Halloweeeeeeen!

It's Halloween in Norway, and although I was in Oslo and missed out on the goings-on at home in Lillehammer, I got the report, with pictures to boot. 

Erik bought what may have been the last pumpkin in town on October 30th for about $25. What is particularly amusing about the packaging of the pumpkin--aside from the fact that it actually comes with packaging--is that there are instructions on How To Carve a Pumpkin. Although I can't be so sure, it does sort of appear that #4 instructions the user to put a candle on the top of the pumpkin. . . 

We were struck with an early arrival of winter in Lillehammer, and had nearly 10 inches of snow on the ground for Halloween. This did not seem to damper the spirits of our little witch (whose costume was bought at Joanne Fabrics in the US a few weeks ago for about $5). As I wrote last year, Norway embraces the "gory" side of Halloween--the ghouls, skeletons, blood, creepy stuff--and it seems to attract mainly elementary school age kids. Having a 3-year-old princess walking around the neighborhood last year collecting candy was a bit of an anomaly--both because she was 3 and because she was a princess. This year she decided to be a witch, which sounded good to us, being a little more in line with the local "customs". (As if respecting the local customs of a 100% imported American holiday is important. . .)  Having a 4-year-old witch out trick or treating was strange enough.

Erik stuffed Greta into a snowsuit, stretched the cheap-o witch dress over the snowsuit and pulled her hair back with a black buff and skull cap to fit under the witch's hat. Top it off with some purple mittens (which, along with the purple snowsuit, blended quite nicely with the purple witch's dress) and Greta was set for trick or treatin' Norwegian style. They headed to a slightly more American/British-ized neighborhood where we had success last year, and collected an amusing selection of goodies. Among those were loose, unwrapped pepperkaker cookies (traditional Norwegian Christmas cookies, now being sold in the stores), a candy cane, Christmas chocolates, and a package of single-serving hot chocolate mix!

Syttende Mai

Greta in her American version of a bunad,
(made by her Dutch grandmother)

Norwegians gather in Lillehammer 
for the Syttende Mai parade

Well, I very well can't let two Syttende Mai-s pass by without writing a bit about Norway's most beloved national holiday! 


The 17th of May is Norway's constitution day, but not independence day. Norway signed their constitution in 1814 when they were under the rule of Denmark, only to then find themselves transferred to Sweden when Denmark was on the losing end of the Napoleonic War. Norway finally became independent a good 91 years later in 1905.


Many have heard about Norway's "Syttende Mai" parades, and they are not exactly what I was expecting. Syttende Mai is often described as a day for the children, and the parade is not a parade for children as much as it is a parade of the children. When Americans think of parades--especially a national day parade--we think of big marching bands, floats, clowns, politicians, princesses. A Syttende Mai parade (or tog, which also means train) consists of the children in town marching down the main street behind a rather simple banner announcing their respective schools. And waving flags. LOTS of flag. Perhaps about half of the schools had a small band--every one complete with baton twirlers. One might expect a bit of school competitiveness--who's got the best banner, or who can shout the loudest, but the cheers didn't seem to get more elaborate than "Hipp-hipp-hurray!" Seriously. 


However. . . Norwegians do not attend these parade, nor participate in these parades, dressed in their everyday jeans and handknit sweaters. Quite the contrary. They dress up in elaborate, traditional, national costumes and jewelry that cost them thousands of dollars, and are worn on Syttende Mai and perhaps Christmas and the occasional wedding. The costumes--or bunad--are regional, and one chooses a bunad based on where in Norway one's family originated. This makes for a very colorful, festive day, and the sight of hundreds or thousands of people walking around in these elaborate dresses and suits makes you feel like you were sent back 200 years. (We won't mention the fact that 200 years ago Norway was dirt poor, and it was probably very unlikely that people owned such fine clothing and jewelry!) It is really a very incredible sight, and very touching, actually, to see such a commitment to tradition and such pride in one's roots and culture. And it is not just the 50 year old women dressed in their finest. Everyone from the 4-year olds at the barnehages, to the 16 year old girls wearing their bunader for the very first time (they often are a confirmation gift), to the 30, 40, 50, 60, 70, 80 year olds. . .  And if the men don't have a bunad, they are most likely dressed in a suit and tie. 

Erik to the far left (in the red tie) and
Greta third from the left in the barnehage tog (parade)

This year's parade started at 10:30am in the pouring rain. The rain cleared by 11am or so, soon enough for us to rid ourselves of our rain gear and display our finery (with a layer of wool underneath). We watched the main children's parade, after which Greta immediately asked: "Pappa, on the 17th of May, can we eat as much ice cream as one wants? I haven't gotten any ice cream yet!" And thus we joined in Norwegian Syttende Mai tradition #2: eat as much ice cream and hotdogs (pølse) as you want. So, there you have it: not all of their traditions are quaint. 


