Almost Famous: Norwegian Style

You may be interested to know that last Thursday we made our NATIONAL television debut. It’s true that Norway is a land of barely 5 million souls, but I can confirm that at least 4 of those were watching a spotlight piece on David done by TV2. And what profile on David would be complete without a cameo by me and two adorable dogs?

Even though ever-humble David never seems to get used to the idea that local media outlets, be it the Bakersfield Californian, the Brabants Dagblad or the Freie Presse, like to cover players as individuals in addition to the team as a whole. Puff pieces, feel good stories, that serve as an attempt to market the sport (which is going to be crucial if anyone hopes for hockey to grow here in Norway) to potential fans with human relationships, because the knocking of heads and scraping of skates on ice isn’t relatable to everyone.

When Dave came home to tell me that the team had asked him to participate in a television piece this season I was, of course, proud. With full disclosure of bias and personal preference, Dave is my favorite player on every single team he’s ever played on. It’s no coincidence! I think he’s a hard worker, a team player, and he makes my breakfast every morning. Who else could I choose to cheer for? When he told me that they wanted me to take part in the interview I was, of course, terrified. I am, by no means, a shy person. I can talk in front of a group of people, I can host a room of friends, and I can write about my life to anonymous strangers on the internet. But to be filmed, for television, to talk about Dave? That’s definitely out of my comfort zone. On the other hand, last year David’s love of golf and his dad took center stage in a newspaper article, so I thought perhaps this was my time to get some recognition! Best Supporting Actress 2010!

The piece was really well done. True, I couldn't understand any of the narration, but it all seemed very exciting and complimentary. The introduction of Dave began with an illustrated map of the world, showing his travels beginning with Junior hockey in Thunder Bay, and drew lines between all of our moves since then. The visual reminder of our gypsy ways was something I’d never seen in such detail, and it really makes you think about all the miles we’ve logged in the last half-decade. David was well-spoken, adorable, and humble as always. I have a weird voice, a very confused accent (You know when you’re from Northern Michigan, but live with a Canadian, and then spend your days speaking English to people for whom it isn’t the first language? Kind of like that.) and a lot of crazy hair. Let’s just say my portion of the piece isn’t my favorite. My dogs on the other hand, look gorgeous! I’m expecting the Norwegian entertainment agents to be contacting us any time to offer a dog modeling contract.

The overall theme of the piece could summarized as a brief discussion of hockey, a plea for the adoption of rescue animals, and a promotion for Guns’n’Roses. Brilliant. What’s more? My friend Heidi, living an hour away in another city in Norway, caught sight of us on television and snapped a picture. Who ever thought you could see my face on a flat screen in someone else’s living room? We’ve made it now.

Book Of The Month

One difference between our life here in Norway as opposed to the other places we've lived abroad is the abudance of expats who live around us. In Crimmitschau, if I heard someone speaking English in the grocery store, I would turn around and see someone from the team. In Tilburg, just an hour from the bustling international city of Amsterdam, there was nary a North American to be found on your average day. But Oslo, being the capital city of the country and the center of their oil and IT business sectors, has a strong international presense in addition to the standard tourism.

Lucky for me, I've found a small group of literary minded Anglophiles with whom I can meet once a month to discuss one of my favorite topics...books! Apparently, within the expat community in Oslo, there are other book groups. Ours consists of only women and is, allegedly. the high brow book club. Which, I guess, means we talk excessively about the 'Twilight' series, but don't officially name it the book of the month.

On Monday we met at lovely Cassandra's apartment, an American girl who loves and married a Norwegian boy, where she served us pizza and wine and cookies and veggies with dip. We discussed colonialism, moral relativism, the state of present day Nigeria, the way Africa is viewed in the wider world, and our overall feelings and opinions on the distinct style of prose in Chinua Achebe's 'Things Fall Apart.'

Before, during, and after our discussion of the book, we discussed many other things. And there, my readers, you have the beauty of what can happen when you put a group of intelligent women, from different backgrounds, in the midst of a common experience. Engaging, interesting, hilarious conversation, and some literature for good measure. We talked about online dating, engagement rings, H1N1, favorite Christmas foods, Norwegian cultural anomolies, the worst ways to be dumped, our awkward teenage years and how to smuggle a bridal bouquet through customs. I literally laughed until I cried. Twice. Talking about how lonely it can feel to be the foreigner in a foreign country is best done when you don't feel lonely or foreign at all.

