the US and I certainly didn’t anticipate how much I want to stay in this dirty, convoluted, backwards, colorful, vibrant place just a little bit longer.

FB (nearly) Killed the Blog Star

2010-05-21T13:10:00.002+02:00

I haven’t blogged in a while, and while I could blame FB, the truth is I was struggling to find a topic. My heart wasn’t into the regular topics of kids, work, Oslo vs. Philly vs. Cairo, etc. Recently, a rather innocent suggestion prompted me to blog again.

We’re moving to NYC for 6 months and the people who are subletting our apartment have very little. Gratefully, all we have to pack down is our personal belongings (and yet I wonder where does all of this sh*t come from?). Anders had innocently suggested that I could leave my binder full of recipes for the subleters to peruse. I recoiled at the thought, then tried to shake it off, thinking that there’s nothing particularly special about this binder, so why not leave it out, and changed my mind one more time: that binder is mine.

There is no “Water for Chocolate” going on here, however, the binder almost feels like a diary. These recipes represent memories, places, and people. Here are a few selected entries:

From Oslo: Anders added his own favorite recipes to the binder that include rice pudding (risengrynsgrøt) and the rice cream & rice pancakes that are made from the pudding leftovers. I also have a rather unexceptional recipe for mango cheesecake. I value it because I had to learn how to make a graham cracker crust which turns out to be a lovely complement to the killer mango topping.

From Cairo: I have a slew of Egyptian recipes that include molokhiyya, potato salad, koshery and one amazing recipe for Banana Bread a roommate had downloaded from the Internet. To my great disappointment, I’ve never been able to replicate Hala’s amazing spinach, dill & rice dish. It’s not surprising since the recipe was given to me to me like this: “W’allahi ye Heather, it’s so simple: just add tomatoes, dill, spinach and rice.”

From Philly: I find these recipes to be a riot since they reflect the zeitgeist of what was new in food culture in the 90s. At the time, there was this burgeoning focus on meat and dairy replacement products, health food and organic food. For example, I have a recipe for a chocolate mousse pie filling made from tofu. I’ll never make it again, but I can’t bear to throw away the recipe. A lot of the recipes from this era came from the Internet at a time when the Internet was new. Most were downloaded & printed from fledging websites and they show how far web design and network technology has come.

From Athens: Athens was the first place I lived where I had to cook for myself (I lived in the dorms up until then) and what a place to learn how to cook. Rather unconsciously, I explored what I like and how to prepare it. This was pure trial & error, so I made a lot of mistakes in the process. Most of the recipes I have for Greek food were copied out of books after I came back. I certainly have memories tied to moussaka and tzatziki, and I irrationally keep six different recipes for béchamel sauce, even though I only use one.

Some of these recipes travel with me like family heirlooms. I can’t tell you how many times I copied or asked my mom for a copy of the Cinderella Cake recipe or the one for Famous Amos’ Chocolate Chip Cookies before they found a permanent home in the binder. The Cinderella Cake is my favorite birthday cake recipe and the Famous Amos Cookies are the *best* chocolate chip cookies in the world, provided you like raisins. These recipes followed me from Penn State to every place I’ve lived since then. While these recipes represent tradition, for me, they are more about quality of life. A birthday just isn’t a proper birthday without Cinderella Cake.

This binder represents just part of my issues with food. (My main issue is that there is far, far too much tasty food in the world.) All of these little issues and memories trapped in the binder will remain there until I deem it appropriate to throw them on the table. Like most food issues, it feels good to be in control of them.

Bon appetite, yo.

Olivia Campbell Bettum

2010-05-21T13:05:00.003+02:00

This announcement comes a little late, but with no less love: Olivia Campbell Bettum was born on April 04, 2010, weighing 2.9kg and 48cm long. Since then, she’s been sleeping, eating and exhibiting great patience as the rest of us get used to having two kids in the house.

Welcome, Olivia. I hope you remain patient with us and develop a sense of humor, too. We love you, Baby Girl.

Debate? Naw, posturing.

2009-08-27T11:19:00.004+02:00

I’ve been surprised lately at the ferocity in which people are “debating” Obama’s Healthcare reform. NPR’s Michel Martin wrote a blog entry about how emotional the town hall meetings are and how little of the actual bill is discussed. Lee Hill followed it up with this blog entry on civil discourse.

WELL. If everyone’s posturing and no one’s debating, DO allow me to get in on the brawl. I have no idea what the bill states and have some pretty strong views for an ex-pat. Living in Norway has its pluses and minuses, but I find that the national healthcare system (among other nice socialistic perks, such as the one year paid maternity/ paternity leave) to be increasingly like golden handcuffs. Anders and I have often talked about moving to the US, though we’ve never really discussed the nitty-gritty. My head starts aching when I think about navigating American healthcare and bureaucratic systems again.

I remember distinctly when I read my friend’s blog after he wathced Michael Moore’s Sicko:

“I've forgotten the sensation of living in utter economic fear of ever getting sick or hit by a car, as I often did in the U.S. I say economic fear, because I wasn't worried so much for my health--I was fairly sure, correctly or not, that I'd make it through fine--but that I'd catch something or break something that would make me go into bankruptcy.”

(Mind you, I still haven’t seen Sicko, but I am merely posturing here.)

Then and now, I wholeheartedly agree with Ian. My European compadres like to tell of horror stories they hear on the news about Americans being turned away from a hospital because they either didn’t belong to the same HMO that runs that particular hospital or being turned away for not having any insurance at all --or worse yet-- being dropped by your HMO in middle of, say, chemotherapy. This is utterly and completely unimaginable to Europeans. Then again, Europeans see health care as right and not a luxury. After experiencing both, I have to say I agree with the Europeans.

That’s not to say the various national healthcare systems aren’t without their flaws. For one, they’re tailored to the culture/ nation they serve. I’ve heard some crazy stories about friends who’ve received healthcare in places like Japan, Romania, Germany and the UK. We shake our heads, laugh in disbelief at the “they did what?!” aspect of the story and continue the conversation. What never, ever enters the conversation is how we didn’t have access to healthcare in our time of need. And this is where I lose the plot in the US debate: Isn’t and shouldn’t the Healthcare Reform be about accessibility?

What also astonishes me is how Americans who actually have healthcare do not view their monthly deductions as a kind of tax. Different companies have different options, but almost everyone pays XXX amount to their employer every month. If I recall correctly, I paid close to $200 month for my healthcare (no dental, no eye coverage) at Temple U. That was on top of my federal, state and local taxes, which at the time totaled about 32% of my income. Right now, I pay about 32% of my income to the Norwegian government and get to keep the $200 per month that otherwise would’ve gone to an HMO because healthcare is already included. (Hmmm, what on Earth should I do with this yearly saving of ca. $2400? I know! I’ll use it to fund my 5 weeks of vacation!)

Lastly, what is this nonesense about the governement “Death Panels”? Seriously, people. Don't you know that the private, for profit HMOs already have their own? My aunt died from liver failure because the healthcare company flat-out refused the transplant that would have saved her life. Had she been 69, it would have been granted, but too bad for her, she was 71. Everyone in my family has good genes and longevity on their side, living well into their late 80’s to mid-90’s. But to the private health insurer’s Death Panel, an odd 20 or so additional years wasn’t enough of a reason to grant a transplant. Honestly, what’s the difference between Uncle Sam’s or the HMO’s Death Panel? It’s not like the average Joe has a chance in hell to appeal a decision from either one.

You May Call Me Snaggletooth

2009-04-21T16:00:00.002+02:00

It all started with a bad haircut. I mean, a really bad one. All I wanted was trim and now my hair looks long-ish, but in reality it is barely long enough to pull back into a ponytail holder. All of the fly-away hairs I so patiently grew out are back, the length that took months to acquire is gone and I'm flat out pissed. Anyhoo, that was on the eve of my birthday.

On my birthday, I was immediately reminded of said crappy haircut when I woke up. My mood was foul. With my morning cuppa joe that my husband so lovingly put into my hands (props to the man who dared to get that close to me whilst so grumpy), I opened the birthday package my folks sent to me. It was full of magazines, clothes and items otherwise unattainable in Norway. Ok, my mood started to improve – a bit.

Then Anders offered to deliver & pick up Theo from daycare, giving me the liberty to take my racing bike to work. I'm still new to the skinny tire revolution and I'm giddy as a schoolgirl on that thing. (Seriously, this thing is, like, vrrrrrrooooooom!) Anyhoo, the ride lifted my spirits and by this point, I was feeling nearly human.

Later, Anders bought me lunch (he had to since I forgot my wallet). We went to my favorite bakery and sat in the sunshine. As if that wasn't enough, he also surprised me with a brand new iPod. Poof! the bad mood was banished.

At the risk of sounding like some soppy actor at the Emmys, I would like to thank my folks for their care-package and my hubby for not being scared by my snaggletooth alter ego and for all the birthday wishes I got on Facebook. A black mood as foul as I started out with is rare and mercifully, it doesn't last long with a day like today. Y'all ROCK.

In like a lion?

2009-03-05T09:28:00.003+01:00

I can't believe the entire month of February blew by and we're already in the first week of March. There was a lot to do at work and we were busy during the weekends, too. Since the conditions were perfect for skiing, we took advantage of nice cross-country trails whenever we could.

While I survived the winter with a whole lot less seasonal depression than before, I find myself among the ranks of Norwegians who feel … so… tired. Daylight hours are expanding, but there’s still ca. 70 cm snow on the ground and mixed bag as far as the weather is concerned (warmish/frigid/rain/snow). Now that March is here, the wish for Spring that Works (i.e. mild sunny days that melt the snow away instead of the rainy kind) tops the list of “Things I Long For”. Whatever Spring holds in store for us, I am considering a helmet and hip waders: the helmet is for "takras" (lit. roof avalanche) and the hip waders for the muck.

Otherwise, there isn't much to report. Work is good, the kid is good, and ditto for hubby. Boring I know, but sometimes boring's OK.

Time to Get Away

2009-01-20T13:27:00.001+01:00

What is it about going on vacation that makes me spin around the house like a madwoman? I’ve come to learn that packing means two things for me: 1) putting my clothes in the suitcase; 2) cleaning the house. Naturally, putting my things in the suitcase is the easy part. It’s cleaning the house that gets complicated.

If I were able to vacuum the carpets, put the laundry away, wash the dishes and go, then it’d be simple. Some how, I equate “going away” with “deadline”. Small projects I’ve put off MUST get done before I walk out the door. Things like delivering the recycling, lining the drawers, replacing light bulbs that burnt out months ago start bothering me with an OCD-like intensity. I rarely get to bed before 1am the night before I travel and this unbelievably stupid since I usually have to wake up at 5am.

I wonder if I do this out of some sub-conscious desire to have a spotless house in case, god forbid, anything happens. Honestly though, I doubt anyone would think negatively of me if I didn’t get the stain out of the carpet lest I never return. Or, I wonder if I do it to extend the concept of vacation. The lovely thing about vacation is getting away not only from work, but also from the household routines. It’s nice to come home and not see all of the things I should have done days or weeks ago, but to clean sheets and a clean slate where I can start my to-do list all over again.