By 2pm, we made our way up to Maihaugen, the open-air museum, for the barnehage (preschool) parade for the 5 and under crowd. There are probably about 20+ barnehages in town, and this parade is even more amusing (or simply odd?) than the regular parade, because you just can't send several hundred 2, 3, 4 and 5 year old marching down a path by themselves, waving to their beaming parents on the side. Someone has to go with them. Someone has to accompany nearly every single one of them, because take them out of the familiar barnehage context, they now look at their best friend in this funny hat or dress and act like total strangers and don't want to be left alone. (And the teachers aren't there to organize, because they are off with their own families, with their own kids, as they should be). So, the barnehage parade is basically a parade of the barnehages, consisting of a parent holding the banner, more parents, strollers, kids and a very sparse publicum (mostly grandparents or hangers-on) to wave and toot horns from the sidelines. But, it is an event not to be missed, if you ask my child. She's been talking about it for months. 


Despite the rain and chill in the air, and the fact that I had to work at 3pm and leave the festivities early, it was a lovely day. All day long we kept running into people we knew: Erik's work colleagues, teachers, fellow language students, the man who cleans at the barnehage, women from the ski group, the guy who laid our bathroom tile, a guy from Erik's ski group, neighbors, casual acquaintances, my work colleagues, the guy from the coffee shop, fellow American ex-pats. . .  On a day that seems so foreign--both because it is not my history and not my culture, nor is it a tradition that I have lifelong memories of-- it was very lovely to feel attached to this place and to people and to be warmly greeted and "congratulated on the day!" down every street. 

Greta's First Ski Race

All smiles before the race

Back in mid-March, on a sunny Saturday morning, my phone rang. It was a friend and mother to Greta's beste venn (best friend) at the barnehage. The little boy proudly told Greta he was going to do a ski race that day and would she like to do it too? With a personal invitation like that, how could she resist? She eagerly shouted "JA!" and we were off to the races. . . 


I was, myself, both skeptical and a bit worried about how the day might turn out. But the race was on our "home course", located on a farm a kilometer or so from our front door, and sponsored by the neighborhood ski club, so we felt compelled to get involved and perhaps meet some of our neighbors who had been hiding in their homes all winter long. Well, when they weren't out on the ski course, that is.


A little background before I continue. . . you may or may not know that Erik was, once up

A little chocolate and verbal encouragement
midway through from Pappa

on a time, a talented and competitive ski racer, training full time for over half a decade after his college career was over. And while I briefly competed in high school, I would never call myself a competitive nor talented cross country skier. That said, getting our 3 year old daughter on skis has never been with the intention or hope that she would someday be a superstar skier. Greta was a late crawler, a late walker, and even today struggles with tasks that demand leg strength, like climbing stairs. The fact that her barnehage focuses so much on outdoor play and activity in nature has been one of the things we appreciate most. Kids in other barnehages are outside a lot, too, but this particular barnehage takes the kids out hiking, skiing and biking nearly every day, in addition to regular outside play. And there is something about group mentality and being encouraged by a teacher (and not a parent) that encourages a 3-year old to ski/walk/hike/bike longer, farther, and more often than that 3-year old might be willing to do at home. 

At least the view was nice!

Greta had been skiing several times a week since the first snowfall in December, including an entire "ski week" at barnehage, where the kids learned how to get their boots into the bindings, how to stand up when they fall down, how to untwist their skis when they get crossed, how to go fiskebein (herringbone) up a hill and how to crouch and balance their weight down a hill. (Keep in mind that her barnehage is located next to the 1994 Olympic ski trails and continue to host elite level skiers from all over the world). However, the focus has all been about having FUN and the teachers emphasized that ski sessions with Greta should be short--10, 20 minutes max--and positive experiences. 


That's why I was worried about this ski "race" for our 3-year old. Would it be fun? And would it be short? 

Encouragement and company from a best friend

Thankfully, it was a short course: just 400 meters for the youngest kids. Unfortunately, it was not flat. After a brief flat start, the course gently sloped downhill--just enough to make Greta very uneasy, require physical support from her Pappa, and still manage to crash and burst into tears within the first 50 meters. The downhill continued for another 50 meters before it began to (gently) climb for the next 200 meters. Tears and complaints were met with encouragement and short goals rewarded with bites of chocolate. She was given the option to stop, telling her it should be fun. But she wouldn't quit. She knew if she didn't finish she couldn't "win" (her goal, not ours!!!). Her best friend, now finished with his 400 meter race, came to provide a little company and cheering half way through. After about 300 meters, the trail dropped quickly, twisting and turning back on itself before heading to the finish. By this point, the elementary and middle school kids were finishing their 1km and 3km races, sprinting past us (classic style). Even some adults, racing a 5km loop, were finishing. Greta finished in 35 minutes. (Or at least that's what the final results said. We actually think they stopped timing.)

Approaching the finish line with determination and a little help from Mamma

The organizers didn't hand out any prizes or even finishers ribbons that day, which I thought was really unfortunate. Greta was wiped out and brittle, and a medal or ribbon could have boosted her spirits immensely and really ended the whole experience on a high note. Instead, little shot-glass sized "trophies" were handed out at the annual awards night several weeks later, which we did not attend. A hug from her best friend and plenty of pølser (hot dogs--a staple at any event hosted by Norwegians) would have to suffice for her reward.

A job well-done pat on the back from a best friend

Despite the tears and complaints on her end, and that nagging feeling of did-we-push-too-much on my/our end, she was quite proud of herself afterwards. On Monday morning she proudly announced to her barnehage teachers that she had done a ski race, and being the professionals that they are, they responded with the appropriate level of surprise, praise and admiration.


