A Small Lesson Starring Lasagna

I miss our Mormon.

(JD, the lasagna and Jacque)

We live on the second and third floor of a three story house.  The bottom floor is split into two apartments.  On the right is where a rotating pair of Mormon missionaries live. (On the left is where the smoking* Goths make their home.)

The Mormon apartment has two windows on the street level.  One is plastered with photos of Jesus and Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt**. The other is situated right in front of the desk where the guys do their paperwork and studies.  

And when I noticed that, I got a little nervous.  I hate any sort of sales pitch.  I don't want help picking out my clothes in a boutique and I don't want pressure regarding religion. 

But, thanks to Megan, I never got the conversion hard sell (if there even was one). When she was visiting, we were wondering past the movie theater and one of their colleagues stopped us to chat. He was American, cheery and friendly, so of course we weren't going to be rude. But early into the conversation, Megan announced that she was all good on the religion front and I said that I was committed to my Protestantism. We added that I lived above some of his friends.

The next day, Jacque introduced himself (as Elder LastName from Denmark) and we were happy "hey" buddies afterward. When I waddled by, they would wave and Jacque would pop his head out and offer to carry my bags. When I would run into them in town, they would chat and ask for updates and still want to carry my bags.  

In the beginning, I was convinced that I was being (benevolently) stalked a bit. But eventually I realized that he and his fellow Mormon walkabout-er (JD from Utah) were not truly after my soul and Pickle's. (Though I suspect they wouldn't have turned down either.) 

They were just really nice guys.***

Along with their general cheer and helpfulness, they were fun to chat it up.  Jacque would tell me about how he was looking forward to being a capitalist once his two-years were over.  And JD mentioned how he missed snowboarding back home. 

When Elliot was born, they presented us with a lasagna.  When Jacque came up to deliver it, he told Husband a story about how when his mother had a baby, she really appreciated the dinners people dropped off.  So when I went into the hospital to have Elliot, they got the very best cook in their church to make dinner for us. 

And we ate it for days.****

When Elliot was just about three weeks old, there was a knock on the door.  It was kind of late, about 10pm.  I was crashed and exhausted, lying on the couch in my pajamas. 

Husband went to the door to see Jacque standing there.  He had gotten the order to head to Oslo the next day and wanted to say good-bye.  Because I was not dressed, I didn't go to the door.  And I missed him the next morning. 

And I've always regretted it a bit.  It wasn't the right move at all.  He had been a kind, cheery part of my day for months and I appreciated it.  I wish I had told him a last time and sent him good wishes on his way.

JD and his new roommate don't wave and they just watch as I stagger past with Elliot in a car seat and bags of groceries.  And as I type this on at noon on a Friday, the Goths have a their music cranked UP and my floor is quivering to some Middle Eastern-ska-wailing.

So, I've been thinking about good neighbors.  

Overall, I've been pretty lucky. 

In New York, I had dear Derek downstairs and the cigarello-smoking, black leather clad (down to his bikini, no joke) cowboy across the hall.  

In Atlanta, there was creepy downstairs Jodi, who was so icky that (almost) Husband and I spent more time at his house, contributing a bit to his becoming Husband sooner rather than later (thanks Jodi!). And there is dear Joan, Husband's next door neighbor.  We loved her and will stop by to see her when we are in town next month.

But overall, in any definition of the term, good neighbors are hard to come by...and wherever Jacque is now, as he finishes up his last months of Mormon walkabout, we wish him well.

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*By "smoking" I don't mean "model-like good-looks", I mean "suck on the unlit end of smoldering cigarettes directly underneath our open windows."

 **I know, I know.

***Also, I was giantly pregnant.

****If anyone you know ever has a baby, bring them food.  Trust.

Passport Pain in the Posterior

Before we left for Oslo to visit the embassy, I spent days researching what we needed to get Elliot's passport.

We also would be trading in his Norwegian birth certificate for an international American one, which requires another handful of forms.  

The nice people at the embassy were surprisingly prompt and helpful via email. They double checked my list, clarified a few small details, typed out a list of the items we needed and sent the appropriate links as well. 