Next month we'll be reading 'The Geography of Bliss' by Eric Weiner, which I've already heard great reviews of, and I'm looking forward to both the great read and the next meeting. I hope to continue conversations, find new topics, and further strengthen my relationships with people who don't know about and, frankly, don't need to care about ice hockey.

I don't want to diminish the importance of the friends I am making (and have made) through the team directly. Without them I would have been lost and lonely, explaining this lifestyle to anyone who doesn't live it is nearly impossible and hockey friends are invaluable because they understand without any need for explanation. But sometimes having not only the geography our life but also our entire social network revolving around Dave's job can be a bit depressing. Sure, the true and lasting friendships that I have developed and carried on beyond the length of the season are only a credit to the work and love put in by my friends and I. But the truth is that, for the most part, my only connection to the world we create annually is Dave and hockey.

The book club is something that's mine. My own. I leave the house, get on the train, then the tram and sometimes the bus on my own (and at night!) to meet people Dave doesn't know, to talk about things he may not be interested in, with people who don't know me as his wife. To them I'm an American, a social worker, a dog lover, a runner, a vegetarian, who has a husband somewhere out there. I couldn't be prouder to have Dave as my husband, but I'm so glad that they don't really need to know anything about him in order to want to get to know me.

For this to seem like such a feat coming from a feminist who planned (plans?) on conquering the world with her own might could be considered a bit sad. But I prefer to see it as me having the fortune to be able to make my own way in the world while simultaneously supporting the dream of someone I love infinitely. I see it as a luxury that, as it stands now, my job is a side dish and exploring the world is the main course. I read books, regardless of the club, and now I have an outlet for my thoughts and feelings, on books and life. It can't get much better than that.

Chewville

Overall, I’d say a stereotype is purveyed suggesting that Europeans are healthier than North Americans. It’s true that obesity, and therefore all obesity related complications, is statistically less of a problem in Europe. Drinking and driving is less common, healthcare and preventative measures are accessed on a more regular basis. But if our time in the Netherlands and Germany taught me anything about my peers in those cultures, it is that they can smoke. Can and do smoke LOTS of cigarettes, preferably the rather rough and beastly brand of Marlboro Reds that, should you smoke one in a rum-weakened state of peer pressure, make you feel like dying the next morning. While, for the most part, friends my age back home don’t smoke regularly, our European friends embrace the tobacco culture much more casually while scorning Americans for sitting lazily in our cars during our commute.

Here in Norway, however, Marlboro Reds haven’t been able to take a stronghold in the hearts (and lungs) of the masses because their hearts (and upper lips) have already been stolen by snus. Technically speaking, snus is a moist tobacco product meant to be placed under the top lip, different from what Americans would think of as traditional chewing tobacco in that a lower sodium content means you don’t have to spit while snusing. It comes in a similar puck-shaped container to it’s spitting-required counterpart, but is more commonly pre-packaged conveniently in little pouches, ready to be placed in the mouth of the eager Scandinavian who is seeking a buzz. Although the health consequences of snus are disputed by some, the EU has banned the sale of snus, with only Sweden and Norway being exempt from that restriction. And despite claims of lower levels of nicotine and carcinogens (and the widely agreed upon assertion that snus is much less dangerous than smoking), my laymen’s eye notes that the stuff is addictive at the very least.

When you think of chewing tobacco in the U.S., you probably associate it with athletes (maybe baseball or hockey players) and hicks. The (disgusting) spitting is most telltale sign of a chewer, pop bottles full of spit can make a house occupied by hockey players into a field occupied by landmines. Since the tobacco is generally loose, you may also visualize men with black remnants of chew littered between their teeth. It’s neither appealing nor attractive, and it’s not all that common either. Here, on the other hand, it’s not so obvious. Since snusers don’t need to spit, they can remain incognito with ease. However, they don’t really need to go to lengths to hide their habit, because it’s not considered a vice, more of a cultural norm. And once you start looking, you see that the signature spitting is replaced by the telltale swollen upper lip. Turn left, turn right, and you’ll feel like you are in Whoville surrounded by Whos. Not just boy-Whos either, women seem to be equally as fond of this social activity.

Nothing about this snus obsession really bothers me. The lack of smoke is truly a welcomed relief, considering that in east Germany the little dive bars we frequented didn't seem to care about the smoking bans and Michigan hasn't even caught up with the modern world yet to pass such legislation. Without the spitting and the need for saliva receptacles, it doesn't offend the way that American chewing tobacco would. But just as I didn't come back from the Netherlands or Germany smoking hardcore tobacco products, I won't be returning from Norway looking like a resident of Whoville. We may have processed food, very little agricultural oversight, and a tendency to be overweight, but I myself have standards that prevent me from casually adopting a nicotine addiction in the name of cultural assimilation!