If anything, it was a beautiful sunny spring day in Lillehammer. We met neighbors and folks who we'll likely be seeing in the school yard, at birthday parties and at the grocery store--not to mention the ski trails--in the years to come. And perhaps most interesting of all was participating in the most Norwegian of all possible activities--a ski race, this time on the local level where the indoctrination begins!

I attend, and trying to understand, Norwegian family theatre

On Saturday night, Greta and I immersed ourselves in Norwegian culture by attending a local amateur theatre production of "Folk og Røvere i Kardemomme By" (the people and the robbers in Cardamom Town). The story is a very popular Norwegian children's book, and if you're to believe Wikipedia, it's one of Norway's most important children's books. The author, Thorbjørn Egner, wrote about a gazillion catchy Norwegian children's songs in the 1950s, and they have both endeared themselves in Norwegian's hearts and endured in Norwegian culture. 


A friend loaned us the 5-disc CD set of Thorbjørn Enger's songs, which we listened to ad nauseum on the drive to and from Lillehammer for about 3 days. I then had to ban them from the car, as I couldn't get their tinkly little tunes out of my head. I think Greta had memorized them all by then, anyway. One of the five CDs was the tale and tunes of Folk og Røvere, while another told the story of Karius and Bactus. For the scoop on Karius and Bactus, you will just have to wait for another exciting installment of Norwegian children's cultural lessons!

Cover of Egner's book
(I'm just now seeing that there are palm trees.
Where is this place?)

The storyline of Folk og Røvere goes something like this:  Karedmomme By is a quintesentially happy village, whose only law is (according to Wikipedia) "simple and liberal": 
You should not bother others,
you should be nice and kind,
otherwise you can do as you please.


Nice, right?


However, there are 3 mean robbers who rob the towns-people, but only when they actually need something. After a few celebrations are held in town, staged only to highlight ear-wormy Egner songs and get the audience to sing along, the robbers finally rob something--1 hour and 30 minutes into the play. No, no. . . I take that back. They actually did rob something earlier: a hammock, with the sleeping aunt in it. Who then woke, and treated them kindly. Anyway. . . the robbers are caught and then killed with kindness by the kindly and rather incompetent policeman. A fire breaks out in the revered old man's tower, nearly killing his puppy dog and his new parrot from Amerika (no, not kidding), but. . . the three robbers save them and are now reformed robbers and HEROS! They are each given a new job: a fireman, a baker and a circus director (did I mention the three robbers had a lion in their house? No? And a camel in town? Yeah. . . I'm not sure how that fit into the story, either). 


Kardemomme By has such prominence in Norwegian culture that it has its very own theme park in Kristiansand, associated with the zoo there. What is particularly funny about this is last October--just 6 weeks after we moved to Norway--Greta, Erik and I were in Kristiansand. Erik was working and Greta and I spent a very full afternoon at the zoo. However, I have no recollection of nor had I any idea that Kardemomme By existed as part of the zoo. My cultural blinders were ON. 


I've been trying to come up with an American equivalent that would reflects the quaintness and longevity of this story. I think I'm also trying to find an equivalent to perhaps reassure myself that there's an element of the Kardemomme phenomenon that I just don't get, simply because I didn't grow up with it. What I mean is, I was mildly entertained. But I don't know that I'd call it a great work of literature and build a theme park around it. The best example I can think of is perhaps the 1964 animated Christmas special Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer. For many of us parents now in our 30s and 40s, the pre-Christmas television season wasn't complete without a viewing of Rudolph.  However now, one realizes just how primitive the animation was, how annoying some of the characters were, and--like Egner's songs--you just can't get the damn Rudolph song out of your head! Despite all of those marks against it, it has endured.


And there's gotta be a Rudolph theme park somewhere.  

A Norwegian barn-raising

In the Amish culture in the US, when a farmer needs a new barn, all the neighbors come over and build the barn together as a community. (I think it happens in one day, but I'm not sure if that's possible). The women prepare a meal, and the entire community sits down together inside the barn and celebrates. 

Erik and Steinar discuss something about the roof, I guess.

Two weekends ago, three of Erik's colleagues and our uber-friendly neighbor, descended up our house for a dugnad (volunteer) project. In the space of about 3 hours, the five of them nearly completely tiled our new roof. In fact, when I arrived around 12:30 (as the Amish wife in this story, supplying food for the laborers) with two hot pizzas, they were all back on the ground, majority of the tiling complete. I had imagined great pictures of men balancing precariously on the roof, but I was too late. 

It's kind of hard to take a picture
of a roof from the ground, so Erik
snapped this one with his cell phone.

Two of the guys stayed until nearly 6pm, cutting and laying the angled pieces where the two rooflines meet. We were so grateful for their help, and were really touched by the warmth and enthusiasm that Erik's colleagues and our new neighbor showed us. It is gestures like this that make us "foreigners" feel very welcome in both the community and our new neighborhood. 

Halloween in Norway: Knep eller Knask?

Living on top of a quiet, steep hill last Halloween, we didn't have a good idea of exactly how Halloween was celebrated in Norway. We've had a number of folks tell us that the holiday didn't come to Norway until about 10 years ago, and it seems a bit slow to catch on.

