Wordless Wednesday - Living in Bergen

Wordless Wednesday

This should have been written at 5 am

…because at 5 am I had all kinds of great ideas for a blog post today, and had several paragraphs ready in my head.

Can't remember a thing - not even what the topic was.

What's the point of waking up way too early if you can't use it for something good? I need to take my MacBook to bed with me from now on. If I'm going to keep waking up way before the alarm clock goes off, I may as well make good use of the time.

Watch this space. It'll either be brilliant (ha!) - or jus ajkfjiebu aehf zzzzzzzzzzz…

Royal angels and tweets

Lately, Princess Märtha Louise has been in the news because of her new book about angels, co-written with Elisabeth Samnøy, with whom the princess also runs an angel school with. I kid you not. The funny part is that the usually staid Norwegians are flocking to hear her speak and to buy her book. Nothing like a royal title to get you some free advertising. And sadly, that is exactly what is happening.

I like the princess. She has always struck me as a sweet, intelligent and stylish woman who nevertheless remained her own woman, in spite of the strictures that come with being a member of the Norwegian royal family. (She won't be queen because at the time she was born, the Norwegian constitution still held that only male heirs could inherit the throne, so it's her kid brother who is Crown Prince, and his daughter who is next in line now that the law has been changed.) And so she throws herself into a line of work that is far from mainstream or royal. The reaction to princess Märtha Louise's angel school is from some derisive, from some enthusiastic, and from most a shoulder shrug and a small roll of the eyes.

It might be amusing to attend one of her weekend workshops and see if I can meet both the Princess and my guardian angel. Or maybe just save my money and amusement for someone else. That said, I still like the princess. I hope she is offering more than cheap thrills.

The heir to the throne is kid brother Crown Prince Haakon, and although some think he should shave (and at the time shouldn't have married a party girl with a son from a previous relationship), he is personable, intelligent and idealistic, and very much in love with Crown Princess Mette-Marit (former party girl). I like him, though I sometimes have trouble seeing him as our next king - and I wish he would shave. Mette-Marit and her son from a previous relationship seem to have adjusted to the weird fish bowl existence that royal life is. She made most of the nation quite skeptical and even a bit frustrated with the new generation of royals at the time she started dating Crown Prince Haakon, but she has proven herself worthy and capable of being the nation's Crown Princess. And like most Norwegians, I like that our royals sound like regular people (with the exception of them speaking of themselves in third person singulars) and behave like regular people.

Like many nowadays, our Crown Prince and Princess tweet, prefacing their tweets with KPM or KPH or KPP, depending on whether the tweet is from her or him or both (respectively). They also meet my standard for what I find interesting so I started to follow them.

What has me tickled is that they're following me back.

Slow food for the brain

I have noticed that with things like Twitter and Facebook, getting something off one's chest can be done in a few short sentences, and the immediacy and convenience (and lack of expectation of more than a paragraph) mean that more people "tweet" or post to Facebook rather than blog now.

I was hunting for some old information on my blog, when I found myself rereading some of my old posts. And I found that I missed writing. I missed blogging. I missed my voice. So I am trying to get back to posting more frequently (preferably daily), only to find a Paul Simon lyric running through my brain: "[…]why am I short of attention / Got a short little span of attention…"

Instead of a thought morphing into an exploration of an idea or experience over several paragraphs, it gets "tweeted" and left there, lost in a million other tweets or just on my page alone, dozens, quickly pushed out at the bottom and forgotten even by its author.

As delightful and as useful as Tweeter can be - and I do enjoy the challenge of microblogging and telling an entire story in 140 characters - there is something to be said for doing some actual thinking, researching and discovering, and then communicating it all without other limits than what the idea itself needs. The quick messaging encouraged by many social medias, including the cell phone, ends up being like fast food for the brain. Quick, easy, nothing that leaves a lasting impression.

Slow food for the brain is pondering, asking questions, chasing an idea, exploring what others think about the matter, analyzing and synthesizing, and digesting it all slowly through the keyboard and saved drafts, lingering over turns of phrases, surprising yourself with how you react to some piece of information. Those are the best mental meals. And you just can't have those in 140 characters or less.

Partying in purple paisley

It wasn't my night last night. The night belonged to two very nice co-workers who were both hired November 1 1984. 50 people enjoyed a lovely meal, speeches, entertainment, conversation, a bit of dancing and a lot of wine. But as their guest until about 2 am, I was thoroughly enjoying myself. And my outfit.