We flew into Olso on Thursday afternoon.  For new passports, the person applying has to show up in person.  It was Elliot's first flight, so we decided to go along with him.  At the embassy, we'd have to swear that we were responsible for him, that all the information on the forms was correct and that we were his parents. 

On Friday, we only had the hours between 9am and noon, to get it all done.  So that morning, we got up, loaded Elliot into the Baby Bjorn and headed across the park to wait in line.  It was early, so within 30 minutes or so, we had breezed through the line and security, where they confiscated our bags. 

Then we entered a smallish room with roped off chairs for all the non-Americans to sit in and wait their turn.  The American citizens lined up along the wall. Both groups could peruse old copies of either the New Yorker or Discover America.

Finally when it got to be our turn, the woman behind the bulletproof partition slowly flipped through our pile of papers and said, "Did you feel out the travel form?" And then she explained that we needed to fill out, in chronological order, with exact dates, of all the time we've spent in the United States. 

And no, according to the woman, it didn't matter that both of us were born in the United States, were born to citizens, are citizens ourselves and hold American passports.  Nor did it matter that the first time I left the U.S. I was 18 and that I didn't have a passport until I was about 25. Husband didn't leave the U.S. until he was about 19 and it was because he was in the Army.  

She handed up a piece of paper, suggested that we take a seat and get started.  This was slightly challenging, especially when you only have a pair of passports filled with faded stamps, including some trips I had almost forgotten.  Also, none of the stamps are in chronological order, of course. Also, we had a fidgety baby.  

An hour later, we get back in line, present the paper full of chicken-scratch to the same woman.  She pronounces it okay and calls the consulate to take our sworn statements.  He flips through the papers and asks us why we filled out the travel form.  

"That doesn't matter because you are both citizens."

By this time I am frustrated and almost teary.  Also, Elliot was on the end of his good humor.

Over his protestations, Husband and I swear to all the appropriate things, sign on all the dotted lines and show Elliot's little rapidly turning red face. 

Then, as I start to take Elliot to feed and change him, leaving Husband to finish up the business, I hear the official say, "It looks like everything is in order," then pause and say, "Are you two married?" When we say we are, he demands our marriage certificate -- which was not on the list.

And when we say we don't have it, he gives us an envelope, says, "Mail it to us," then shooooes us off and goes to the next person.

We mailed it off on Monday and in the meantime have resigned ourselves to the possibility of needing an emergency passport for Elliot.

And while, it's still seems to be even chances that it will arrive here on time, I am starting to lean toward the "Nope, it won't," because today Husband got an email requesting 30NOK (approx. $4.66) of postage.  The embassy also forgot to tell us that we needed extra postage to receive both the birth certificate and the passport.

So today, I mailed off one stamp. 

Things I Learned Today: Oslo with an Infant

This afternoon we returned from our long weekend in Oslo.  We had to go to the US Embassy to get Elliot registered and passported, but we stayed for our first family mini-break.  

It all went shockingly well, but we did learn some lessons* which will serve us well when we attempt our upcoming trip to the US.  

1) Always pack 1/2 of what I think I need. Always pack twice as much as what I think Elliot needs.

This is mainly because I don't wet, poo or spit up on myself. 

2) Keep the sleep situation as consistent as possible.

Some dear friends of ours sent Elliot a Sleep Sheep. It is magic. He always sleeps to white noise, but for travel, his Sleep Sheep is magic.  (It is so magic, I will write it twice. On purpose.) That, along with his wrap and us, made it all okay.

3) Don't attempt too much.  

We never left the room before about ten am.  We choose just one goal a day. (Friday: Go to Embassy. Saturday: See The Scream. Sunday: Go home.) Then everything else was just extra fun. 

5) No matter how challenging it was to learn to breastfeed, the convenience is worth it.

We couldn't have done nearly as much if we had to constantly make a bottle. Warm it. And then wash them all, etc... Now feeding Elliot is really just a matter of finding a semi-quiet, out of the way place and adjusting my shawl as to not flash the general public.

3)  I am almost the master of camouflage.

This is especially key because we're going to be all over the US and Elliot is going to need to eat.  

Yes, I know it is all legal and super healthy for babies.  