Halloween in Norway is a holiday that celebrates the scary, ghoulish, and gruesome. It also seems to be a holiday aimed at the school aged kids, but not so much the pre-school or high school kids. So no adorable pea-pod costumes for the babies, no Curious George costumes for the toddlers, no princess costumes for the 3 1/2 year olds. . .

. . . that is, until Greta came to town.

Seeing that our life these days can best be described as chaotic, I hadn't given Halloween too much thought, until a local American-married-to-Norwegian friend invited us to come to their home and neighborhood for Trick or Treating. I felt guilty for about, oh--two seconds, over the fact that Greta didn't have a darling new Halloween costume. Then I realized that she's 3, and has no clue what Halloween is about. For that matter, we have no clue what Halloween is about in Norway, so I quickly got over that initial mamma-guilt.

I dug Greta's fairy wings and fairy crown out of storage, and she lit up with excitement when I did the big costume reveal on Halloween night. Voila! Your regular dress-up purple princess/fairy dress and fairy wings that you haven't seen in 4 months! She was all for it. We layered up on wool long underwear and fleece, and we were set. That is, until she spotted a single square inch of pink satin sticking out of a bag.

"What's that?" she asked, curiously.
"Just. . . uh. . . a pink hat." It was, in fact, an entire pink satin princess ensemble lent to me by my friend Kim the American as a possible costume for Greta. In the spirit of "keeping life simple" and "what does she know about not wearing everyday dress-up clothes for Halloween anyway?", and in a hope to avoid any post-Halloween breakdowns when we had to give the costume back, I had kept the pink costume in a bag to return to its owner.

"What hat?" she asks, eyes wide.
"Oh. . this one? Do you want to wear it?" I ask, acting surprised. I manage to do a fancy, magic mamma move and keep the dress in the bag while only pulling out the hat--one of those pointy, cone shaped princess-in-a-tower kind of hats, with the streaming, glittery tulle off the top.

Greta has already removed her fairy crown, but her little mind is too sharp. "What else is in there?" she wonders, and she reaches for the bag.

"Oh. . . this pink dress?" I'm doomed. Greta is tearing off the fairy wings and yanking the purple princess/fairy dress off her shoulders. She couldn't get that pink dress on fast enough.

We went trick or treating with Kim and her 8 year old daughter and niece--all 3 witches of some sort, as well as two dads of American/Norwegian families and their two respective 5 year-old sons, who were a skeleton and a dragon. The dragon costume was totally awesome. And totally American. Kim escorted us around the neighborhood, which seems to have a high proportion of Americans, Brits and Norwegians-who-have-lived-abroad-and-understand-the-concept-of-Halloween living there. The neighborhood was certainly not mobbed with Trick or Treaters, asking "Knep eller Knask?", not even half the homes were participating, and most of them didn't have jack o' lanterns out. But it was a wonderful crisp fall evening and Greta was thrilled to pieces.

As for the princess costume, it was a big hit, with kid, neighbors and parents alike. The neighbors were delighted to see a charming pink princess instead of a bloody, bludgeoned head on their doorstep. And Greta practically floated around the neighborhood. I think we have some time before she embraces the gory, Norwegian Halloween, which is fine with me. On our walk around the neighborhood, she announced, "I don't like the scary costumes, I just like the pretty ones."

Perhaps we'll start a campaign for Cute or Clever Costumes for Kids for Halloween.

Greta loves Maihaugen.
She also loves running after her Uncle Jeremy.

 My brother Jeremy and his samboer, Amber, came to visit us in late August for nearly two weeks. My delay in writing this post has everything to do with waiting for my brother to sort through his 2,000 pictures and nothing to do with my own busy schedule. . . 

I do a little Big Sister
ass kickin' on the stilts at Maihaugen.

While the plane tickets were bought long ago, the planning was. . . shall we say, a little last minute? J&A wanted first and foremost to see their adorable niece, but also to get a taste of Norway. I, of course, wanted to visit with them too, but also wanted them to really like Norway. In fact, I was more concerned about their having an awesome, kick-ass visit than I have been with any of our other visitors thus far (aunt/uncle and our parents), mostly I think because of the amount of money involved and their age. Let me try to explain:  our parents, our aunt/uncle. . . they're retired/nearly retired, have some extra money on their hands in this stage of their lives. . . somehow for my brother and his girlfriend to drop the thousands of dollars it takes to get here--these two hard working kids with a mortgage. . . I really felt some pressure for them to have a great time. (And to want to come back!).


So, in addition to visiting Lillehammer and the requisite trip to Oslo (either upon arrival or departure, or during any of the train trips that generally require a trip into Oslo), I strongly encouraged them to visit Bergen. Bergen is located on the west coast of Norway, and notoriously rainy (kind of like Seattle). But it is colorful, cosmopolitan, historical, and beautiful, and since I visited it 6 years ago on a rare sunny day--I loved it. A link to this blog perhaps sealed the deal on visiting Bergen.


I also recommended a Norway in a Nutshell trip, which fellow blogger Michele described as "ridiculously expensive but totally worth it". It enabled them to get a taste of Norway in just a day or two trip--fjord trip, train trip to the mountains and glaciers, and back down to the coastline.