Geek Rock

2008-12-22T16:05:00.000+01:00

While working at the student radio station a few years ago, I got my hands on a copy of The Best of the Talking Heads. For me, it was nice to have these tunes lying about since the “Classic Rock” stations of my past aren’t readily found here. For Anders, it was revelation: this was first time he understood that geeks rock.

For while, we were spinning it daily and the CD is now a standard for any road trip. It was really fun to hear the songs as Anders heard them. We even developed a language to describe the various sounds in Naïve Melody. (I mean, the keyboards obviously say dwee-oo-wee and wee-oo-WEE-oo.) There was a lot of discussion around the lyrics, the squeaking, the hollering and whatever else David Byrne managed to utter.

It was by accident that we learned that Theo liked the album, too. I can’t remember how it started, but Theo became a Talking Heads devotee at the very tender age of 2 months. If he couldn’t sleep, we would start with Psycho Killer and he was out by Slippery People. (It’s true!)

The day care recently asked the parents to bring any CDs that kids liked. The employees were a bit skeptical when we presented the Talking Heads and flabbergasted when Theo started dancing to his favorite tracks. Pretty soon the other tots were bouncing to “Once in a Lifetime” and the adults were singing “Psycho killer, qu'est-ce que c'est?” long after the day care closed.

2008 has been a great year, but I gotta admit that corrupting a few very minor minds in favor of Geek Rock has been a highlight. ;)

No More Boxes

2008-11-05T11:44:00.004+01:00

One of the downers about living overseas is missing out on family moments. I told my parents I was pregnant over phone and while it fun to hear my dad giggle like a school boy and to hear my mom scream for 10 seconds straight, I would have preferred to have told them in person.

This also meant that a traditional baby shower was not possible. In Norway, people show up in droves to welcome the baby and small gifts are given then, but it's not the same as an American shower. My parents and I got to talking and we worked out an ingenious solution. As everyone knows, it’s the taxes that people fear here in Norway. Luxury goods, such as electronics, booze and cosmetics are heavily taxed – up to 100%. (That’s right, a $20 bottle of alcohol ends up costing over $40.) However, Norway does not tax used goods, especially goods not meant for resale. That way, you can move your entire household without paying a penny to the government.

My folks mobilized my sister, my cousins (Betsy had tons), aunts, uncles and my grandmothers to round up baby gear and send it by freighter. This was seriously no small task. There were mounds of clothes to sort out, the whole new world of international shipping to learn (who do you contact to reserve space on a freighter?) and resisting the urge to purchase new & cute things for the coming baby. All of this had to be done within a space of 6 months.

When it was all said & done they had selected, cleaned and packed all that we needed: clothes for the first 6 months, car seats, a crib, sheets & blankets, toys, safety gear, a changing pad, diapers, bath supplies, towels, bottles, shoes, winter gear, summer gear, books, strollers and list goes on. I will never forget the day the shipment arrived in Oslo and Anders saw the packing order. He totally lost it. We had to arrange for the transport of 3.1 cubic meters (110 sq. ft) of baby gear from the docks to our house. Since we couldn’t organize cars with enough cargo space, the shipment had to be delivered. Anders walked around for months muttering “3.1 cubic meters!” and the number over time grew to 3.3 and eventually 3.5. (ha-ha!)

What was truly amazing about this gift was how comprehensive it was. I started unpacking everything and got an overview of all that we received. After Theo was born, Anders would ask “Do we have _________?” and my reply was always “Yep, we got it.” I think we spent all of $30 dollars in the first months after Theo was born. The money didn’t even go to diapers – it was more for gratuitous things or specialized items needed because of the Norwegian climate.

The gift didn’t stop there. When we came home for Christmas 2007, my sister and my cousins pulled out everything we needed. We only had to show up with enough clothes and diapers for the trip and they literally supplied everything else. My Aunt Margie even crocheted a blanket for the visit. We left with enough clothes for Theo that would last another six months. And that’s not all: when my parents came to visit in June, they brought enough clothes (again supplied by my sister and cousin) to last Theo until he reached 18 months.

For the past year and a half, I have been pulling boxes out of storage and packing boxes down. My sister, my cousin and the rest of my family have been looking at pictures of Theo in all of the gear that their children had. My family takes pride in seeing their gift put to use and we are more grateful than words can express. I suppose it’s not too strange that I get a little emotional as I write that we have no more boxes. I was shocked to find that the last box of gear I pulled out for Theo that it was indeed, the last box. After Theo outgrows this round of clothing, we will have to purchase all he needs.

For some people this is actually good news. My parents in-law, for instance, have been waiting very patiently for this day. They supplied Theo with a few big-ticket gifts, like a down bag for the stroller and a new car seat after he outgrew the last one. Occasionally, we would get a packet of onsies. I have to give my mother in-law credit where credit is due; she has restrained herself for the past 18 months. Given how giddy my brother in-law and my parents in-law are, I suspect that they are thrilled that they can lavish Theo with all the little gifts they want to for the coming holidays. To be honest, they’re having a hard time waiting. ;)

The Great Suburban Bicycle Race

2008-09-18T11:00:00.002+02:00

First, it behooves me to say that technically I live inside city limits. Oslo, however, is described as the biggest little city in Europe or the smallest large town. “Urban Assault Riding” (the once renowned sales pitch for urban ‘mountain’ bikes) is hardly necessary. I find that drivers here tend to be patient towards cyclists and the biggest challenge is avoiding cobblestone streets. Along the many and uninterrupted cycling lanes in the city, a kind of unspoken rivalry keeps the daily commute lively.

Now, there are different categories of cyclists, of course. You’ll find the pros, whose bikes generally cost more than a car. You feel them approach by the cushion of air pressure that pushes you along before they pass you. These men and women simply live for open road. On the other end of the spectrum, you see the obvious Chads & Betties who were suckered by salesmen to buy a medium priced bike, the racing clothes, shoes, all of the extras which cost nearly as much as the bicycle itself. These people look the part, but they are clearly novice riders, ambling along.

Then there are the people that fall in the middle. They can have any kind of bike (cheap, expensive, road or off-road) and any kind of clothing (racing, everyday or sweats) and appear to be reasonably active when not commuting by bike. These are people that I assume are like me, and therefore, active participants. I know I’m not making this phenomenon up, since if I pass someone (especially a guy) he’ll try to catch up or a woman who was previously ambling along will pick up the pace so I can’t pass her. Others sometimes give the sidelong glance in acknowledgment of defeat.

There are daily victories and defeats, and I like to think that I’m on the plus side of passing people versus being passed. My deep competitive spirit (I’m cracking up as I write the phrase) has recently been dampened by hauling Theo back and forth from day care in his trailer. Flying over speed bumps and hopping over pot-holes isn’t good for his helmeted noggin, so I slow down. I am also slowed down by any kind of incline whatsoever. This means I hang in the right lane and only get to pass the occasional Chad or Betty. The ultimate satisfaction, of course, comes from passing another mom hauling her kid in a trailer. (heh, heh, heh)

I used to do this in Philly, too. Once I escaped the grid of Philly’s streets and where the common foe and fun was dodging traffic, this kind of racing rivalry was common along East and West River Drive. (I once made the mistake of trying to pace some speed skaters just for shits and giggles. They were obviously annoyed that yet another novice cyclist tried to keep up with them, though gracious enough in the short convo we had at the end of the run.) The difference between Philly and Oslo is that there were so few cyclists who commuted along the River Drives. It didn’t take long to know which cyclists I could beat and which ones could beat me, because there were only, like, three of us. On my daily commute, I never see the same people twice, which some how makes it a bit more exciting.

It made me laugh

2008-08-29T13:11:00.002+02:00

This is the best song lyric I've heard in a long time:

"Here's another song about a gender I'll never understand"

-the Wombats, Kill the Director

Day care

2008-08-18T13:53:00.004+02:00

Theo has passed several milestones recently: he’s walking (running), survived his first year in tact, and started day care.

The beginning involved all of the usual worries and fears – will he be social enough? will he sleep enough? eat enough? How long will he cry after we leave? etc. Mercifully, it went like clockwork. Kiddo shed a few tears the first time we left him for the whole day, but otherwise he loves it. He is thrilled to be around kids his own age and I see changes in him almost immediately. It's small things like finally holding the sippy cup or bottle by himself. I knew he could do it for quite some time, though he preferred to sit in someone’s lap to take a bottle.

A niggling feeling popped up that was a bit unexpected. I realized that when Theo started day care, he also officially started down the long road of becoming Norwegian. He won’t take my American identity with him to school, which is strange for me to think about. (I was equally unhinged when I learned that, for example, any traces of my green/brown eyes are lost since Theo has blue eyes. There’s a long genetic explanation that I will leave out, but suffice to say Theo carries only the blue-eyed gene and none of my eye color genes.) My identity as an American is ipso facto, but not Theo’s.

It puts a new perspective on the parents of my friends who grew up in another country. I met people whose parents came from Russia, India, Korea, Ireland, Greece, Argentina, etc. As kids, the struggle was always for the immediate action – wanting to eat this food, see this movie, wear these clothes, play with these toys – that may or may not have been culturally appropriate for the parents. Later on, as we became adults, my friends could describe the struggles/regrets/perks of having parent(s) from a culture other than the one they grew up in – we always danced like this at home, I wish my mom/dad would have taught me Korean, I’m glad I learned French growing up, I wish my folks would’ve let me go on dates.

I can’t, nor do I want to, forget the places, people and experiences that made me who I am. For what it's worth, I’ll pass that bit on to him and he'll become exactly whatever he becomes.

O my god gotta update

2008-07-31T16:21:00.000+02:00

Now it's summertime, people. The International Summer School is coming to a close and I can start exhaling. Emails will be answered, calls will be returned, blogs will be read and I foresee a social life in my near future.

There is, of course, lots of things happening in the coming week. We've a wedding to go this weekend, my parents are leaving and Theo will be starting day care. If this sounds busy to you, well, it is. But it's less than the breakneck speed I've been going at for the past 6 weeks.

Hilarious

2008-07-06T20:44:00.000+02:00

A friend found this t-shirt while surfing the web: http://store.muledesign.com/shirts/philly.php The only shame of it is that few people here understand the humor in it. The same friend did indeed see the humor in it and proceeded to buy two of them for me. :D

a.k.a. Streken a.k.a Lineman

2008-07-06T11:14:00.003+02:00

Do you remember La Linea? I think these ran with Saturday morning cartoons when I was kid, oh, so many moons ago. Anyhoo, these little gems pop up occasionally on ‘Weegie tv (which is now completely digital). They're hillarious!

Still Got A Pulse

2008-06-15T10:33:00.002+02:00

A friend recently and bitterly complained, "Your blog is dead, Heather. What's up with that?"

Since early April, a whole lotta transitioning has been going on. I've switched jobs, which is an incredibly slow process in Norway, my folks arrived to help take care of Theo since my husband's gone back to work, I traveled to Prague with my new job and now I'm scrambling to learn as much as I can before the end of next week. New job #2 is at a summer program for exchange students at the University (www.uio.no/iss). All hell is about to break loose on June 19th and I have no idea what I'm doing.