This does not mean that I would like to be the posterchild for it.  I can count on one hand the times I have ever seen a mother breastfeed in public.  I can remember many more times I read articles about issues with it.  

Really I don't care what other people do. I prefer to be super discreet. (At least in static places, like restaurants.  In trafficked places, like airports, I care much less.)

4) Most people will give you a break if you are carrying a sleeping baby.

Seriously.  Even the people with the grumpiest faces will help out.

6) It is possible to have good meals as long as you go either early or late. 

It's not so much about Elliot's behavior, which is pretty steady right now.  It's more that I feel too stressed to enjoy it if I am worried that we could possibly ruin other people's dinner. 

7) Allow twice as much time to get whatever it is done.  

Seriously.  

When I was in high school...really as far back a I can remember...whenever we going anywhere --particularly church, for some reason--- Big D set a time for us to leave.  Then whenever she was finished getting ready, she would go out to the garage, get in the car and honk.  

Take note: No one was late.

 She just happened to get ready early and would run out of things to do inside, so she would go outside and sit in the car and honk.  It was to hurry us up, but really it just drove me nuts.  Now that I am an adult, I still get anxious when I am about to be late. 

(Actually being late is not nearly as bad.) 

But now, I find as long as I build in lots of time, no one gets anxious...particularly me. 

8) It helps to at least try to speak the language.  

Occasionally I find that when I am at a loss for language, it affects the service.  

Luckily, Husband is fluent and when he chatters a bit with pretty much anyone, it greases the wheels in all sorts of ways. In just the past 24 hours, it has gotten an extra seat on the plane and general smiles.  

It may also help that Husband is hot. 

9) There's always one more form. 

No kidding.  More on that tomorrow.

____________________________

*Some of them are age-specific and yes, I realize Elliot could become beasty at any moment, but he's not today.

Snapshots

Tomorrow Husband, Elliot and I are flying to Oslo for a long weekend.  The little man needs a passport and the only way to procure one is to show up at the embassy in person.  

I'm excited about the trip---Not only because we haven't been anywhere since Christmas, but because I am excited about checking out the embassy experience (which I will report on post-haste...) and most importantly because it will be dry run for Elliot's Debut World Tour. 

But first, we needed a passport photo.

(Once the top of his hair got cropped out, he looks a little like a mini-samurai warrior. I like it.) 

The requirements for a baby passport photo are the same as they are for an adult or anyone else, including:  full face, looking directly at the camera, must show ears, white border, closed mouth, open eyes...

This can present quite the challenge in the case that you have a ten-week old who not only is not well-versed in the English language,* doesn't have total control of his body and also is keen on studying everything around him.  

Here are a few tips:

1) Spread out a white sheet and deposit him on it. (Sitting up on a stool in front of a white background is not an option.)

2) Start snapping

3) Keep snapping.

4) Then when you realize (58 photos later) that this may be a job best left to the professionals (because who knew that the mohawk** coupled with the precise angles would be a problem), rush to the photo studio for the second time and shell out the 250NOK ($38ish USD) anyway.***

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*In case you are judging, give the little guy a break.  I've lived in Norway for more than a year and I am not totally solid in Norwegian. He's much newer, so let's skate on past that. Also, just between you and me, I am not sure he's one to take orders easily.

**It spikes up of its own accord.  I do not discourage this and occasionally train it in various directions.  I had to comb it down well to get the one that worked. Mohawks are a bad idea for passport photos because you can't get the white space at the top while still keeping the face the right size.  Who knew?

***I was totally against this because there is a photo booth at the police station, right outside of the immigration office where you can take four passport photos of yourself, then choose the best one for 20NOK ($3ish USD).  So considering I own both a camera and am in close proximity to the photo subject, I thought I could handle it. I could not.  And then willingly handed over the kroner to the nice man with the camera.  He cut me a break, too, and only charged me half because I'd already been there once to print out the photo I took.

A Tiny Bit of Norway Day

(Yep, it's a horrible picture, but that's why I kind of love it.  Both of us are just one second off. I'm sure I could find many life lessons in that fact, one of which is to always remember to check the photo. But I'm just going to skate past that because that is not what this post is about.  This post is about...)