I thought Lillehammer, Oslo, Bergen, Norway in a Nutshell would be a nice taste of Norway. A few weeks before their visit Jeremy said, "We're going to start reading the guidebooks now!" I reassured them that late August into early September isn't high tourist season anymore, and not to worry too much about making reservations in some of the more popular tourist destinations.

And the weather continues to cooperate.
We stopped at the octagonal church in 
Sør Fron on our drive to Rondane to enjoy
the spectacular view and sunshine.

Oops.


Bergen was Booked Solid on their chosen days. Only horrendously expensive hotels were available. Jeremy sent us link after link to hostels and small apartments, and every one was booked. After playing with the dates of their in-country trips a bit, and only after Erik called about 40 privately owned apartments, did we find them a place to stay in Bergen for 3 nights.


Let this be a warning to you!!!

We begin the 5km walk to Rondvassbu Fjell Hotel
in Rondane National Park. 

Weather was the wild card. Remember we just had the rainiest June, July and August in history (or modern history) in Lillehammer, and so a few days of rain could be the difference between a miserable trip or an awesome one.


They had an AWESOME TRIP!!  The weather (although a little chilly for late August) cooperated. . . even in Bergen. For the most part.

Nearly there!
(No, I did not carry Greta the whole way. We had a stroller).

Once they arrived in Lillehammer, and we made the pilgrimage to Maihaugen, I convinced them that we should do a day hike into Rondane National Park and stay overnight in Rondvassbu, one of many classic Norwegian mountain hotels. My brother and his girlfriend aren't really hikers (they live in DC), but I reassured them that it wasn't so much of a hike as it was a 5km walk on a dirt road. With backpacks. Norwegians walk in on a Sunday afternoon, have a cup of coffee, and walk back out again. Parents push baby buggies, kids ride their bikes. But it's all in the middle of really incredible high mountain terrain. The sleeping accommodations are rustic (think bunk beds and candles) but the food is not (think 3 course meals with a beer/wine menu).


They agreed it sounded like a fun addition to their itinerary, without too much convincing. Erik was busy with work and house stuff, so it was the two of them along with Greta and myself. We packed backpacks full of layers of rainproof clothing, long underwear and our bed linens (only to find out upon arrival at the hotel that we could have "rented" the linens and spared ourselves the extra pounds in the backpack) and drove the two hours to Rondane, stopping along the way for some pretty incredible sight-seeing. Greta enjoyed the hike from the comfort of her stroller, and J&A were adequately impressed by the stark beauty of the high mountain range. 


After an evening meal of fish, potatoes (and a very tasty pasta salad for vegetarian Amber) and chocolate mousse, accompanied by a good beer and refreshing glass of wine, we settled into the living room to read and chat by the candlelight. The mountain hotel was a bit overrun by about 50+ high school aged kids, heading out on a first-week-of-school multi-night expedition. But they definitely added to the rustic, Norwegian feel to the place--all these kids not batting an eye about heading out into the wilderness with a few days' supplies on their backs. 

Rustic but cozy, right Amber?

The multiple layers of wicking long underwear, fleece and rain gear were unnecessary on our walk in--the sun was out and we all stripped down to a single layer of clothes. The walk out ended on a chilly note with a few sprinkles and strong wind, but did not dampen the spirits of our DC Hikers who, to their credit, got off the beaten path of the "typical" tourist in Norway. 


Come see for yourself! 

Come back soon, Jeremy and Amber!
You still have a lot of Norway left to see!

Only in Norway

Time to cut the roof!

Somewhat difficult to see, but he actually is holding a
trimmer in his hands. Picture taken in Hafjell, at a hytte (cabin)
just 200m down the ski trail from us

I Scream, I mean. . . Ice Cream

Today the ice cream truck drove through our neighborhood, ringing a delightful little bell. It parked right in front of our house, and two kids and their dad came running up. Didn't seem to matter that it was about 55 degrees and cloudy.


Is it just me, or is the picture on the side of this ice cream truck not a little creepy? The little girl is giving the ice cream man a kiss? Is that not a little child-sex-predator-ish?


It struck me as very weird. Hence the picture.

How was YOUR summer vacation?

And now for some family-relocating-to-Norway updates. . . (written 2 weeks ago, so somewhat dated). 

We are coming to the end of Norway’s 3-week “felles ferie” which literally translates to “communal vacation”. Most Norwegians took off from work* and headed either to Sweden or Denmark or their hytter (cabins). We, being workaholic Americans who are unaccustomed to someone insisting “You. Must. Take. Vacation. It. Is. Good. For. Your. Soul,” have instead “moved” 3 times in the past month and kicked the home gutting/renovation into High Gear.

Perhaps “moving” is a bit of a stretch, but not by much. We have certainly inhabited three different homes in the past 31 days, since leaving our rental home at the end of June. Knowing we really wouldn’t be able to move into our “new” home, we secured a short-term lease on a house in Biri, 30+ minutes outside of Lillehammer. The prospect of Greta spending an hour in the car every day to and from barnehage, along with staying in a home without internet or TV for two months (TV I could do without, internet. . . not so much), had me a tad apprehensive. I picked up a flier for vacation rentals at a nearby ski resort, and the morning that we were moving out of our last “borrowed” house, we opted instead to rent an honest-to-gosh vacation house in Hafjell for the next two three months. Hafjell is about 10-15 minutes north of Lillehammer, and was the location for the downhill Olympic ski events. Just across the river is Norway’s biggest tourist attraction: Hunderfossen, an amusement park with trolls as their main theme. There’s also a smaller pint-sized amusement park, and a few summer-ski-town attractions, namely downhill mountain biking and gondola rides. Aspen or Park City it is not, but that's not why we're here.