I tried on clothes on Wednesday, only to discover that I'd "outgrown" my favorite party clothes, and wasn't terribly thrilled with the alternative left me. I spent Thursday looking for alternatives. With the exception of the V-necks and lovely purples, there is little about the current fashion that attracts or suits me - or fits me (skinny jeans really are for the skinny-legged). And a bum shoulder also meant I couldn't even get some garments one. I did buy silver-colored leggings (or tights, as they are literally called in Norway - often misspelled as thights which also makes sense); I figured if I didn't like them, I could still use them for yoga.

To my surprise, the silver leggings looked good on me with an old purple blouse I had. Together with dressy sandals and heaps of jewelry, I had an outfit on Thursday that worked.

Until I woke up at 2 am Friday morning with my thoughts racing. That's when I realized that I may have to go back to my original alternative, because I wasn't entirely comfortable with the outfit I had put together. I plugged in an audio book and managed to silence my own brain by paying attention to someone else's. Eventually I got some sleep, but it was the wrong night to lose sleep since I was going to be up late later.

A quick dash back into the stores during office hours, and I found a tunic in a riot of purple colors and paisley patterns. It wasn't the sort of thing I wear at all, but it looked OK in the dressing room mirror. I bought black velvet leggings to wear with it, and it looked better than OK.

The classic black dress in all its variations shows up at every party. Last night I got a lot of nice compliments from both men and women for my colorful choice. And I have to say I was quite pleased with having found something both fashionable and attractive - at my age and weight.

Still want to wear those silver leggings in public, though. I have a plan…

Giving up sex

Hah! I'll bet my blog post title made you take a second look! But I woudn't give up sex. No, it's the title of the song embedded below. In connection with the release this week of a rock-and-roll encyclopedia covering the last 50 years of music in Bergen (Bergen actually headed the rock-and-roll revolution in Norway back before my time), this blast from the past got some airtime. So not only was this band ("Blind Date") Norwegian, it was from Bergen! Yay! And I love the song - still.

Neither here nor there

Earlier this week, in a comment on my Halloween post, Protege asked me a question: Do I ever feel the urge to return to California for good, or do I feel Norwegian at this point? My answer was neither.

Although many people believe I am Norwegian, I'm not. Not even by blood. I am a mere transplant, who has had only one citizenship her entire life: American. My parents were both US citizens and so was my Norwegian grandpa - my mother's step-father. He became a naturalized citizen in 1950. I remember teasing him about having been a citizen only 10 years longer than I had. So I have never had dual citizenship nor an option for it.

Culturally, I'm a mix, having split my childhood between California and Norway. I share some common cultural memories with people my age in Norway, and I share some common cultural memories with people my age in California. In my mind, Star Trek sits next to Radio Luxembourg. Both stir up emotions in me and bring back years of growing up. The original Star Trek series has never been aired in Norway, and Radio Luxembourg was never broadcast in the US. In me, they occupy the same time and space.

I am not just bi-lingual. I am also bi-cultural. When I was younger, I wished there was an international passport for those of us who feel they belong in (and to) more than one nation. There are times now when I still wish for that.

Due to an American birth and family, I have never felt Norwegian. Due to my long years in Norway and assimilation here, I am no longer in sync with Americans in the US. I used to be homesick for the US. There are still places I would love to visit again, there, but if I were there, I'd miss Norway. The thing I missed the most about the US, was the food. So many favorites there just weren't available here. But you get used to going without, and then when they slowly appear in Norway as exotic imports (like canned pumpkin pie mix or maple syrup), they take the edge off the homesickness. In recent years, Arm & Hammer baking soda, cherry cola and root beer have appeared in my local grocery store. I bought Oreos one day. You know what? I can't take them any more. They still taste great, but they give me indigestion. And that is part of why I am no longer homesick.

Right up until 2005, which was when I took my first trip back to California since I left in 1981, I had this dream of America, much like an emigrant may have. When I went home to Norway, I felt neutral; the feeling I was leaving home wasn't so strong. I revisited in 2007. This time, though, I felt like a visitor the whole time, and when I got on the plane for Europe, I knew I was going home and that nothing tied me to the US any more.

The thing is, the country has changed in the over 25 years I've been on this side of the pond. It has become foreign to me - and I to it (which produced some awkward situations, with me asking in a perfect American accent the sort of questions foreigners ask). There are also developments in the US that I don't like - and developments in Norway that I do. Right now, as a regular worker drone for a big company, I am far better off in Norway than I would have been in California with a similar education and job skills. Over here, knowing English has been an advantage; I can't remember any time I needed my Norwegian in California. And over here I don't have to worry about health insurance or vacation or sick leave. Heck, I don't even have to worry about being fired!