Still, as busy as I am about to be, new job #2 feels good. The last job at the Adult Education Center had me stressed out. I was working overtime everyday with tasks that were tedious and unsatisfying. I had to beg my friends in Oslo to plan to meet since I was brain-dead after 5pm. The best I could manage on a daily basis was to give my son his dinner, his bath and to put him to bed before I collapsed. Ugh. Thank god these days are behind me!

I look forward to new job #2. With all that there is do now and with all that I will have to do in the near future, I feel good about it. I'm not brain-dead after 5pm, I totally enjoy the time I have with Mom, Dad, Theo and Anders after work, I started working out again after a year of not, I've picked up my hobbies again, I'm helping my husband finish remodeling the kitchen and I’ve even hit a flea market or two.

The summers in Oslo are so fine with the long, long days of sunlight. As midsummer approaches, I'm glad that I no longer feel as if I'm wasting them.

Roma con bambino

2008-04-23T23:08:00.007+02:00

We recently traveled to Rome for a long weekend. With all that I studied about Rome and the Renaissance, it seemed downright arrogant to visit for 4 days, but you take what you can get.

I think the first thing that struck me about the Renaissance is how gaudy it was. I was overwhelmed by all the naked ladies, gesticulating men and putti in the Vatican Museum. It was very emphatic. With lots of gold leaf. I know now that most of what I studied was photographed in front of a black backdrop and now I understand why.

Except for St. Peter’s and the Vatican Museum, it’s not a good idea to take a squealing baby into a museum. Any idea how good the acoustics are in square rooms with paneled walls? I do now. At the very least, the museum guards were charmed by Theo. Guards, waiters and strangers in the street chucked Theo on the chin, gave him about a thousand bread sticks and big broad smiles. The Italian ladies were a bit less enthusiastic, but that’s cool. A group of tourists at St. Peter’s started clucking in a strange language and took about 50 photos of Theo. Trust me, I’m flattered, but I’m surprised that they ran out of things to photograph at the Vatican.

Our last day in Rome was really fun. We wandered around the city without a plan, except to see the Pantheon. Along the way we stumbled upon 10 monuments we recognized and we probably sauntered by another 50 that we didn’t. The food we picked up in random corner cafes was crazy good. There really is something to be said for sun-ripened tomatoes, fresh herbs and quality bread. The best chocolate ice cream (gelato, whatever) in the world was found in a café 50 yards from our hotel. The shopping is all that it is cracked up to be and traffic wasn’t all that bad. I don’t know if Cairo – or even Boston for that matter- puts Roman traffic in perspective, but crossing the street wasn’t as life threatening as I thought. Managing the stroller on the escalators in the subway gave a whole lotta gray hair, tho.

Oh yeah: You wanna know what my first words were when I walked into St. Peter’s? I walked into the world’s largest church and uttered “Holy shit”. That’s right. I’m all class.

The Seasons

2008-04-01T13:59:00.004+02:00

Before Easter, I was talking to a co-worker about her upcoming vacation in Spain. She described how they were going to fly into Malaga and drive northwards, stopping at different sites before going to their vacation home in Alicante. There was the usual small talk on the challenges of learning Spanish, the Catholic festivals, the multitude of Norwegian retirees who live in Spain and, of course, the weather. She, like everyone else, agrees that Spain has a lovely warm climate. Then she said that curious thing Norwegians say about their own climate: “But at least Norway has four seasons.”

I used to politely gloss over this amazingly absurd statement. It is essentially a prop, a lie (livsløgn) that Norwegians tell themselves. “Yes, yes; Spain may have better weather than Norway, but at least we have four seasons.” If I mention that Philadelphia happens to have four seasons, they are rather suspicious about the quality of the difference in seasons. It’s as if they don’t believe that there’s enough of a difference between summer and spring to really count as a “season”. Sarcastic statements clamber at the tip of my tongue and I fear they will be unleashed the next time some poor ‘Weegie utters

“…but least Norway has four seasons.”
So Vivaldi travelled all the way to Norway to get his inspiration, then?

“…but least Norway has four seasons.”
That must be a strong selling point in the real estate market here.

“…but least Norway has four seasons.”
Yeah, and three of them suck.

Since nothing in this world is as simple as a stupid statement and sarcastic reply, I am reminded of a conversation I had with my dentist. He hails from Scotland and he first moved to Tromsø and then after a few years, he set up shop in Oslo. I asked him why he moved to Norway in the first place and without hesitation he jovially replied, “The weather.” My sun-loving brain almost imploded when I comprehended that there are worse climates than Tromsø’s three months of complete darkness and six months of winter. In comparison with a year-long forecast of rain and overcast skies, the Norwegian climate would indeed be a step up.

Still, I have to ask: Does Scotland have four seasons, too?

Cultural-ism

2008-02-19T17:41:00.005+01:00

February is a tricky month here in Oslo. The late winter temps compact the snow into ice that is usually covered in a layer of water. Even if the sidewalks have been treated, the conditions are so slick that ordinary shoes ought to be replaced with skates. There are two clever solutions to these conditions: the first is socially acceptable, if outdated and the second solution is simple, modern and without question socially unacceptable.

The first is what Norwegians call a “Spark”. It’s essentially a push cart on metal runners used to toodle back and forth from the grocery store. Anders said the conditions in Oslo haven’t been good enough to use the spark for years. Outside of Oslo, in the colder regions of Norway, you’ll find people still using it to get around. Again, keep in mind that this considered to be old-fashioned, but you’re not a total dweeb should you dare to use it. (Maybe a 50/50 split, 60/40, tops).

(Side note: Spark means “kick” in Norwegian, which is how you propel the damn thing. This is just one of many annoying examples of when I ask for the name of something in Norwegian and I get a description in return. Other examples include Spatula = slikkepott = pot licker (I’m not making this up) or Vacuum cleaner = støvsuger = dust sucker. My personal favorite is cervix = livmorhals = life-mother-throat, whereas uterus is of course livmor = life-mother (I’m not, I repeat, NOT making this up, but I digress.))

The other socially unacceptable alternative for these conditions are “brodder” or strap-on cleats. I mean, this is totally logical, right? These cleats give unequaled traction for walking up, but more importantly, down steep sloped streets covered in ice. Anders has warned me that only old ladies used these things, when he wasn’t ridiculing me to death. What he failed to mention was the perception of people that use the cleats goes deeper than that: It is people who have nothing to contribute to the society who wear them, as if wearing cleats publicly declares that the wearer evades paying taxes. The withering looks I get while drinking my morning cup of joe from a travel mug are nothing in comparison to the horrified stares people give me for wearing the cleats. (horrified, jeering, you get the point). According to Norwegians, falling on your ass is nobler than putting on these sensible cleats.

I vividly remember the day I made way safely down the ice-covered hill to the nearest subway station, since above ground traffic was at a standstill due to the weather conditions. At the bottom of the hill, a young ‘Weegie and her mom were making their way along the sidewalk when she asked, “Why that woman was wearing cleats? It’s not that slippery out today…”

I’m sure any of you readers from upstate NY or Maine would sympathize with the ‘Weegie here, but I’m from a sub-tropical climate, yo. If I don’t wear the cleats, I look like an 80 year-old woman who’s afraid to break her hip and if I do wear the cleats I’m openly mocked. This is a true lose-lose situation, folks.

Weekend

2008-01-27T22:20:00.000+01:00

Recently, Anders and I wondered what we should do on Friday night. After a short, half-hearted discussion, we decided to stay at home. I opened a bottle of red wine, settled in with my knitting (yes, I knit) and we watched the movie on TV. Two things struck me: the first was that this was an endlessly dull way to spend a Friday night. The other was that I was perfectly content with the evening. Seriously y’all,is this difference between being a 20-something and a 30-something?

And as if to make up for a dull and asocial Friday night, the whole of our Saturday was action-packed. Anders and I picked out a sports stroller, fed my brother-in-law’s pets (but forgot the key), met my friends for coffee at three o’clock and then went downtown to meet Anders’ friends at eight. Theo was in tow the whole day and was a champ. He tested different strollers, charmed the sales lady (no small feat in a baby boutique), slept whenever he had the chance and wound the day down by taking a bath in an ill-fitting sink that doubled as a tub. Being the good boy he is, he fell asleep in his pram while we continued on enjoying pizza, beer and the rare night out with friends.

Even though my 22 year old self would never believe this 34 year old version of me, it’s true when I say life is good.

Obey

2007-12-12T22:39:00.000+01:00

Those fantastic black and white sticker/stencils/posters of Andre the Giant started popping up in Philadelphia ca. 1997. Due to some urban legend or something, I believed the artist who created this phenomenon had his studio at 1026 Arch St., which was a bit of a creative hotspot at the time. Ha. I couldn’t have been more wrong about the origins of the artist, Shepard Fairey.

My apologies to the artist, but the internet wasn’t so comprehensive back then and it was so much easier to believe a drunken game of “whisper down the lane” than to do any research. Crazy to say, but the cultural phenom of Obey keeps popping up. Two incidents particularly stand out: The first was a sales person I met in Las Vegas last year who was/is an Obey devotee. She was obviously impressed that anyone at the end of cool and over 30 knew of Obey, too. The other incident was a signpost.

For the record, I love signposts. They do a thankless job, and since I tend not to know where I’m at, let alone where I’m going, I pay attention to them. Take for instance, this signpost at the intersection of Grønlandleiret and Tøyenbekken in downtown Oslo. (You’re technically looking at the backside of the signpost, but bear with me.)The photo on the left was taken about 10 years ago and the photo on the right was taken just last year. It may not be easy to see, but a lot has come and gone since these pictures were taken. For starters, the one-storey, 100 year old wooden buildings were torn down to make way for a five-storey shopping center and apartment complex. A whole lotta inner-city garbage, graffiti, empty lots and history got moved and was not so gently put back. Oddly enough, the very ordinary signpost wasn’t touched. In fact, it acquired at some point between 1997 and 2007 this little addition:

I’ll be schnooked, yo. Obey is a 100% global phenomenon and I was the last to know.

Avoid Baby BBQ

2007-11-07T21:51:00.000+01:00

Can somebody tell me why baby clothes have "KEEP AWAY FROM FIRE" printed on the labels?

There Was a Time

2007-10-23T22:49:00.000+02:00

The scenario would have been totally unimaginable to me some time in my past: Iraq just played against Pakistan for the 2010 World Cup Soccer Qualifiers in Lahore. One judge hailed from Jordan and another from Kyrgyzstan and the head coach of Iraq hails from Norway. Coverage of fans’ reactions was filmed in Qatar, Syria, Pakistan and Norway.

It was, in fact, a slow game with very little drama. Iraq easily crushed Pakistan 7-0 with a mere 3 minutes of overtime. As soccer goes, this was really a boring match. Sponsorship was a bizarre mix of Pakistani and Norwegian companies. Al-Falah Bank ads were next to Bohus Furniture and the ubiquitous Coca-Cola. Despite the crazy and unlikely internationality of it all, would it be unpatriotic of me if I cheer for Iraq? But then again, would Norway see me as a passive supporter of arranged marriages if I cheer for Pakistan? Hmmmmm… now this is a dilemma. :D

What's in a Name?

2007-10-04T14:37:00.000+02:00

Choosing an official name for a baby is no simple task. What do you take into consideration: Tradition? Trends? Culture? Pronounceable in how many languages? Or worse yet, does the name we've chosen mean “The Ass of a Donkey” in a language he or she may use in the future? Well, for what it’s worth, we made our choice. Theo will have to live with it and manage the best he can.