Practically Perfect

Another major adjustment to our life abroad is that, for me, finding work can prove difficult. Furthering my career isn’t our focus right now, but having something to do outside of the house and finding a way to bring in a bit of extra cash is always a priority. Visas, language barriers and the transient nature of our lifestyle have all proven to be barriers to such an opportunity in the past.

However, with some luck, a bigger city, and the use of my prolific charm, I’ve landed a part-time nanny position for a French-Swedish family. They have a 2.5 year old boy, who we'll call N, and a 1.5 year old girl, E. I pick them up from nursery school at 4pm, feed them dinner, bathe them (technically, they have to shower since Norwegian children grow up deprived of the tub experience), entertain them for a while, clean up after the mess we’ve managed to make in a mere two hours, and then put the little E in bed and wait for Mama and Papa to get home around 7pm. Easy as that, Monday through Thursday, getting paid an hourly wage comparable to that of an MSW in the United States. Sad, yet glorious.

Caring for children isn’t something I ever thought I’d be doing as my ‘profession’, but it’s flexible and engaging and pretty perfect for our circumstances. Considering that most of my daily interaction doesn’t extend beyond Dave, the dogs and local shopkeepers, it’s nice to feel busy and responsible for those few hours a day. It’s also nice to still have the mornings and the weekends to myself, because even though I know Dave’s job is hockey and he does work hard, it would be really depressing to know he has the bulk of the day off every single day if I had to go to some kind of 9-5 gig.

There are, as you might have predicted, a few quirks to this job. Not only am I now enmeshed in the world child-rearing, I’ve been thrust into that world in a foreign country, where even the parenting bits that I do know about may not be valid anymore. For example, when I arrived at the nursery to get the children a few days ago I happened to find myself in the middle of a parent-child sing-along. I entered as quietly as I could, fake lip-synched to a Norwegian children’s song, and then socialized awkwardly for a few minutes during the complimentary coffee and waffles hour. During those awkward moments I learned that nursery schools here don’t allow children to wear scarves (choking hazard), just neck warmers. If you installed the mittens with the connecting strings into your child’s coat, those strings have to be cut upon admission to the school. ‘Safety first’ must be a motto that also translates into Norwegian. Fresh air cures everything, running around in tights, slippers and your shirt (boys and girls) all day is totally normal, and weather is no barrier to outside play. Additionally, the French/Swedish children in my care seem to know how to go limp noodle to avoiding having to put their snowsuits on, it seems that more than a few things are universal.

The hardest 20 minutes of my work day involve gathering the children at the nursery, dressing them in their winter gear, and walking the roughly 60 meters from the nursery to their apartment, pushing a stroller containing little E and holding the very wiggly mittened hand of N, whose greatest desire is to jump into the canal to be nearer to the boats he sees there. Once we get into the building, they are quickly and mercifully distracted by the elevator. By the time we’re in the apartment, most of the crankiness that led to the limp noodle routine earlier is gone and they are happy and excited. Mealtime is our first priority, and while I quickly prepare noodles or scrambled eggs (they have a blessedly simple palette) they reunite with the toys they missed all day while they played with the toys at the nursery. Kids are REALLY into toys, as it turns out.

Getting them to eat isn’t incredibly difficult, but if someone is feeling finicky there is a short lag time while we go through a list of what I can provide to them while they either say ‘oui’ or ‘non’ or ‘ja’ or ‘nei’ or stare at me blankly. The 10 minutes during which they eat is the quietest period of our time together each afternoon. Ahhh the peace that full mouths can provide.

Part of the reason why I was a good candidate for this position is my status as a native speaker of English. The mother explained to me that while the children are already bilingual (speaking only French with mom and Swedish with dad) and are working on a third (they are spoken to in Norwegian at nursery school), it is important to them that the children learn to understand and speak English before their return to London in a couple years. She hopes that having an English speaker, ‘even American English’ (ouch!), with them for a portion of each day will begin that process.

After a couple weeks, I can only say that it is, indeed, a process. While N is able to parrot anything I say (me: “Are you hungry?” him: “Are you hungry?” me: “No, are YOU hungry?” him: “No, are YOU hungry?”), there’s yet to be a spontaneous outburst of spoken English or any verifiable signs that they understand my words as anything more than sounds with corresponding hand gestures. We do a lot of guess and test, pointing and charades, hopefully getting it right about 50% of the time. We watch cartoons in French, Norwegian, Swedish and English, just to cover all the bases, and I get about as much from those I can’t understand as I do from those I can.