Because I cannot vote in national elections in Norway, my interests tend to go back across the pond to the US. I have the right to vote in presidential elections there. Again, I'm not really 100 % one or the other. After all, I don't live under the effects of Congress' decisions.

Life is good for me here in Norway. And unless the Republicans get back on track, and the Democrats do too, and restore my beloved nation of birth to one that actually cares about regular people and upholding the Constitution, I'll take my chances in this godforsaken corner of the world. Norway has its own share of crooks and idiots, but at least its gap between those that have and those that have not is not the yawning divide America now has.

Wordless Wednesday - Meat market

Wordless Wednesday - see also Saturday's post

November

A warm "fohn" wind blew yesterday morning. A cold and wet wind blew yesterday afternoon, and I - who didn't have an umbrella - took the bus home.

Typical November weather. The wind comes in hard and sideways and dumps huge amounts of rain on you, also sideways. And it makes the darkening evening even darker.

I didn't discover until I was an adult why I hated November as a child. I usually notice stuff, including stuff other people don't notice, but the autumns of my childhood are a mystery to me. I can't remember what they were like. Except for November.

As an adult, however, I have solved the mystery. I simply hadn't had the sense to appreciate the brilliant colors of fall: The stunning golds and reds and yellows, that arrive slowly and leave so quickly. All I remembered was that one month where there was no color at all: November.

November was just gray. Gray skies. Gray ground. Gray leaves. Gray trees. Gray weather. Gray, gray, gray. No wonder it drove me nuts!

November is still gray but I can be more patient with it now. I have the sense now to pay attention to the changing of the leaves and enjoy every hue. I also know that by December we'll be putting advent lights in our windows, creating little beacons of solace in all the gray. And then comes the solstice and Christmas!

Although January, too, can be gray like November, it nevertheless is the start of a new year, and of lengthening days, and it is filled with thoughts of the future. Even for some animals: I've seen magpies in January checking out potential twigs for their spring nest-building.

November is here. I'll deal. Happily.

Halloween: It lost something in translation

I can barely remember childhood Christmases or Easters. One Christmas stands out because it was the last before I moved to Norway at age 8; one Easter stands out because we ended up spending the day in the ER getting stitches put into my sister's forehead.

The holiday I remember best is Halloween. I always went as a witch, all in black with a pointy hat. I had no interest for skeletons or ghosts or vampires, and to this day I disdain any girl who shows up dressed as a princess. You know, looking pretty in pink. What's scary about that???

I was lucky: I had family members who could sew. One Halloween I had a gorgeous outfit because it was decorated with red tulle and sequins, and I wore a domino mask. I may not have been a scary witch but I was certainly no princess!

Carving pumpkins is a lot of fun, too. Sort of the grown-up version of playing with mud pies (oh, and don't throw the pumpkins innards down the kitchen sink; it'll clog) - and then you get to be creative.

One of my more adult Halloweens in California had me wearing a troll costume we'd made for a play our youth group had put on for our local Sons of Norway lodge. My then-boyfriend wore his, too. He was 6'4" (193 cm), and at one point we opened the door to a pair of sisters. My boyfriend started out with his head under my arm, but then he slowly stood up to his full height. The two girls screamed and fled in terror. I hollered after them if they didn't want any candy, and we heard from way down the block one little girl yell to the other, "Don't you want the candy?" The braver one came back. We didn't mean to scare them so, and did say so, but my goodness, did that whole episode symbolize what can be fun about Halloween!

So when the custom slowly started here in Norway a good decade ago, I happily opened my door to the first trick-or-treaters - only to be absolutely dismayed at the cheap, store-bought costumes. No effort made to make oneself look the scariest or the most convincing. I was so disappointed in how only the commercial side of the holiday had made it across the Atlantic that I stopped opening my door. Then the Norwegian kids egged my windows. I never experienced that, either, in the US, so it was another disappointment. They'd not only imported the plastic parts, but also the nasty parts.

Where's the effort to out-scare each other and run around being something you're not for one night? It's supposed to be a kids' holiday, one where we grown-ups take a backseat and let the children have safe fun playing spooky dress-up. I remember delighting in being dressed up with the other kids, and hopefully being scared by some grown-up (in a good way), but mainly intent on being the one who scares. The kids here put on whatever costume is popular this season, and ring a doorbell to get candy and that's it.

It's just not the same. And that's why I choose not to celebrate it here.