The poor guy, however, does not get the chance to manage all of the nicknames he’s acquired in just 2 ½ months. I routinely call him “Tiger” and depending on his mood, “crab cake”. If he’s super cute, some days he even gets called “babycakes”. Anders has used every single pet name he can think of in Norwegian. Theo often becomes “Lille vennen” (Little friend), “Gullungen” (Golden Child) or “Gullklompen” (Golden Lump). The latter often gets shortened to just “klomp” and then translated into English.

Long story short, we like Lump and Lump likes us.

September 23rd

2007-09-23T13:07:00.000+02:00

It's one o'clock in the afternoon and I'm still in my pajamas. I've got a hot cup of coffee in my hands, jazz on the stereo (JJ Inc., by J.J. Johnson) and there's a fire in the fire place. It's a gray and overcast day. The leaves on the trees are changing. Anders and Theo are cozying up on the couch and Ibsen is asleep on her favorite chair.

Today's a good day.

Sounds From the Teenage Years

2007-09-20T16:04:00.000+02:00

In the days of Napster, I randomly downloaded the MP3, When Nothing's Changed by Vitesse. There was something about the song that haunted me because it was reminiscent of a sound I hadn't heard since I was a teenager. This was way beyond the overtly 80s synth pop of, say, Barcelona. After a few rounds of discussion with friends, it was decided that Vitesse reminded me of Joy Division.

Now there's another song that has me stuck in a musical déjà vu: An End Has a Start by the Editors. I assume that is indeed Echo & the Bunnymen I think of when I hear this song, as All Music suggests. My problem this time is that I'm reminded of a specific song, not just of a particular sound. So which @&%! song is it? It's killing me, and I'd love some help with one, people. Any suggestions?

Twilight Zone

2007-09-20T14:18:00.000+02:00

I didn't think this would happen, but I love maternity leave. I honestly thought I'd go nuts being at home all day. And, truth be told, I still go nuts being at home all day. My solution, therefore, is to get out as often as possible. This means meeting friends often at local coffee shops and many, many pointless trips out for one or two grocery items.

I didn't notice that there were all that many women and men out with baby buggies at first. Then, as if Rod Serling were narrating, more and more prams started to appear. And finally, people with prams are all I see. Case in point: on my way to buy some groceries yesterday I didn't see a single person who didn't have a baby buggy.

It's freaking me out.

Angel School

2007-08-27T12:30:00.000+02:00

As you may or may not be aware, Norway's Princess Märtha Louise has opened an "angel school". She claims that she can help people learn to be sensitive enough to the presence of angels by using her psychic powers. Not surprisingly, Yahoo's Odd News section thought the story was funny enough to put on their homepage about a week ago.

Of course, when I read about this in the Norwegian newspapers, I didn't quite get it. I thought "Engleskole" was surely a metaphor for something and couldn't possibly be taken literally. It was only after the local press, the foreign press, the layman and the academic started to criticize her in earnest did I realize that this was for real. (The Swedish foreign press mocking Märtha Louise is especially ironic. Their King Carl XVI Gustaf is one of the last of the surviving wingnuts from the hay day of inbred-monarchies. He's harmless, though he keeps the PR secretaries in whirl trying to tone down his antics.)

A great headline regarding the princess' antics was "Finally! Märtha Louise Will Turn Norway into a Republic!" The author was referring to the debate on whether or not Norway should do away with the monarchy all together. The media has tackled every angle of this absurdity and they have very nearly done with a straight face. I started laughing every time I saw a commentator's lips twitching when announcing the lead up to yet another "Engleskole" segment.

Märtha Louise has been a real trooper, speaking out in the press on behalf of her school. One of her lines of defense is that she "doesn't understand how we can teach our children not to mock one another when the adults behave as they do." Which, of course, left me in breathless hysterics.

The Plan Came Together

2007-08-02T23:08:00.000+02:00

Today was a surprisingly good day where all kinds of small schemes came together very, very nicely.

The first was that Anders and I remembered our anniversary all by ourselves - the first time in four years. We thankfully had several people remind us of the day just the same.

After two weeks of encouraging Theo (his name is officially Theo now) to eat every 2 to 3 hours instead of every 1 to 2 hours, we hit a comfortable rhythm for the first time. Without too much fuss, I was able to change his diaper, and have him eat and sleep within a reasonable time. If this continues, I just might survive next week when Anders goes back to work.

Lastly, I was totally surprised that I managed to squeeze my postpartum ass into a pair of pre-pregnancy jeans. I read over and over again that a new mom must be patient with her body after delivery. It was best summed up as "9 months up, 9 months down". I took the advice to heart and I have been relaxing and not stressing about the new, odd shape of my body. What I didn't count on was how fast little Theo would be sucking the life out of me while breastfeeding. Most pre-pregnancy clothes still do not fit me on account of the newly acquired canteens on my chest, but the jeans were a pleasant surprise.

While riding high on all of these small achievements, Anders and I decided to go to Ikea with Theo in tow. The chaos of it all shattered his two week old nerves and the poor thing first sobbed, then retreated into shell-shocked silence after we got to the check out line. With our nerves equally shot, we left the store with not much more than a guilty conscious. Uff! I don't think we're gonna repeat than experiment again for a while.

Theo Campbell Bettum*

2007-07-24T18:59:00.000+02:00

Theo was born July 19, 2007 at Ullevål Hospital in Oslo at 8.25am. He weighed in at a healthy 6lb 15oz (3.154kg) and was 20 ½ in (52cm) long. He's got a good blend of my features and Anders'; so much so that we can't tell who he takes after more. We are pretty certain that he's got my nose which means his boxing career is over before it started.*We haven't committed 100% to the name "Theo" yet. Regardless the name, we love you, we love you, we love you.

Strawberry Ikea

2007-07-16T09:50:00.000+02:00

This has been a wet summer. Well, every summer gets a wet beginning here in Oslo. The spring and summer usually goes something like this: we have relatively good weather in April and May, and then it rains the entire month of June. July and August are usually warm and pleasant in the waning daylight of high summer. This year, June was pleasant and dry, while July has been wet with record amounts of rain.

Two very Norwegian phenomena have been affected by the unusually high amounts of rain we've received so far. The first is the strawberry crop. There are few Norwegians out there that aren't convinced that Norwegian strawberries are the best in the world because of the long summer days. (I'm not gonna touch this nationalistic hot spot – you'll have to judge the strawberries for yourself.) This year, the strawberries are rotting on the vine and drowning in the fields. Not to be too dramatic, but the bad weather conditions are giving rise to what the Norwegian newspapers are calling a "Strawberry Crisis".

The other Norwegian phenomenon that has been affected by the weather is this rich nation's obsessive need to fix-up the house. (A house is essentially a work in progress.) The Norwegians are notoriously DIY and you will see ordinary people take on projects that would send other people straight to the contractor's. Since working outside on the new terrace, patio or siding has been limited by the rain, people are turning to the inside of their houses. Ikea has seen a sales increase of 15% in the stores in areas where the weather has been the worst.

To no one's surprise, the other jump has occurred in ticket sales. Travel agencies are selling tickets to anywhere other than southern Norway hand over fist. ;)

What I'm Listening To

2007-06-18T20:41:00.001+02:00

I wanted to share the videos from the (newish) band I'm digging these days: meet Superfamily.

I heard them not long after I moved to Norway, but then they got lost in the Franz Ferdinand/Killers craze. I thought the video for "It's a Lie" was fun, although I don't remember that they got much airtime on the radio.

I certainly didn't realize they were Norwegian until I saw "Taxi Dancing". The video gives a nice midnight tour through downtown Oslo, starting at one of my favorite clubs, Garage. Like so many other songs written in English by Norwegian artists, the text uses another standard of artistic license. I don't get half of what they're saying, but it's OK. The lead singer belts out the abstract weirdness of it all with so much heart and that he makes up for it.

If you have been charmed by these guys as I have, you can check out their latest song at their website. "The Radio Has Expressed Concern About What You Did Last Night" is the early summer hit and it gets played a lot. I pity the DJs who struggle with the title every time they announce the song, though. It has been reasonably shorted to "The Radio has Expressed...". Enjoy!

Me Troglodyte

2007-06-06T23:31:00.000+02:00

Troglodyte

–noun
1. a prehistoric cave dweller
Dictionary.com Unabridged (v 1.1), © Random House, Inc. 2006

-jargon (Commodore)
1. A curmudgeon attached to an obsolescent computing environment.
The Free On-line Dictionary of Computing, © 1993-2007 Denis Howe

I'm currently debating the value of the mobile phone. I'm waaaaay beyond the whole etiquette/ privacy thing. I'm not even questioning the validity of the mobile phone – Lord knows it's here to stay. What I'm debating is the value of the newer features.

Take the MP3 feature for instance. I love the idea of taking all the small, hand held bits of gadgetry and combining them into one gadget (that is easy to lose). I'm so down with the phone, the PDA and the MP3 player combo. What I *hate* about this fabulous MP3/phone combo is that people have figured out how to turn mobile phones into ghetto blasters. It's irritating to listen to Britney Spears – period. It's downright grating to listen to people shouting over Ms Spears while blasting it out of their phones. What on God's green earth is the point? There are so many dumb asses in the world and this new technology lets people advertise just how low their IQ really is. Charming.

On the flip side, the video camera offers one of the coolest things I've seen regarding mobile technology to date. Until recently, I wasn't jazzed about the built-in video camera. I saw the ads on TV and promptly forgot them because it had no relevance to my life. I basically use my mobile as a pager/answering machine and appointment reminder. (Hence the troglodyte bit.) The deaf, however, have had worlds opened up to them because of new technology. IMs and text messaging has been an invaluable interface between hearing and non-hearing folks. But did you know that deaf people can use the video cams on their mobiles to talk to each other? Isn't that the coolest damn thing EVER? I was witness to this phenomenon one day on the trolley. I sat behind a kid who took a phone call from a woman who was probably his mother. It looked like they were having the typical "where are you…" convo with their hands. I tried not to stare, well, since eavesdropping is impolite, but I couldn't help it. I think in the end, she told him that I was "listening" since she could see me peeking over his shoulder on his video cam. It was pretty embarrassing to get caught like that, but who'd'a thunk? (Again, I must be a troglodyte if I'm not creative enough to think of these things myself.)

So typical of technology, there are pros and cons to every new feature and development. I'm a convert to the usefulness of the video cam (if not for me) and I loathe the mobile phone as a ghetto blaster. I just ask the developers of mobile phone technology to find a way to prevent downloads of crappy pop music to the mobile before I start smashing the damn things.

Getting Away

2007-05-09T09:17:00.000+02:00

Thanks to a killer offer from Ryan Air and my desire to be anywhere on the Mediterranean coast, Anders and I took a mini-vacation in Marseille. We had only five days and I was determined not to stress on this vacation, so for better or for worse, we decided to stay in Marseille and not trek around the whole of Provence. In all honesty, I wanted my biggest concerns to be where we would nosh and which beach we would to go to. Marseille provided just that.