I can already tell that this work experience is going to provide valuable life lessons while also exposing me to innumerable germs which will undoubtedly boost my immune system. Getting to know N and E has already been really lovely, they are happy, curious, fun-loving little people who are gracious enough to let me into their inner circle. Feeling that I am contributing to the financial stability of our family, as I got used to doing last season, has made Norway seem that much more homey. And I've already learned more French words than I could have expected to know in a lifetime.

Where You Hang Your Hat And How

It goes without saying that when you move to Europe certain lifestyle changes have to be made. Culture shifts, language barriers, a new cheese selection, giant squeegees in the shower. One of the most noticeable and perhaps most over-arching themes is the concept of space. Spaces here are, generally, smaller. Even though a country the size of Norway with a population of 5 million could lend itself to sprawl, generally people just don’t think that way and they are content to live in relatively tighter quarters than what Americans or Canadians may be used to while keeping all the bits in between urban areas a bit more uncluttered. Living in an apartment or a duplex (often that you own, not rent) for your entire life is totally normal here. Shared space like playgrounds, parks and nature areas are more commonly used because most people don’t have a fence-fortified fortress of a backyard the size of two city blocks.

One side-effect of this more compact living is that space within your living quarters must be used different. With the price per square foot at a premium in Europe and a SUPER premium in Norway, you buy what you can afford and make it yours with creativity. Storage space is at a minimum, walk-in closets aren’t a reality; rooms used exclusively for the utility of laundry are not the norm. In the Netherlands our washing machine was in the kitchen, in Germany it was the centerpiece of the bathroom, here in Norway it is in the basement of the building next door. Don’t even get me started on clothes dryers. Our oven wouldn’t fit a proper American Thanksgiving turkey. Our dishwasher is the same size as some microwaves back home, and I’m not even sure why it has a pots and pans cycle.

There are times when this smallness can be inconvenient. Or annoying. I can’t fit my biggest suitcase in our biggest closet, two loads of wash at home makes four loads here. The fridge has a very finite limit on the number of beverages or condiments that we can fit on the door. We haven’t used our itty bitty fireplace yet, but I’m wondering how we’ll ever fit logs of wood from normal sized trees in there. Maybe we’ll need an ax.

But on the whole, we’ve found that we enjoy this density much more than we enjoy sprawl. Deep down we’re both small town kids at heart, but I think we’d rather live urban or rural than suburban. The fact that here we don’t have, and truly don’t need, a car is comforting. The fact that design is both aesthetically pleasing and highly functional is really interesting, no one buys a piece for their home just to take up empty space. An ottoman is storage, a cabinet is art, a table has hidden shelves, a fireplace is actually used for…HEAT!

A yard and greenspace of our own could probably be listed as what we miss most while living this way, but what you lose in privacy you gain in community and social enagement. We have to leave our building to get outside, and in doing that we risk encountering other people. In Bakersfield, we could have driven into our garage, gone directly inside, and stayed in our high-fenced yard, theoretically never having to encounter our neighbors. Luckily political yard signs and dog ownership helped break down that barrier of suburban silence for us, but here we don't even have to go that far. We see our neighbors in the hallway, the laundry area, and outside with our dogs. I walk by some of the same people every day while exercising the dogs, and a certain group of three little girls has taken to waiting for us by the path so they can get in some quality time with the little mutts.

Truth be told, we'll most likely end up back in North America with a little yard where our dogs can run around and where Dave can maintain his manliness by presiding over a barbeque. But seeing an alternative is already having an influence on our future plans and our fantasy visions of our theoretical home. Dual purpose furniture, simplistic design, an environment that encourages community (any neighborhood without a sidewalk is vetoed immediately), the idea that your home is a place you go to retreat but not to be reclusive.

One To Tango

On Saturday night I put my party pants on, as I’m known to do, and got out of this apartment. In the name of socializing and with the intention of taking part in the nightlife of this young and happening city, I had some warm-up wine with the girls and then met the boys in a club in the city.