Constitution Day (AKA The 17th of May) in Norway is a big deal, parallel to Independence Day (4th of July) in the US. It's all about freedom, BBQs and beer, but instead of shorts and fireworks, think bunads and marching bands. (I explained it a bit last year when we were in Stockholm instead of Stavanger.)

So I won't go into all of that again, but it was a lovely day (not the weather mind you---it was COLD---but the company.) We spent it at Erin and Kyrre's where we cooked out and watched the parade from their balcony.  

These are some of the photos.  And there's another life lesson:  Always take another photo. I don't think I have nearly enough...But I've been a little tired lately.

The parades are pretty much a free-for-all.  Skateboarders, electric cars, little kids waving flags and tuba players are all welcome. 

(These guys remind me of Venetian gondoliers, though I am pretty sure they are not.) 

Note the national costumes and the men in suits. 

We watched from the porch until it got too cold. 

(That beer does not belong to either of us.)

Elliot's Debut World Tour

While I get homesick for the US fairly often, one of the advantages to living in Europe and specifically Norway, is the vacation allotment. Husband has roughly six weeks, plus sick days and this year, because of Elliot's arrival he also has the "Papa Permission," which is another huge sum of weeks of paternity leave.

I'm leaving that vague, not because I don't know, but because I don't want this to become a discussion of the family system in Scandinavia vs the US. But I do mention it, because, without it, visiting home would immensely hard.

Door to door to either San Francisco or Sacramento, both cities close enough for the Durel family visit, is nine time zones and 22 hours.

Door to door to Atlanta, where we fly into for my family would be six time zones and about 18 hours door to door.

Also, for those unfamiliar with US geography, Georgia and California are on opposite ends of the country---four time zones and a six hour flight.

So as you can imagine, scheduling anything gets complicated.

For most visits, we can only manage one location or the other, but because this is Elliot's big debut, we want to stop on both coasts. His California family has not met him yet. And most of his Georgia family hasn't either.

We also are homesick for some of our best friends, so we are using the cross country travel as an excuse to stop in Colorado for long weekend. Plus, we're building in a few days with Andrea and Deena in San Francisco and may even get a wee visit with Lisa. (And of course we're going to try to see all our Georgia people.)

But back to Husband's liberal vacation time...

In just a few weeks, we will head off for Elliot's world tour and I say world tour because in the course of five weeks, we will leave Stavanger and touch down in (for various amounts of time, of course):

Part One:
Stavanger
Copenhagen
Seattle
Sacramento
San Francisco

Part Two:
Atlanta
Gainesville
St. Simon's Island

Part Three:
Denver

Part Four:
Sacramento
Chicago
Amsterdam
Stavanger

Of course some of those are just buzzing through airports for a plane change, but because we will have a baby and all that entails in tow, I choose to count them.

Since we've made the plans, I've been waking up to scrawl notes on a pad I keep beside my side of the bed...thus far they range from how many diapers we'll need to which bag to carryon to whether or not the floor we'll have enough room to wrap Elliot in a blanket. And whether or not his favorite rattle will drive everyone around us nuts.

Luckily I am breastfeeding and have almost perfected the art of draping the two of us with a shawl, so we won't have to deal with bottles of formula or flashing strangers internationally. He doesn't tend to be a crier, unless something obvious is wrong (hungry, wet or hurt, etc...) so hopefully he won't be the plane pariah. And he's so young that perhaps the time zone changes won't freak him out so much.

But, overall, packing for the planes, not to mention what all three of us with need for five weeks is a little daunting. (I'm thinking we'll just pack for just about a week or so and plan to do laundry...) And the travel and timing are all going to be a little nuts. We’ll all probably need a week-long nap when we get home.

But those are just the details---overall I'm soooooooooooooo excited.

While I love our life and all of our adventures, I get so homesick for my family and our friends. Because of the pregnancy and travel restrictions and all that goes with it, I haven't been in the US since late November and haven't seen my branch of the family tree since early that same month.*

Sure, there's time to plan...we have about six weeks before take-off, but I am already counting the days.