We are living in a 5-bedroom, 2-bath + sauna, “chalet” of sorts, the kind of place that you can ski out the back door down the slopes, sleeps 14 and can get 42 drunk (there are 21 shot glasses and 21 wine glasses in the cupboard). A true alpine ski getaway. You may think we are paying out the nose for these kind of digs, but since we guaranteed the owners two months of occupation and rent, and this is the tail end of the high-season, we got a very good rate. And we’ve got cable TV and internet to boot. Such a deal.

As for the High Gear of remodeling, I say that based only on what Erik reports to me over dinner, during the 90 minutes that he is home while Greta and I are awake**, not based on any personal effort in that area***. Erik has been putting in 12-14 hour days at the house during his 2-week felles ferie, most recently working alongside our builder/carpenter, Bob the Builder (aka Byggmaster Bob). Upstairs floors are sanded, upstairs ceiling and walls reinsulated, re-vapor-barrier-ized, new lath and stud walls up, downstairs we have new stud walls for bathroom, kitchen, entry, hole expanded for stairs, many walls reinsulated and re-vapor-barrier-ized, and new windows framed in (no new windows).

A relaxing summer vacation is not what I would call it. Between stressing out about our next living accomodation, packing/unpacking/repacking/unpacking/repacking/unpacking, trying to simply function in someone else's living space (Do you own measuring spoons? Could this bread knife cut a cracker?Washing machine: yes, dryer: no, clothes-line: no, confusion and avoidance of laundry: yes), entertain a toddler during the barnehage's ferie while all playmates were on their own ferie and we had a suitcase of toys and Norway's rainiest July on record. . . I have not been the happiest camper. Luckily, Erik hasn't been around to notice****. 

All of this while the architect kicks back on his felles ferie, and we wait, withholding judgment, for our final plans.

* This includes the entire children’s department at the local hospital, which I read in the paper is closed for “summer vacation”. Sick or injured children are shipped off to Oslo, which makes me wonder about how the staff at the Oslo hospitals feel about the rest of the country dumping their work on them during felles ferie.

** Note to readers: this is not a criticism of my husband or the amount of time he spends with his family. This is a jointly agreed upon schedule, with the acknowledgement that life will be hectic for a few months. However, that is not to say it is not difficult.

*** This post was written before the button-and-sawdust shoveling began, then set aside for Erik to proof read, then posted anyway, 'cause he's never going to have time to read it.

**** Joke was run past Erik before publication and received a thumbs up. Ok, actually it wasn't, but I had every intention of doing so. I don't think he'll mind.

Finally, some thoughts on Oslo and Utøya

This is a post I've been avoiding writing for nearly a week. I've been trying to put together my reactions to the attacks in Oslo and Utøya, but am really struggling to get my thoughts to be at all eloquent or coherent. (In fact, I had a post ready to go on Monday, but then our internet failed, and the post was lost. I haven't had the emotional energy to sit down and address the subject matter again.) I feel like everything that I write is just repeating what every other news report has said, and my own personal insights are rather limited. I actually haven't spoken with any "real" Norwegians about the attacks, so I can't even offer a first-hand story of how a "real" Norwegian feels. And in some ways, I feel like my point of view isn't so important. I feel like an outsider, an imposter; but then again, Norway is now my home. For better or worse. And good times, and in bad.


It is shocking. It is unfathomable. The numbers defy my imagination. I do not profess to understand much about Norway's political system, but Norway has always felt peaceful to me, a quiet, respectful land keeping to itself in the north. One rarely sees the police on the street and they are never armed, you don't need to take off your shoes in the Oslo airport, political leaders and star Olympic athletes have their home phone numbers listed in the phone book, and nearly every mail box has the entire family's names listed on them: Lars, Mari, Olav, Sigrid and Ingrid. We've been so hard-wired in the US to look out for kidnappers, I think: who's to stop the dirty old man down the street from luring Sigrid and Ingrid into his van, calling them by name? 


But, I digress.  


The young people who gathered on the island came from communities all across Norway. They were leaders with and interest in politics, and going to the summer camp run by the Labor Party was a great privilege. As a result, every community or region in the nation has been personally touched by this massacre. Every area either had children that survived or children that were lost, so the entire country is deeply grieving. I watched a news report of about a dozen teens flown home together on a charter plane to some of the northern most cities in Norway, being welcomed on the tarmac by their families, several days after the tragedy. Watching these kids collapse into their parents arms in tears was absolutely heart-wrenching. I can't imagine the images in their memories, and don't know what can be done to help erase them.


I am very grateful that Greta is only 3, and that I can--for the time being--protect her from the stories and images. I noticed a father at the grocery store with his two elementary aged kids, and they all gazed at the  collection of newspapers at the check-out line. Even a year or two older, she would be astute enough to ask about the broken buildings or the parades of flowers, or the pictures of people crying and hugging. I know I won't be able to avoid these difficult parenting situations for long, or even this particular story. This is by far the darkest day in Norway's history, and will be recognized and taught in schools from this day forward, I'm certain of it. 