Let me start off by saying that I knew absolutely nothing about Marseille or Southern France when I booked the tickets. Sure, you can prattle on about Nice and the Riviera, but I figured I'd need more money than I had to find decent accommodations in those places. Always one for adventure, I booked the tickets first and read up on Marseille afterwards. It all worked out very, very nicely. Case in point: check the view from our hotel->

Marseille is, in fact, a 2,500 year old port city. It's dirty, got a prominent working class and centuries of blended cultures give the city its distinctive air. The churches, for example, have details of Syrian ablaq, Catholic imagery, Greek/Byzantine mosaic decorations and text in both Latin and Greek. The medieval cathedrals of Northern France have had less of an impact than you'd expect. We spent most of our time in the old city, where there was only one example of church architecture from Northern France. The weather was perfect, so lazing our way through the streets was truly relaxing. The architectural styles we saw reminded me of Cairo: the balconies, high ceilings, the big windows and the wrought iron detailing everywhere. (I know that Cairo adopted the style from France, but since I was there first, yanni.) Hell, even the ugly modern concrete high-rises reminded me of Cairo.

(<- Here's some of the cityscape I'm talking about.) Of course, a trip to France would be nothing if you didn't go crazy for the food. Restaurant fare was tasty and I recommend trying the bouillabaisse, which is Marseille's specialty. The greatest thing was popping into a grocery store or into the myriad of small boutiques to buy fresh baguettes, goat cheese, sausages and fruits that would have cost a fortune in Norway , if they would have been possible to find at all. Honestly, we had a divine lunch of goat cheese, chorizo, blood oranges and Orangina that we bought at the local stores. I had almost forgotten the delights of well-made white bread, since almost all of the Norwegian breads are some kind of blend of healthy whole wheat, oat, rye, or you-name-it whole grain.

And if you are lucky enough to get out of the city, the Canalques provides some spectacular sites. We didn't get to the Canalques proper, mostly because I was tired and ill-prepared. (Read: this girl had on impractical foot ware.) The white stones were covered in poppies in bloom, hearty scrub pines and the succulent plants typical of the region. Anders scouted around after we made camp at this little inlet and said the landscape only got better. I'll have to take his word on that, since I was too busy loading up on vitamin D and UV rays. As pretty as Canalques was, there was very little that was going to distract me from my mission of sun, surf and pure relaxation.

So despite having the worst reputation of all the cities on the southern coast of France, Marseille was still a great place to visit. We had a lovely trip and managed to thoroughly decompress and unwind. For that, I tip my hat to the last place anyone would ever want to visit in Southern France.

Winter Came Late This Year, Revisited

2007-04-12T18:09:00.000+02:00

Though the lingering winter was kicking my ass in March, spring started to show it’s warmer and softer side in April. The days got suddenly much longer after we switched to daylight savings time, the rain abated and there are touches of green in the landscape. It’s safe to say that spring is here and I’m a happy camper.

So what do we do for Easter? We do what every sane Norwegian does: we run to the mountains for one last hurrah on skis. To be perfectly honest, I couldn’t get my head around the idea of leaving the gorgeous weather in Oslo for the snow and ice. Still, the last time I did this four years ago, the sun shone brilliantly and the temperatures were high despite the 2½ feet of snow that was on the ground. I remembered that the Easter holiday was actually fun and I had a bit of tan when it was all over. It couldn’t be that bad, right?

Despite all of the advancements in transportation, there are still places that cars can’t reach in the winter. The locals switch to snow scooters and skis and continue on as usual. Since we don’t live up by the cabin, Anders’ family will load the heavy food stuff on to a rented scooter and ski up with their clothes in backpacks. It’s about 6km (ca. 4mi) from the nearest parking area to their cabin. To a Norwegian, anything less than 10km (ca. 6mi) is horseplay – a mere walk in the park. In fact, the Norwegian language doesn’t have the verb “to ski”. Literally translated, they say “to walk on skis” (å gå på ski) because it’s all really the same thing to them.

I should add here that I’m talking about cross-country or telemark skiing. These techniques are the only kind that you can use in the mountainous terrain. If you’re moving uphill you can “step” with your skis, using them as a kind of snowshoe. It’s amazing the places you can go on skis that other automated ground transport can’t reach. It’s also at these times that I marvel at the properties of snow. Whether you’re gliding or stepping over the snow, it appears deceptively solid. However, for all of the things that snow is, it is mostly air. If you take off your skis, you’ll sink up to your hips in the fluffy stuff and there is no graceful way out of the freezing quicksand trap. For someone who’s never really seen more than 30cm (12in) of snow at time, the phenomena of 1m+ (3ft+) of snow at go still fascinates me.

Having said that, can I just tell you what a pain in the ass this past Easter holiday was? Christ Almighty, when we got to the parking area up by the cabin Thursday afternoon, it was windy and overcast. The snow was blowing horizontally and stinging our faces. Even though it was overcast, I had to use sunglasses to keep the snow out of my eyes. We used about 2 hours to ski those 6km to the cabin because we were fighting the wind and poor skiing conditions. The temperatures were not that low, so the snow would clump up on the bottom of our skis, requiring us to stop frequently and scrape the snow off so we could glide. I was so tired and at times I wanted to take my skis off and walk up the steepest hills, but that was a no-go, as described above. When we finally got to the cabin, I was so exhausted that I started bawling after I changed into non-ski gear. Luckily, the cabin was warm, a fantastic dinner was waiting for us and my mood turned around quickly. The cabin is really very cozy and it’s hard to be in a bad mood when there’s a roaring fire and good company.

The weather didn’t get much better over the next three days. In fact, three feet of snow became four feet (1.2m), maybe five feet (1.5m) of snow, all told. We took short trips out when the wind wasn’t blowing too much or if the sun managed to shine. All of that suited me just fine, and I was wiped out by these short trips alone. There was, of course, great food to be had and the traditional Easter dinner of lamb’s ribs was served in all of its fanfare on Saturday. (Most holidays here are celebrated on the eve of the actual holiday, Lord knows why.) We skied out on Easter Monday and even though we had brilliant sunshine and good conditions, I was done done DONE with winter. We packed up the skis and I took some pleasure in knowing that we wouldn’t need them again for quite some time. I was so looking forward to the warm springtime in Oslo we had left only four days before.

And do you know what? As we drove towards Oslo the weather turned bad. God help me, it f¤&%ing snowed that night.

Don't Say Happy Birthday

2007-03-12T20:22:00.000+01:00

I realized recently that Norway is the only country I've been to where they don't sing "Happy Birthday". As in most places I've been, the tune's the same but the text is different. My friend recently celebrated her 30th and we wished her a happy birthday in no less than nine languages: Russian, Polish, German, French, English, Norwegian, Spanish, Portuguese and Arabic.

It was then that I realized that I never learned the text to the Norwegian birthday song. It's kind of embarrassing that it escaped me for so long, but there you have it. I learned the tune, which is completely different from the "Happy Birthday" tune most countries seem to use. Even in Egypt, they sing the "Happy Birthday" song with the text "senna helwa, ya gamil" ("A year of sweetness, my love"), but not so in Norway. I found the Norwegian birthday song text on the internet and I thought I'd share. The song goes like this:

Hurra for deg som fyller ditt år,
Ja, deg vil vi gratulere!
Alle i ring omkring deg vi står og se,
Nå vi vil marsjere,
Bukke, nikke, neie, snu oss omkring,
Danse for deg med hopp og sprett og spring!
Ønsker deg av hjerte alle gode ting og
Si meg så hva vil du mere –
Gratulerer!

A very loose translation goes something like this:

Cheers to you on your birthday,
Yes, you will we celebrate!
Everyone in a circle around you stands, and look!
Now we will march, bow, courtesy, nod and spin,
Dance for you with a hop, a leap and a jump!
With all of our hearts, we wish you only good things and
Tell me what else you wish for –
Congratulations!

You stand up when you sing the song and children will usually act out the commands in the song while the adults tend just nod and bow. It's cute, really. There are a lot of birthdays in the coming months and I'm glad that I've finally learned the words.

Gratulerer med dagen!

Winter Came Late This Year

2007-03-01T11:30:00.000+01:00

It's March 1st and it's snowing. Given where we live, I suppose it's no surprise. However, it's been snowing everyday for the past week and it's been overcast for the past two weeks. The forecast calls for partly-cloudy skies tomorrow, which means we might be so lucky as to be teased by hints of sunlight before we plunge into another week of overcast skies and snow.

I have to admit, winter in Norway without snow is a bit dreary. It's so dark in the winter and the snow adds a bit of (reflected) light. We had one big snow fall in October and then nothing until after Christmas. For Norwegians, it's pure torture. What's the point of the cold, if there's no snow? How do you go skiing??! Again, that's not really a problem for me. I don't mind a lack of snow since that usually means sunshine and traction on the sidewalks, but it drives the locals nuts.

Having said that, I must admit that I was eager to get out when we finally did get enough snow for skiing. On a bitterly cold, but brilliantly sunny day, I took a short cross-country ski trip. I've learned a few tricks from the Norwegians about enjoying the outdoors and first and foremost, you must have enough coffee and chocolate at all times. So I packed a pleasant snack of boiling hot tea, homemade cherry biscuits, Clementine oranges and chocolate and headed out to reservoir that freezes over every winter. The frozen, snow-covered lake makes a great track for inexperienced people like me. That day, I thought I was going to die of exhaustion before I reached the other side of the reservoir. When I reached my goal, I made a comfy seat out of the wind and in the sunshine, took a break and ate my goodies. Wouldn't ya know, I managed to work up a sweat on the way back, which was no small feat in 8F (-13C). I found my rhythm, got my arms and legs swinging, and I actually started gliding across the snow instead of stomping across the snow on 2m long fiberglass toothpicks. I was really damn proud of myself, even though I had to make way for an elderly couple of about 70 who were going about twice my speed.

These overcast days kill my inclination to go outside, even though I have heavy-duty winter coveralls. It takes the pull of the good company to drag my ass off the couch and get moving. I was so grateful that my friends invited me to come along for a day of sledding at Holmenkollen last Sunday. That was a whopping 7 hours of sledding and walking out in the winter landscape and it was fantastic. We collapsed into my friend's couches at the end of the day and we were warmed by brownies, hot chocolate and later, a lovely meal of homemade Indian curries.

However, it is now March and I am looking forward to spring. Obviously, it's premature to start thinking about warm(er) weather just yet. Hell, I'd settle for a sunny and cold day just to take advantage of the 4 ½ hours of daylight we've gained since solstice. In short, the weather is kicking my ass. Again.

Demographic Misfire

2007-01-17T00:32:00.000+01:00

I am a white, middle-aged man. Betcha didn't know that, didja? I betcha didn't know that I'm rich. In fact, I've been watching my IRA and various mutual funds and trust funds grow over that past 40 years of my fabulously successful business management career. I'm looking forward to exotic travels in my (rapidly approaching) retirement. I'm going to treat my wife to Alaskan, Greek, and Scandinavian cruises, thanking her for sticking with me while I worked long hours and also for not divorcing me and taking half of my fortune in alimony after I cheated on her with one (alleged) mistress. I drive a caddy. It could be sedan or SUV, but it's a caddy. I know I should drive a Prius and be more Earth conscious, but I've made it, haven't I? Oh, and those walk-in bath tubs that Ed McMahon promotes are looking pretty good. Last but not least, I have contacted my doctor to talk about the new meds that can fix those pesky bladder, heart and gallbladder problems that reduce the spontaneity of my (soon-to-be) active retirement lifestyle. Oh yeah.