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*Yes, the BigD was here for ten days in April, but that wasn't enough. I miss my mom, so does Elliot (and Husband a little bit, too. Seriously.) We need to see the D, not to mention my dear sister. Also, Elliot has two cousins who are boys and about his same age. They need to get well acquainted so they can start planning who will steal the beer.

Cows and Feet (Or a Short Story Ending with Free Wine)

When I was a freshman in college, there was an older guy in our group of friends.  

You know the type.  

He was on his 42nd major, in his late 20s and liked to explicate the intricate symbolism and mystery in Bob Dylan lyrics.  Cigarettes were too banal, dipping was his choice of tobacco use, but it was strictly ironic.  

He also had an off-campus apartment and a valid driver's license. So of course, he was not only the key man for the purchase of many refreshments, his home was the location for many a shin-dig of sorts.

"Mi Casa es Su Casa!"

On one particular evening, the regular group gathered.  

We visited, sipping on our refreshments of choice.  The room was smoky from the cigarettes in every hand. The coffee table in the middle of the living room was slowly getting crowded with cups and cans.  

At some point, I put down my cup and eventually came back to retrieve it.

As I reached for it, think the slow motion that happens right before a car wreck.  

One friend from across the table said, "Nooooooooooooooooooo." Others just got wide-eyed.

Instead of my own refreshment cup, I grabbed the party host's dip cup.  

Instead of a cool cool sip of cheap beer, I had a giant gulp of tobacco'y warmth. 

It took me years to fully recover. 

At least I thought I had until about three days ago.  

In these parts, boxed wine is big.  And I don't mean the typical Riunite or Peach flavored Rose'.  I mean the pretty good stuff.  

Booze is so expensive* here that if you are the type that likes to have the occasional glass of wine with dinner,** often you get a box of really good wine. Then it doesn't go bad---as a bottle of wine might if it's not all consumed over the course of a day or two---because the spout reseals.

(In this house, we call it The Happy Box.)

But I don't know much about wine.  

I know what's good and what's bad.  I also know the particular kinds of grapes I tend to like, but that's about it. Also, my Norwegian vocabulary isn't so extensive that I can read the descriptions.

I tend to choose the Happy Boxes based on the box design.  

I like to assume if they cared enough about the design, then they cared about the wine.** Ridiculous perhaps, but it's always worked before.

Until last week.  

I choose Foot of Africa.  

I know, I know.  Why would I choose to drink anything that called itself foot?  Probably because I am constantly sleep-deprived and the box is red.  I like red.  Also, I like feet, particularly mine when they are rubbed by someone who is about to paint my toenails.

Whatever.  

When I took the first sip of it, I reverted back to my freshman year college self about five seconds after that fateful giant gulp.  

Foot of Africa does not taste like foot and it does not taste like Africa (as I may imagine either of them.)

About five seconds after it hits the tongue, it tastes like nothing less than strong strong tobacco, unlike anything I've experienced since that night.

We won't be finishing this particular Happy Box***.  

It's back to the cows of Argentina.

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*A basic every day bottle of okay wine is about 120NOK (about $19 by today's exchange rate). And it's much more for a bottle nice enough for a hostess gift or to pour at a dinner party. The boxes usually start at about 299NOK.  Foot of Africa was 350NOK, about $55 US.

**Yes, I realize that a person could also make the opposite argument, "They spent all the money on the box and none on the product." Though, that is not what I have found in my experience.

***Would you like it?  I am serious.  If you live in Stavanger and are a fan of wine with intense notes of tobacco, send me a note and you can have it. This will tell you about it, though you'll have to translate from Swedish.

 

A Short Story About Strollers and Babies in Them

This was taken yesterday. Notice Husband's hands on Elliot's stroller.

When we first arrived, Husband's work hired Tune (TOOOOOOOO-NAH) to help me get acclimated.  She drove me around, showed me around town and answered my questions about Norwegian life and culture.

As we wandered, I noticed that often people would walk into shops and cafes with their dogs, but leave their babies in the strollers parked outside. 

Why do you wonder?

"Occasionally dogs disappear, but the babies never do."