If you have ever gone out with me, or stayed in with me for that matter, you know I like to dance. Love to get down. Live to boogie. I’m by no means a good dancer, but I don’t care. I feel great when I’m dancing, happy, carefree and rather indifferent to whether or not those around me like my moves (elbows OUT). Dancing with new friends is a great means of bonding, you can whirl around pointing your fingers at them and winking and stuff and awkward conversation isn’t an issue at all. But just like so many situations outside the comfort of my apartment, there is always someone waiting in the wings to ruin a good thing.

I know this may come as an incredibly shocking newsflash to most of the men who take to the dance floor, also known as the d-floor, but I do not want you rubbing on me. I don’t want you creeping up behind me, circling us like a pack of wolves wearing bad cologne. I realize that dancing has certain sexual connotations, but life is not a video on MTV. If I really wanted to smell your body odor that close to me, I would make that really clear. Maybe I’d use my moves to shimmy up closer to you, or use a come hither gesture of the finger (and that finger wouldn’t have a wedding ring on it), or even just say “HEY! Want to dance?” It would be that literal.

Unfortunately, it would seem that most men on d-floors around the world haven’t read this memo. Although my most recent encounter was in Oslo, women all over the world have been forced to adopt evasive maneuvers as part of their dance repertoire. We form protective circles around each other, set up blocks in front of the worst offenders to defend the most vulnerable, and make direct eye contact while shaking our heads ‘no’, all while dancing to the block rocking beats. But just because we’re now experts in defensive dancing doesn’t mean we like it. We’d rather dancing unhindered, in a circle of our friends with our purses on the floor in the middle of the circle.

In conclusion, although I know it's hard for aforementioned men to understand that women are not dancing sheerly for their pleasure, but instead for our own, let's hope that our increasingly sophisticated means of thwarting their attempts at unwanted thrusting/gyrating/grabbing will eventually get the point across. Imagine what feats of dance we can accomplish without such a specter looming in the darkened corners of a strobe-lit room!

A Play Date, A Reading Mate

When we moved back to the U.S. for last season, we let go of some of our favorite things about Europe for some comforts of home. We exchanged more exotic cheeses for an abundance of sharp cheddar. We exchanged a cereal section that consists of four types of muesli for an entire aisle of delicious crunchiness. We exchanged another year of unknowns and new languages and a bit of loneliness for the comfort of place we’ve lived happily before. And it all worked out brilliantly. Until it was over.

Because we don’t know if we’ll have the chance again, we’ve exchanged the cheddar for the Jarlsberg and the amazing cereal selection for the muesli and the comfort of a place we know for somewhere new. And it feels just as good to be exchanging this way as it did the other way. We find ourselves happy wherever we are. As long as there is cheese.

Being back here does bring, however, that bit of loneliness I mentioned before. In addition to not knowing anyone here before we arrived, there is that additional feeling of isolation that you can’t help but feel when you don’t understand the language. Even though nearly everyone here speaks English quite well, there is still that barrier to complete comprehension. When in a group of Norwegians they, naturally, tend to transition back to Norwegian when they aren’t addressing you directly, and you kind of feel a bit disconnected from the whole of the conversation...although a bit of wine can help that. When you turn on the T.V. for background noise, the very foreign sounds of a foreign language tend to get annoying rather than soothing. When people pass you on the path and say something to your dogs, you don’t know what it is, so you just nod and smile knowing that may be the completely wrong reaction for their question/statement/request.

So despite that the fact that feeling lonely is only a tiny part of life abroad, it’s important to find ways to combat those feelings so they don't have a chance to grow bigger. And yesterday, while the men were away in battle, I took refuge in two by spending time with two things that I truly love: books and a Midwestern girl.

On a glorious sunny day, Blair Curley Bostrom and I headed to the main branch of the Oslo public library to get our library cards and find ourselves some books in ENGLISH! It was amazingly easy to get the card, just a passport and a little note in my pocket to remind me of my address. We spent time slowly going up and down the section with books in English, reading the spines, touching the books, weighing our choices. I love libraries under any circumstance, but when I’ve already torn through the three books I packed and can’t bring myself to buy the overpriced English books in the bookstore, the library is like an oasis in the desert. An oasis that smells like dust and sounds like learning. We emerged victorious, books in our bags ready to take on the world.

The rest of the day was spent wandering, with our only real goal being to stumble upon a Subway (success!), and discovering some cute cafés, a giant cruise ship and an amazing fortress overlooking the harbor. I when I got my tired feet and my sore back on the subway to return home, I didn’t feel quite as lonely among the foreign language and the surrounding strangers. Curled up on the couch with a book and my dogs, I spent the rest of the night feeling a little closer to home.