At least, the magazines that I read believe I belong to that demographic. There was a time when I thought I didn't fit into a easily defined marketer's demographic, though that was never true. Those Holly Golightly ideas of individuality didn't last very long. Now, however, it's crystal clear that I am outside of the expected or targeted demographic. It's bizarre and pretty amusing.

The first Lollapalooza demonstrated exactly how many people like me were running around out there. Advertisers couldn't wait to get their hooks into the newly identified target market: white, educated, suburban raised and city dwelling, just to the left of center politically and simply adores great design. Simply put, it worked. All kinds of products started popping up that were cleverly and clearly targeted to me and my demographic. I wanted what VW was selling, for example. Y100 wasn't so bad to listen to when I was driving my two-door beater that didn't have a CD player. High Fidelity was the pinnacle, though. It wasn't my life, per se, but it accurately described at least 3 or 4 very close friends/ boyfriends.

Of course, the advertisers learned that my demographic earned a bit less than what was expected. While we all wanted these products, there weren't enough of us in the demographic who could afford them. It seemed like the marketers and companies bailed and changed tack. Y100 switched formats and advertisers started focusing more on GenY than GenX because GenY's parents gave them more money than GenX had to spend. Or something like that. Here in Norway, there are few ads that I see that make me want a particular product - excepting Scandie furniture and interior design. Although I've started to earn an OK salary, Ikea is still all I can afford. It's odd to realize that I really am outside an easily defined demographic for the time being.

Now who can guess which demographically incorrect magazines I subscribe to?

(Mom and Dad – you're not allowed to post your answers!)

Photo Forthcoming

2007-01-17T00:24:00.000+01:00

As a postscript to the previous blog, I have received a few comments and emails complaining about my dirty tricks. It was actually not very nice of me to describe my new hairstyle without actually posting a photo. For that, I apologize.

On the other hand, I don't have a photo of me with the new haircut that I'm willing to share. A series of blurry photos of me and my friends doing the hand jive on New Year's Eve don't really do the 'do justice. I'm afraid you all will have to wait a little longer 'til I get a decent snapshot.

Long Gone

2006-12-31T11:43:00.000+01:00

When I first visited Norway, I noticed that the overwhelming majority of women have long hair. I don't mean chin-length "long" hair; I mean past the shoulders, cascading layers of long hair long. After living here for a while, I realized that the reason for all of this long, long hair was in part due to cost of getting your hair cut. Your basic trim begins at kr450 ($72) and even at that, people ask you where you found such a good price. Once, and only once, did I pay a mere kr240 ($38.50) for a haircut. In addition to the haircut, I paid kr160 for the train tickets and spent close to two hours in transit. So for economic reasons, I let my hair grow long.

There are tricks to this, of course. Again, the majority of Norwegian ladies have thin hair, with a touch of curl. One or two layers, a li'l dab of mousse and voila! a bouncy, manageable hair style is born. My hair, however, is poker straight and thick. The hairstylists here had to add layer upon layer and then go back and thin out each layer to achieve a resemblance of said magic. Of course, there has been a bit of playing around with the combination of layers and thinning out and some visits to the hairdressers were better than others.

About a month ago, I went to the salon and described what I wanted. (layers, thinning, etc) What I got was a very feminine mullet. The top layer was about 3 inches long and the rest of my hair was about 10 inches long. I'd wake up every morning with a puffy bowl crowning the top of my head and no matter how I plastered it down, it would slowly puff up again during the day. The worst of it all was that the wreck of a hairstylist thinned out rest of my hair so that all of my hair could fit into ponytail holder no thicker than my forefinger. I was horrified since my hair is usually 3 times that thick.

I decided it was time to start over. Too many layers, too many attacks from the thinning shears and my hair was the worse for it. I took my Christmas money (thank you, Jorunn!) and got my hair chopped. It's short and it feels great! My hair is also uncharacteristically poofy at the moment. There's nothing to weigh it down and it's proudly defying gravity. Wax and heavy styling products help to control it, but artistically so. Ahhhh, freedom. The long hair experiment was fun, but this was long overdue.

To date, people's reactions have been fairly uniform: "Wow, that looks nice and how are you going to afford to keep your hair short?" Lord knows, but I'll figure all of that out later, yo.

Streetplayaz: Kill Your Accordion

2006-12-14T10:48:00.000+01:00

Street musicians are in every city in the world, though some more than others. In Philly, I always liked the saxophonist out on Chestnut St. who usually played on Saturdays when foot traffic was at its peak. If I remember correctly, the guy choose to play around either 12th and Chestnut or at 16th & Chestnut, where the acoustics of the tall buildings channeled his songs better. It sounded good. I also liked the occasional Step troops that would come down from their neighborhoods and perform outside the Gallery at 9th and Market. I suppose you could get sick of it if you saw them every blessed weekend, but for the few times I saw the girls steppin' and the boys drummin', I thoroughly enjoyed the show. Our local cults of personality included a blind woman who played the penny whistle in Old City and another guy dressed in bow-tie and a suit who played the "God Bless America" on the flute. Seriously, that was the only song the guy played, all day and every day he was out. I don't think the street musicians in Philly ever evolved to the level of those in NYC or even NJ, where a guy dressed like Elvis would sing into a hairbrush along side the major highway to Cherry Hill.

And then there's Oslo.

Oh, so rarely do you see a group of young kids from the music conservatory out on the street for shits and giggles. The best entertainment we get are Eastern European accordion players. My first impulse when I see an accordion is to destroy it - violently. I spent all of Summer 2005 shooing strolling accordion players from the outdoor cafe where I worked. One guy didn't speak a word of Norwegian and placed a curse on me and future generations in Romanian after I asked him to leave. (I'm guessing here, but some things transcend language barriers.) As long as they stood outside the café, they could play to their heart's delight and the customer's distaste. To make matters worse, these players pop up in the strangest of places, miles away from tourist areas: outside neighborhood grocery stores, on the empty streets leading up the university, behind office buildings in near-empty parking lots, etc. In short, you can't escape and it blows chunks.

As a postscript, I would like to offer two exceptions to my violent dislike of the accordion. The first was Ms. Murghatroid (Transmissions Festival ca. 1999) who hooked up her accordion to a distortion pedal or something. It sounded surprisingly good since it didn't sound like an accordion at all. And then there is one guy in Oslo who learned some French café tunes, similar to those on the Amelie soundtrack. Even though it still sounds like an accordion, it's pleasant.

I really wouldn't mind hearing some jazz on these street corners, but that's not likely. For now it will be accordion players, the rare classical music types and the occasional pan-pipe players. But be forewarned: if I hear any "jazz accordion" I will beat the guy senseless.

A Charlie Brown Christmas Obsession

2006-11-29T10:27:00.000+01:00

Being overseas for the holidays is essentially a depressing affair. There is no way to describe the cultural "-isms" that go into holiday traditions until they're gone. For example, more than one American holiday, such as the 4th of July, whizzed by unnoticed because there were no sale ads on TV to remind me. Sad, but true.

When I was living in Philly, I don't think I gave the Charlie Brown cartoon special more than a passing "awwww, isn't that cute". It certainly didn't drudge up the loads of nostalgia I now feel hearing the music or watching the program. Now, the whole of my Christmas season gets channeled into "A Charlie Brown Christmas". It all started with the soundtrack, which I bought when I first got hooked on jazz in college. I dig Vince Guaraldi's takes on the holiday standards and there are few holiday albums I enjoy more. This soundtrack goes wherever I go – Philly, Cairo, Oslo. Most unfortunately, the CD disappeared in one the many airport raids on my suitcase sometime last year.

My attempts to purchase the soundtrack in Oslo have utterly failed. My queries are met with blank looks and indifference. Granted, such a query prolly wouldn't be met with enthusiasm either in the US, but at least I know the salesperson and I share a solidarity of experience. We know the story, we know how pathetic Charlie Brown is and we know that Snoopy always steals the show. In the days before video and DVD, what kid didn't look forward to seeing the Christmas special that came only once a year? The anticipation was huge. This and "How the Grinch Stole Christmas" practically launched the Christmas season.

In a lot of ways, it was easier to be in Cairo for Christmas than it is to be Oslo. Christmas didn't really exist in Cairo and the holiday was what we ex-pats made it. Here, there is real Christmas, but it's not my Christmas. All of the things the Norwegians do to celebrate the holiday remind me constantly that something is missing, that something is not quite right. While it's been fun to introduce Charlie Brown and the Grinch to my friends, it doesn't even come close to filling the void the holiday season creates. All of the small details that make up the bigger picture of the holiday season are gone: people complaining that Christmas advertising starts too early, people complaining that it's too commercial, the latest economic indicators based on Black Friday, the Hanukah greetings, the Kwanzaa greetings, the non-committal non-religious Holiday Greetings, the food, the tasty holiday cookies, the nasty holiday cookies, the traffic, the dopey Santa Clauses that turn up in every mall, the food bank drives, the call for volunteers and money, the annual reports on how not to get buried under holiday credit card bills, the new TV Christmas specials, the old TV Christmas specials, the irritating radio ads, WPRB's holiday broadcast, the decorations, et al.

This year, Amazon will deliver the little bit of Guaraldi magic I'm missing. This year, I'll come one step closer to making Norwegian Christmas my own with Anders' family. And this year, I'll miss my family so much it hurts, just as it does every year I'm not with them for the holidays.

Justice

2006-11-14T10:46:00.000+01:00

I saw a documentary on TV the other night that showed how modern technology and ancient traditions have warped the male-female demographics in places such as India, Pakistan and China. Ultra-sound lets expectant couples know the gender of the fetus and a number of couples elect to abort the female fetuses. None of this is particularly new, per se, but the consequences of messing with the gender balance struck me.

The cause of the uneven boy-girl ratio is directly linked to the medical safety of modern abortion practices. It is far easier to abort a fetus you've never met than to kill a baby that's already born. The number abortions has dropped the female population in some areas by 30%. While female infanticide is nothing new, this gaping imbalance suggests that abortions have made the decision easier. It was heart wrenching for as a viewer to watch orphanages collect the unwanted baby girls that had been abandoned. The younger babies had it easier since the older babies were often abused and malnourished, all the while crying for their parents. The report made it clear that these new abortion practices are happening in all classes and strata of society. This phenomenon is not restricted to only the poor or uneducated.

The first generation with these reduced numbers is now old enough to marry. So many of the eligible men cannot find wives simply because there are not enough women. Women, as a commodity, are becoming rare. The men who realize they have no hope of finding a wife tend to become depressed or become addicted to drugs or alcohol or turn to crime to increase their financial standing. Ironically, if or when these men do finally marry, they still prefer boys, thereby perpetuating the system that has made their lives hell. The dowry continues to make women a liability in the societies that ask for a dowry. Fathers wouldn’t dream of, say, asking for money for their daughters because of the long standing attitudes on the worthlessness of women.