I have been most impressed with the strength and courage that so many of these kids have demonstrated when they talk of returning to Utøya. When I learned that this was an annual camp, something that has been going on since the 1970s, I thought, "they are going to board up those doors, and no one will every step foot on that island again." Instead, the day following the attack, the leaders of the Youth Organization were declaring, "we're going back. We're taking back that island." I am humbled by such profound displays of courage.


And now for displays of cowardice. Erik read a newspaper article that described the treatment that some Muslims received in the first few hours following the bombing. Insults, blame and finger-pointing, including one woman saying to a Pakastani neighbor who has lived in Norway for over 10 years, "You did this. You did this bombing". Muslims make up 10% of Norway's population, according to a news report I heard the other day, but this is a fairly recent phenomenon. By recent, I mean in the last 30-40 years. "Recent" is a relative term, when you consider Norway's history of a fairly homogenous society and race. And while I believe that most Norwegians are open and accepting to immigrants, it's obviously not an easy process for anyone.


I think Norwegians are very shocked by the fact that this tragedy came from a native Norwegian. It would be--and was--very easy to blame a Muslim terrorist for the attack, and to find excuses and explanations for his actions. "He doesn't understand our values," "he's doesn't believe in the same God as we do" "he doesn't appreciate what it means to be Norwegian". Then again, the same can be said for Anders Behring Breivik. I don't think there are too many people--Norwegian or otherwise--who believe in a God who would endorse this. 

Tranquility in the midst of Chaos

Greta wanted a picture with Tika--how
can I resist?

We are about to launch ourselves into full-blown chaos of home renovation and living like gypsies for the next month, or likely more. We have 50+ boxes of stuff in the basement of the new house, and tomorrow a friend will help Erik move some of the more major pieces of furniture to the house. Our landlord has been generous enough to allow us to keep a few of the bulkier items in the barn for the summer--sofa, mattress--and the piano in the house (thanks Thorstein!).

Damn, she's a good-lookin' dog.

Someone's been working hard.

We'll spend a few night this week in the home of one of Erik's vacationing colleagues, and then 3 weeks in the home of another vacationing colleague. Hopefully this will allow us enough time to get some walls up, maybe some electrical work done, and a bathroom roughed in. It is eerily reminiscent of last summer--1 night in East Thetford, 2 nights in Burlington, 2 nights in Princeton, 4 weeks in Shoreview, 4 nights in Texas, 4 nights in Washington DC, 2 weeks in Minneapolis. . . .

But notice I said his colleagues were "vacationing". This is a strangely Norwegian, or more probably European, phenomenon. Definitely not American. It is summer, thus, workers vacation. They do not seem to stagger their vacations, as all of my previous jobs have urged and demanded that we do (granted, I worked in more life-threatening/dependent workplaces). Instead, everyone seems to go on vacation in July. Regularly scheduled meetings are cancelled; the gym classes at the gym are cut back significantly; the barnehage closes for 3 weeks--sorry parents, you need daycare? you're on your own;  and we've been warned that the staff at city hall are at a bare minimum, so good luck in getting a building permit quickly. 

So if my blog posts are spotty, you'll understand. We're "vacationing", as I keep telling Greta. . . "We're going to stay in vacation houses! Right here in Lillehammer."

Enjoying the tranquility for one last weekend.

The views haven't been half bad

There could be far worse places in the world to be right now.

St. Hans Dag

Summer solstice has come and gone, with the official sunrise at 3:40am and sunset a mere 19 hours and 19 minutes later at 10:59pm, 13 hours and 49 minutes longer than at winter solstice. In other words. . . it's all downhill from here.

We celebrated St. Hans Dag--the (un?)official marking of summer solstice in Norway--by joining the throngs and Erik's colleagues who have children at Maihaugen, drinking champagne to celebrate my kicking ass on my Norwegian test, huddling under an umbrella as a quick summer storm raced through, watching an abbreviated children's version of Peer Gynt (which I didn't understand at all), sneaking a 3-year old into the men's single-stall outdoor bathroom because there was no line and the women's line was ridiculous, eliciting disapproving looks from all the orderly Norwegian women, listening to Norwegian oompah-oompah music, eating a requisite ice cream cone while wearing jeans, wool socks, long sleeves and a fleece jacket, and eventually watching a bonfire burn on a very small island (recently inhabited by a mother duck and her 9 goslings). Whew. Busy night.We all tumbled into bed around 10:30. . . Greta included.

The whole evening had kind of a Fourth of July feel to it: summer celebration, families with picnics, music, games and ice cream, and gathering on a hillside waiting for a fire-inspired extravaganza. I may have sounded a little sarcastic, but it really was a very pleasant, lovely night. I enjoyed recognizing the true start of summer, and acknowledgement of our position in the universe for just that day. Yes, I would have appreciated a little more warmth, but I was Officially Not Cold.

Daisy wreaths were a popular accessory

Some revelers, whooping it up on the hillside

And then there were these two crazy cats,
who wished they had marshmallows (or Peeps)
and a really long stick.