The Gherkin

Have you ever heard of the Celtic Dragon Pub Company?  

No? 

Imagine that you are anywhere in the world.  You have a raw space, spare cash and a business plan.  Imagine that the crux of your business plan is that you desperately want to open an "authentic" Irish pub, but you are neither Irish, nor antique-y and you don't have the sources, nor the time to find all the accoutrements yourself.  

Enter the Celtic Dragon Pub Company.*

In an overly simplified explanation, they take your space measurements and quote a price, then some time later, you receive your pub in a box (or a great many boxes.).  

Seriously. 

If you've ever been to an Irish pub outside of Ireland itself, there's a pretty good chance it looked something like this.** 

And in my head, the phrase "Pub in the Box," has become a catch-all phrases for anything formulaic, something with not only the feeling that you've come across it before, but, given enough time, you will again and again...i.e. the plot of each Nancy Drew book as well as trademarked room decorations that include window treatments, paint colors, as well as bed skirts, etc...

This is neither a negative, nor a positive, it just is. 

And if you like that sort of thing, it's quite the good thing.  

But all that said, when I was planning Elliot's nursery, I did not want Pub in  Box.*** 

When I began the planning, Elliot was not Elliot.  Or at least we didn't know he was Elliot. We did know he was The Pickle. 

And, other than the furniture, which would have been too costly to ship from the US, I wasn't pleased with any of my local decorating choices, so I decided that I would do it long distance. 

With the help of BigD, the US Postal Service and a designer named Rudy, it all started coming together, with the exception of one bit: the quilt. 

And perhaps, in retrospect, the nursery didn't even matter and maybe the quilt mattered even less.  We all know that (within reason, of course) a baby can sleep anywhere as long as you take care of it and love it. 

But at the time it did.  

It mattered alot and it may have to you, too, if you were seven months pregnant, hormonal and focused on getting things done.  

Plus, if a brand new person is arriving, he should feel welcome and having a warm, cozy, special room is a start.

Enter Patty.  

Patty is one of my college friends, but because of life and locations, we really hadn't visited much since then.  But we were good friends then and over the past few years, we've caught up over Facebook.  

But dear Patty is not only a friend, but also a quilter. And not just any old quilter, but the kind that sells lovely creations and wins state competitions and occasionally teaches classes.****  

So I emailed her to see if she could help me with the quilt dilemma. And being a relatively new mother herself, she understood the importance of my query and she fixed it.  I sent her some fabric and free rein.  And in what seemed like no time at all, The Gherkin arrived. 

She took my general ideas and some of my fabric, added her own of both and made it better than I could have hoped. And it made all the difference.  

I suspect the actual Pickle doesn't quite appreciate it as much as I do right now, but once he's old enough to understand all the kindness and thoughtfulness and good wishes that are all wrapped up in his lovely cozy, cozy quilt, he will. 

 

*I'm not sure if they are the only ones in this particular line of business, but you get my drift. 

**This is in no way a condemnation of Irish pubs, authentic or otherwise. I have been a generous patron of them in many parts of the world, for example here, here, here, here and here just to list a few. 

***I also did not want cartoons or weird nursery rhyme characters, either.  

****If you need a special, distinctly non-Pub in a Box quilts like this or this, you should post a note on her blog.  I suspect she'll charge you slightly more than the rate I had (thanks and the cost of postage) but no matter what, it will be lovely.

And in case you are curious about the whole nursery, here it is.  

It's not totally perfect for a variety of reasons, including that Husband would only paint one wall for me because it's a rental apartment.  And it needs a few more things, but overall, I love it.  

And it's not Pub in Box. 

See that mobile?  My sister in law suggested it and it is one of the best recs ever--because that mobile is magic. 

I'm a fan of giraffes, in case you couldn't guess. 

Yes, it's tacky to photograph the diaper genie, but for accuracy's sake, that's where it is.  The cross stitch above the changing table is one my mom made for me years ago.  When she was here a few weeks ago, she said, "I made that for you before you were born." I said, "Really, then why is it dated 12-1-72, my first birthday?" The only conclusion we could come to was that maybe I'm a year younger than we thought. Score. 

 
The end.