The documentary ended with the typical doomsday “something must be done or else” message. For the first time in a long time, I disagree. Something must not be done. This is justice for the men who feel that their daughters “are not worth the rice they feed them”. This is justice for not giving women rights or respect. This is justice for the pain the wives have felt in aborting the babies that they wanted to keep. So I say let the men continue to press their wives to have only boys. Let these men drown in their worthiness and live in society without women.

Do Muppets Rap?

2006-11-07T23:30:00.000+01:00

The answer is yes. I'm not talking about Jim Henson's creations, though. I'm talking about Scandanavian hip-hop. It's only natural that hip-hop is found here, since it's found in just about every corner of the globe. What's weird is how certain Scandie pop-artists do not adapt hip-hop to their own culture or language. Many rappers choose English over the various Scandie languages for reasons ranging from it sounds better to reaching a wider audience to sounding more "real". The Norwegian flash-in-the-pan phenom, Whimsical, is a brilliant case in point.

The boy bought American glitter-ghetto wholesale from a one-stop shop. His songs are lifted from XYZ West Coast gansta from da' burbs and placed directly on top of Oslo. This is why I broke out in hysterical laughter the first time I heard his song. There are no bitches and ho's in Oslo, the city isn't dirty, the ghetto is a place where I take my parents, the streets are clean and the people are nice and play by the rules. (Crossing the street on a red light elicits admonishments from passers-by in the ghetto: "What kind of example do you think you're setting for our children?")

That Whimsical and other Scandie hip-hoppers try to act like they come from an inner-city culture they can't even begin to fathom drives me to ridicule them openly and loudly. They imitate a culture that is not their own, in language that is not their own and they rightly look like the fucking hey-ho hip-hop clowns they are.

To the credit of several Scandie rappers, there exists a minority of characters who will rap in their own Norwegian/Swedish/ Danish dialects. This music is their own, and while it's not as glam as DJ Kid Wannabe, it's worth mentioning. The first is Gatas Parliament, i.e., The Street's Parliament. They are not very good rappers, but their lyrics at least reflect the real problems of Oslo such as immigrant rights, mafias, shady business deals, Norway's involvement in Iraq and Afghanistan, et. al. As activists, they only pop up when they got something to protest.

The second group is Ravi and DJ Løv. In short, they make pop songs that are heavily laced with word play that starts with their name: Ravi is Ivar spelled backwards and Løv is pronounced "love", but as "Lov" it means "Law" in Norwegian. When not in the studio, DJ Løv studied law and recently passed the bar. These guys have a great sense of humor, laugh at themselves (and others) and have a great command of dialect, slang and drop tons of references to things that only Norwegians would know. I've learned a lot about Norwegian pop-culture by pestering Anders with lots of "what does this mean" and "what are they talking about". Lastly, I give Ravi credit for acknowledging that he looks like a garden gnome. If it wasn't for the humor, none of this work at all. You can check out some of their videos at Nok Records. “E-ore” (“The L-Word”) has probably been their biggest song to date.

Of the Swedish rappers, I dig Timbuktu and Snook. Timbuktu is prolly the best thing going in Scandie hip-hop. He's energetic, smart, writes a good (Swedish) flow and doesn't try to be anything other than Swedish. He does, however, adopt some nice african beats or guitar, like in this song, "Alla vill till himmelen" (Everyone Wants to Go to Heaven) or get a bit funky in "Det Löser Sig" (It'll Work Out). If you click through to "Alla vill till himmelen", hang in there until at least 1:25 - the first bit is just an intro to the song. I've heard that his live shows are amazing, though I can't tell you personally since they sell out in all of about 20 minutes. hmph.

This year, the Swedish rap sensation was Snook with their hit "Svett och Tårar" (Sweat & Tears). I can't understand half of what they're saying because they go soooo fast, but that's OK. From the bits I can gather they talk about themselves, other rappers and I suspect blood, sweat and tears. (Wild guess, yo) Of the song, I dig the horn section and it's got a freakin' great hook. The video, however, is damn cute and I love the penguins...

There you have it, folks. This is my all too brief survey of Scandie hip-hop. It's brief only because I limited myself to ridiculing just one of the many artists like Whimsical. I could go on, but I think I've made my point. It took me a long, long time to stop laughing at the Muppet Language as a hip-hop medium and appreciate those to dared to rap in the language they know best. Learning the language helped me to stop laughing long enough to listen, though you might not ever stop chuckling. God help ya.

Pucker-up, Sweet tits

2006-10-22T19:58:00.000+02:00

There are benchmarks in every relationship and Anders & I have just passed a big one. We can now officially say that the spark has gone out of our relationship. We are like a pair of tired and shabby pajamas: comfy and well loved. How do I know? I’ll relate this little story...

This past Saturday, we hunkered down on the couch and readied ourselves for a marathon of Saturday night movies on the TV. The weather was crap, so we lit a fire in the fireplace. We had blankets, snacks, drinks and all was copasetic. As the credits of the third film were rolling, we leaned in for a kiss and missed. I opened my eyes to see what was going on and I saw only the gaping cavern of his mouth. Prince Charming decided in mid-pucker to yawn.

Anders is, of course, absolutely mortified. There was bit of backpedaling on his part and a bit of indignation on my part, with a touch merciless ribbing and laughter. (As I type this blog, he is hanging over my shoulder muttering “du er’ække snill” or “you’re mean”.) Honestly tho’, romantic moments such as these really ought to be commemorated, nay, immortalized for prosperity.

In other words, he’s never gonna live this down and he knows it.

Redeeming Las Vegas

2006-10-17T22:46:00.000+02:00

I just attended at seminar in Nevada’s sparkling jewel, Las Vegas. For a lot of reasons, I was really nervous about going there. For all the crazy-fool things I’ve done, going to Las Vegas shouldn't've been a big deal. I suppose I was nervous about presenting my thesis to people who actually know something about science and technology and I suppose I was nervous about going to Vegas itself.

Vegas isn’t a place I’d ever had on my “must see” list”. From its reputation alone, I thought Vegas embodied all of the things I thought were negative about the US, such as rampant and vapid consumerism. All of that is still true, but there were a few pleasant surprises.

The first happened on the shuttle bus to the hotel. I got talking with a guy who was in town for another convention. We had a short, pleasant exchange before we went our separate ways. Then the next day, I headed to the hotel restaurant for breakfast. People took pity on me since I showed up alone and with a book. It was palpable how pathetic they thought I was for coming to breakfast, let alone Vegas, solo. The staff piled extra hash on my plate and gave me healthy doses of “More coffee, kid?” and “Everything OK, hon?” It was a small mercy, but I appreciated it more than I can explain. I know the Germans in particular think that our small talk is fake and superficial. They loathe the question “How ya doin’ today?” and they scoff at “You have a nice day, now”. Silly Germans. They ought to check their nihilism at the border so that they, too, can "take 'em easy".

The scale of Vegas is off the hook. I was totally unprepared for the sheer size of the hotels on the Strip. Hotels like the Mandalay, Paris and Wynn play tricks with perspective and they never seem that far away because they don't ever look small or distant. We must've walked miles up and down the Strip, in and out of the hotel casinos and shops. The company of a narcissistic Swede, a functioning autistic and several academics-in-training certainly made the journey up and down the Strip more hilarious. All the same, anything goes in Vegas, so a wandering group of nerds didn't raise any eyebrows.

And finally, I got lot of positive feedback about my paper and my research. After two years of battling ignorance, politics and prejudice regarding Islamic history and cultures, it was FANTASTIC that the scholars welcomed my research without questioning the validity of it. The negativity regarding all things ‘Islam’ in Norway permeates every strata of society, as I found out on my flight from Oslo to Newark. (I severely aggravated a prominent lawyer and the leader of the UN KFOR Veteran’s Association while discussing the status of non-Western immigrants in Norway.) I had to travel to Nevada to meet potential and welcoming colleagues in Trondheim and Oslo. Ironic to be sure, though it was worth every penny.

And the Quote of the Week Goes to...

2006-09-26T22:26:00.000+02:00

The music program Lydverket aired a clip from next week's show which is about gettin' funky. And oh my god - the ol' Atomic Dawg hisself sat in a boat in the middle of Sognefjorden and said, "Fishing is as funky as it gets."

Really, there is nothing left to say.

Who Talks Like That?

2006-09-23T20:31:00.000+02:00

Try this trick next time you pick up a cup o' joe at your corner coffee joint and place your order - without irony- like this:

“I greet thee, Mistress. Is the day not fine? Hast thou a cup of your finest caffeinated brew that I might partake of whilst en route?”

I realize now that this how I sounded to the Egyptians while I was speaking the Modern Standard Arabic and not the local dialect they speak. I was slightly misled by well meaning Egypt-expats in the US who said that people would understand me if I used Modern Standard Arabic. Once in Cairo, my Egyptian friends warned me that I sounded, well, a bit formal. No one told me that I sounded like an absolute jack-ass. Yes, people understood me, yes shopkeepers gave me what I asked for and yes, they never once dropped the "wtf" look of puzzlement from their faces. It was easier to speak English in Cairo rather than Modern Standard. Eventually, I managed to learn enough of the Egyptian Arabic to get through the day.

These revelations come a bit late, but they came at all because I've started studying the Modern Standard again. There are a lot of similarities between the Modern Standard and the Egyptian Arabic, which helps. So far, I'm ahead of the curve with vocabulary and waaaaaaaay behind everyone else in grammar. My brain is starting to get the hang of it, but every cell in my body screams "Who talks like that?"

To my lovely friends in Egypt, all I can say is that al-hamdu li'llah I finally, finally get what you were trying to tell me.

On this day

2006-09-11T20:36:00.000+02:00

September 11th has become our generation's "Where were you when Kennedy was shot?" Everyone remembers where they were when the planes hit New York City, Washington DC and southern Pennsylvania.

My new friends and I were coming back from the AUC campus to the dorms via the shuttle bus. The day was typically hot for Cairo in late summer and our lips were still stained with fresh pomegranate juice. This was about 4 o'clock in the afternoon Cairo-time, so the pictures of the smoking towers were broadcasting for approximately 30 minutes. The students who were watching the news in the TV lounge were talking rapidly at us as we climbed off the bus. I can still recall the looks on people's faces as disbelief faded into sickening realization.

Well, there's a lot to be said about this day and the ensuing madness. Issues such as security, civil liberties, Muslims, oil and terrorism are debated in every shade of the political spectrum. There's really no point to bring up my point of view here; it can be found elsewhere.

There are, however, a few things I would like to say. First, I would like to know why my suitcase is so interesting to US airport security. It is absolutely ravaged every time I travel to or from the US. If the security-powers-that-be think I am a threat because I have Arabic stamps in my passport and CVS cosmetics in my baggage, I wish they'd use a little bit more of the tax payer's money to update my files. The nice folks from NSA, CIA or Homeland Security or whoever the hell is handling my case could simply ask me, "Are you planning to endanger the lives of others?" Then I could simply answer "No" and then I'd be declared no longer a threat and then they could stop harassing the poor textiles in my suitcase.

The second thing that disturbs me about this mess (and there's a lot, mind you) is the recent Senate report which reveals there was no connection between Al-Qaida and Saddam Hussein. (NPR, MSNBC) Based on this report, the US has proudly fucked up another country to get a bad guy, but we didn't get the bad guy. The person or persons responsible for the strikes on NYC, DC and PA is/are still at large.