Sloooooow TV

One of Norway's public television stations, NRK, is broadcasting a strangely mesmerizing show: a live feed of a Hurtigruten ferry boat traveling 134 hours up the western coast of Norway! It's a 5 and a half day  "minute by minute" event with no commercial interruptions, and multiple cameras capturing images of fjords, snowcapped mountains, and flag-waving Norwegians, and essentially no narrative--mostly just scenery. Yes: 134 hours of non-stop television! Of a boat ride! The ship stops at 34 ports from Bergen to Kirkenes, well above the Arctic Circle, and watching some of their port stops reminds me a little of The Love Boat, what with all the well-wishers broadly and wildly waving their hellos.


As I said, it's strangely mesmerizing, as well as extremely boring. We turned on the TV yesterday afternoon around 3pm to show my visiting in-laws this odd Norwegian television phenomenon, and we were still checking in on the ship around 11pm last night. We turned it again today, as the scenery became more and more spectacular along the northern coast. And, 11pm. . . still watching the ship.


The trip up the coast of Norway is not a cheap one, especially at this time of year, in the land of midnight sun. (I tried to get a quote, but the Hurtigruten server froze on me)*. The newspaper reported that something like 2.7 million Norwegians have tuned in at some point along the tour. That's over half the country of Norway watching this boat ride! It has turned out to be NRK's most popular production ever.

*As newspaper Dagsavisen reported on Thursday, it can cost from NOK 21,000 to NOK 102,000 (USD 3,800 to USD 18,000) for two persons to make the same Bergen-Kirkenes trip in the high season of June and July, depending on choice of cabin and meal plans. 

2am and a drunk Norwegian uncle

We spent about 24 hours this weekend up at the Rustad Hotel in Sjusjøen, which is operated by friends of ours. One of Erik's former American ski-racing buddies married a Norwegian woman, and lo and behold, they now live just 20 minutes from us, operating a great mountain hotel on a lake called Sjusjøen. The happy couple was celebrating their wedding (from last September) and about 70 Norwegian, Danish and American guests joined them at the hotel. Besides ourselves, the American guests were limited to Mike's parents, aunt and uncle, and a cousin with her husband. 


I go to these sort of events always with both trepidation and anticipation. How ostracized will I feel? How much Norwegian won't I understand? But also feeling happy to get out of the house and socialize, happy to get out of Lillehammer (even by just 25km) and into some new environs. 


I would call this outing a success*, albeit with that pesky asterisk. Excuse my brief foray into Mommy-Blog, but I feel the need to vent:


Greta's the kind of toddler who thrives on a schedule, and who also really needs her sleep. She's an 11.5 hour at night, 1-2.5 hour napper kind of kid. Bedtime is 7:45pm. So, around 8:30pm last night, after eating loads of cake and charming the bukser off the Norwegians and Americans alike, Greta and I headed to our room for bedtime. She had been so excited about sleeping in her pack and play again. We did the general routine (teeth, books, binky, goodnight songs), into the pack and play. I won't get into the details, but let's just fast forward three hours later,  and this child is still awake! She pulled out every delay tactic I could have imagined (okay, here are the gory details), including pooping in the only diaper we had along with us (c'mon! She's potty trained! She uses one diaper a night! Why do I need extras?), then peeing in the too-small emergency diaper I miraculously located in the car, unlocking and opening the door to the veranda next to her pack and play (calling out "Mamma! The door's open!"), switching to a big-girl bed, climbing out of bed to "check on something in my bag", refusing to close her eyes after professing a desire to "nap", and somehow convincing me that cuddling with her in the big girl bed would actually be helpful. 


Around midnight she was asleep. I was exhausted, frustrated, now in pajamas, and had missed 3 hours of the party. (In Erik's defense, he offered help but I sent him back to the Norwegians, on whom I was blaming this disastrous bedtime). It felt like a really crummy way to end a fun evening, but I was in no mood to return to the winding down party. 

But I rallied, got dressed again, put on some lipstick, and rejoined the party. Around 1am Erik and I were cornered by a somewhat tipsy Norwegian aunt and uncle (educators of some sort). After chastising their new nephew-in-law on his lack of Norwegian skills after living here for over 2 years, told us over and over, in no uncertain terms how impressed they were with our Norwegian skills. Specifically, my Norwegian skills. Over and over. . . "Americans. . . speaking such good Norwegian. . . it is just so impressive, I am so impressed. . . ". To be clear: this was said in Norwegian, not English. 

Now, Erik has impressive Norwegian (for a non-native). Norwegians try to pin him down. . ."where are you from?" "what's that dialect?" Some assume he was raised here as a child, but moved away; others that his parents were Norwegian, and it was spoken at home; some that he grew up in a different region of the country. This particular Norwegian uncle seemed rather impressed by his ability to speak in a Voss dialect (a region where he spent his first year of Norway, from 1993-94), and understand certain quirks of the dialects. And it is impressive: he went to school in two very distinct regions of the country, two distinct dialects, for under two years. And then returned to the United States for 15 years before returning to Norway! 

But for this tipsy uncle to be saying to me, "after just 10 months. . . very impressive, very good Norwegian,". . .  honestly? It made me cry. It could have been the fact that it was 2am, or that I had waged a 3 hour bedtime battle, or that I had way too many glasses of wine, or that my contact lenses should have come out hours ago. But that flood of compliments were too much for me to hold back the tears.