Nice going, Dubbya. I feel secure now.

Mushrooms and Berries

2006-09-03T22:22:00.000+02:00

[soundtrack: Talking Heads, (nothing but) flowers ]

Wild mushrooms and berries are the true delight of Norwegian autumn. I've gone a bit crazy for the berries this year. I started picking cherries and gooseberries in late July, cloudberries in early August and black & redcurrants later in the month. Traditionally, the cloudberries are saved for Christmas dinner and eaten with sugar and cream, with a side of brandy and coffee. My favorite winter treat last year was raspberry soup with a touch of brandy and a dollop of sour cream. This year, the berries will supplement the dreary selection of fruits and vegetables with various berry sauces over warm rice or semolina pudding, in addition to the raspberry soup. These are the delights that are harvested now and eaten later.

Mushrooms, however, are plucked now and eaten now. Mushroom hunting is a nice excuse to get out in the woods on the last days of summer. Anders makes the best dinners with the mushrooms he finds, which makes it worthwhile to go out even in the rain for these tasty fungus treats. He cooks a bit of bacon in a frying pan and reserves the fat. He then slow cooks the mushrooms in the bacon fat, adding onions at towards the end of the cooking time. He'll then reserve the resulting sauce. The mushrooms-bacon-onion mix is heaped upon savory crepes or thick pieces of whole-grain bread. A bit of parmesan or blue cheese is added, then the sauce, and voila! a lovely autumn meal is served.

I still miss cider and the pumpkin treats that pop up in autumn Stateside. I still miss the vivid colors of the trees and the scent of fallen leaves. Just as it happened to me in Cairo, there are things I'll come to miss should we ever move from Oslo. The fresh berries and mushrooms are a few of the things I can name, and Lord knows what else.

Found

2006-09-02T10:08:00.000+02:00

Two years ago, thieves yanked Edward Munch's two most famous paintings, The Scream and Madonna, right off the walls of the Munch Museum in Oslo. I watched the news with interest, but what surprised me the most was the attitude of the Norwegians. With all the nonchalance in the world, they were like, "Oh yeah, I heard about the robbery." My art history self reacted with a bit more indignation, but nothing seemed to rile the partner in conversation. As if talking about a cat that went astray, the Norwegians comforted me and said that they'll be back. After all, thieves had stolen The Scream two times before.

And so they were right.

Otherwise, I like autumn

2006-08-21T22:25:00.000+02:00

It's that time of year again. The season of fall fashion has arrived in Norway and I am, yet again, at a total loss. Every year, I give myself the same pep talk: I will not be defeated by this season's fashions and I refuse to be defeated by the prices.

I was off to a flying start. I walked into the H&M mega store, determined to find my new favorite garment. The store was literally packed to point where clothes were exploding off the stands and I couldn't look at one item without 50 falling to the floor. No matter, 'cause I wasn't gonna be defeated. I saunter into Jeans & Clothes which was way less packed than H&M and try on a few things. I dig a lavender pullover and a plaid button-down shirt. I checked the prices and I nearly choked on plaid shirt which cost 499kr, the equivalent to a fly $80. I took the purple pullover since it was on sale and put back the plaid button-down, vowing to purchase the other plaid button-down I liked at Indiska. This girl was not defeated. Oh no.

I tried on a few more things at Vero Moda, which I dig. The über-80s has taken over everyone's senses and now I'm getting frustrated. I can't quite figure out if the shirt I like makes me look like mutton dressed as a lamb. After all, this is the second time I've participated in the "Let's play Miami Vice" dress-up game. I placed a phone call to a friend and we're gonna make a day of it in the stores next week. Granted, it will be a very short day at these prices, but what the hell.

Today, however, I have to admit defeat. The Norwegian (dare I say European) sense of fly-by-day fashion has once again mystified me. Today, I saw a full-blown "Dorothy Hamill". (All of my GenX-ers will feel me on this. All ya young'uns will have to follow this link or better yet, this one.) Seriously folks, I'm at a total loss. Here's a whole new generation of people who'll slap a bowl on their heads, cut their hair and think, "This'll make me cool." At least when I had my Dorothy Hamill haircut and action figure, I looked forward to "Mork and Mindy" every Tuesday night as much as the government of Colombia looked forward to the patronage of Robin Williams.

Goddammit, I hate to admit defeat, but there it is. The bowl will stay in the kitchen where it belongs, I will not use my hard earned cash for another pair of wrestling sneakers and I will never, ever tuck my pink sweat pants into my white socks. Period.

4,000 feet straight up? No problem-o.

2006-08-15T20:45:00.000+02:00

I climbed this mountain! While it is not the highest mountain I've ever climbed, Kabbetind is probably the most visually imposing. If you look at the photo, you'll see the small patch of light green, bottom center. That's the cabin in the middle of it. The mountain dominates the western horizon behind the cabin and your field of vision is blocked by its form unless you look up, up, up. The valley is narrow where the cabin sits, so the only view from the cabin is the bare, vertical rock face. Anders told me the climb was easier once we reached the opposite side of the mountain, but that wasn't much of a comfort.

Anyhoo, we climbed up an old avalanche scar and zig-zagged our way around to the backside of the mountain. It was neat to walk out of the shadow of the mountain and into the afternoon sunlight. Kabbetind usually blocks the sunlight long before the sun sets and it was a small victory to cheat the mountain and gain some extra rays before the sun actually set. This victory was small indeed as the WIND howled fiercely around us.

The next phase of climbing was surprisingly easy in comparison to the lower half. The rocks around the back of Kabbetind form a kind of huge terraced face. I felt like a two or three year-old managing a flight of stairs. Sometimes I had to heave myself over a moss and heather covered terrace and sometimes I could take an awkwardly large step up. By hook or by crook, it was worthwhile to get to the top (1338m/4390ft), as you can see from the next picture. I'm trying to smile, but the wind was trying even harder to rip my face off.

Two days later, we climbed up the slope directly behind me in the photo. That was only an excruciating 1200m/3937ft up in the rain. We were joined by two friends, T and F. The rain wasn't so heavy, but it still managed to soak our "waterproof" boots. My boots were so waterlogged that they weighed twice as much at the end of the tour as they did at the beginning. Our third hike was delayed one day so that our boots could dry out completely.

The third hike was a leisurely walk to a place called Pyttbua. The over all altitude gain wasn't more than 400m/1312ft over a 2 1/2 – 3 hour trek. This hike was looooooong, though. Anders estimates we walked about 20km/12,5mi (roundtrip) that day. I didn't realize how long the trip was until I got back to the cabin and collapsed into a chair.

Even though I've been to this valley before, I'm always amazed at the variety of altitude specific plants you find at various stages of the climb. Few plants are found at all heights, while most plants thrive in very specific conditions and altitudes. For example, lichen and moss can be found everywhere, but the Norwegian Mountain Rose grows only places that resemble the surface of the moon. Above the tree line (ca. 1000m/3300ft), the crazy forms of lichen in shades of green chartreuse and rust deck the rocks.

I realize this kind of attention to the details may be a bit boring. I suppose I even bring it up because I find this landscape a bit alien yet. Even though vegetation can be found except in the highest of altitudes, this landscape is not lush. The soil is not deep and it is not terribly life-sustaining despite the infinite amounts of water. I never really thought that possible growing up on the East Coast with its raucous vegetation and plant life.

0-3, Anniversary wins

2006-08-03T11:57:00.000+02:00

This is just plain embarrassing.

Anders and I forgot our wedding anniversary for the second year in a row. The first year, we had some friends who reminded us of the occasion before the actual day. If it hadn't been for the friendly reminder, we would've forgotten that one, too. The second year, we didn't remember until several weeks afterward when someone asked me when we got married. This year, my parents reminded us.

The only saving grace here is that both of us forget. Neither one of us can make puppy-dog eyes or act wounded and use the other's forgetfulness for bribery and bouquets.

Tonight, we'll go out for dinner and celebrate. These three years have absolutely flown by. Five years ago, towards the end of August, we met for the first time during an arranged outing to Sharm al-Shaykh. There was nothing in that casual introduction that belied the coming tale of drama, change, commitment and devotion. It is impossible for us not to think of Egypt when we celebrate our anniversary, but that is another blog for another time. ;)

T W E L V E

2006-07-24T13:07:00.000+02:00

When I picked up jogging two winters ago, it was a life-saving measure. The winters in Norway, well, suck. November and December are especially difficult since it gets darker and colder and darker and colder. The snow that’s good for cross-country skiing doesn’t arrive until January and I don’t have slalom skis. Hubby suggested that I start running to help my psychological state of mind in these early winter months.

He suggested, then cajoled and then he flat-out forced me out on the ice-covered sidewalks bundled up in thermals and fleece jackets. That night, we ran a scant 3km (1.8 mi). I pretty much thought I was going to heave my frozen lungs up on the living room floor when we got back to the flat. After more cajoling and eventually blackmail, we kept running through the winter. Our normal route was about 5km (3.1mi).

I have been running ever since. I tend to run less in the summer time, as I ride my bike almost every day. We live about 198m (650ft) over sea level and Downtown is literally DOWN. I can whiz to my job or some swank café in ca. 15 minutes and use a hefty 30-40 minutes to get back up to the top of the fjord. (heh. I said "fjord".) As a result, my running regime has held steady at 5km - 7km (4.3mi), for the past year.

All of that changed yesterday.

I can feel almost every muscle in my legs and feet, but I ran 12km (7.5mi) yesterday. For a girl who hated, and I mean loathed, to run in high school, this is a major break through. The trail we (Hubby + friend J + I) ran took us over asphalt, dirt paths and rocky and rooted terrain in the woods. Friend J is Mr Athlete and he mercifully slowed down a bit so I could keep up. He and hubby chatted amiably the whole time, while I concentrated simply on breathing. (In fact, I’m amazed they could hear one another over my labored panting.)

I don’t know when I’ll run that trail again, but it feels great to have done it at least once. I have this strange ‘sense of accomplishment’ tugging at my psyche that I'm not sure what to do with.

I've Gathered You Here for a Reason...

2006-07-18T10:48:00.000+02:00

Hi People.

This is it. This will be my blog. I've got too many of you on the brain and I've done too little about it. How are you to know that I've been thinking about you, yes, you who is reading this blog at this very moment?

There is something about living far away from good friends that makes it hard to write emails. I find that when I sit down to write an email, there is too much to say. As a result, I say nothing at all. Ironic, no?

My solution, then, is to just WRITE. I'm gonna put it all out there in cyberspace for you to read, and hopefully comment, at your leisure.

In case anyone was wondering, "pausefisk" refers to the old days in Norway when there was only one TV channel. After the day's broadcasting was finished, the studio turned the camera to an aquarium. So instead of sending static from 2am - 6am, you could watch fish. (I am NOT making this up.) Nowadays, most TV channels broadcast around the clock or just send static when they go off the air for the evening. "Pausefisk" (loosely translated as the "fish break") has come to mean several things:

* A not-so-funny comedy show
* A period of near-comatose activity
* A rebound lover after the break-up of a long relationship

To me personally, it means taking a break in a silly, unconstructive way. Cheers!