A story about The Olds, an Anniversary and Supermodels

It's been a bit since I've blogged.

It has been a bit overwhelmingly overwhelming in these parts lately with the moving and settling in, so I haven't had time to sit down and think on things.

But everything is shaking out and getting in place, so I will be back much more frequently.

On another note, a few weeks ago, I read a news story the blogging is for The Olds.**

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This morning I took our wedding cake out of the freezer.

In non-shocking news, we are a little late to the game.

Today is our second wedding anniversary and I am hoping we haven't missed all the good luck.

It's super pretty.

And if I remember correctly, on the inside are both vanilla and chocolate layers.

This was the one bite I got.

And, also, if I remember correctly it was really good. 

This is the way it looks today.

For the past two years while we were on our first big adventure, it sat cooling in BigD's refrigerator** freezer.

You're probably aware that most couple eat the top layer of their wedding cake on their first anniversary, but we couldn't work all of the logistics out in time.

But I just learned that the practice of saving the top layer comes from the 19th century when all cakes were mega, mega expensive.  And cakes were needed for both weddings and for christenings.

So, since christenings tended to come relatively soon after the wedding, they would just freeze the top layer and use it about a year later for their baby's christening.

This was from our first anniversary.***

 
Who knew we were so old fashioned?

In any case, as much as I tried to convince Husband to wear our wedding garb**** our to dinner tonight, he sweetly refused, but he did agree to our fancy rehearsal party get-ups.

Happy anniversary, sweet Husband. It's been a big two years and there's only more goodness to come.


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*This is not a deterrence, but this morning when I sat down to type, Andy Rooney and his eyebrows popped in my head.  He does not blog, but he does pontificate on things in a particular manner that seems (to me) to be a precursor to blogging. (Also, he does not even know exactly what a blog is, and he kind of hates what he does know about it, so by that logic it must be for The Youngs. Score.) If you are following this, that might mean you are one of The Olds, too.  If you are too young to get it, then "google" it like all the other young'uns.

**I can NEVER spell this word. No joke, I think it's one of the hardest ones in the entire English language.  Why isn't there a "d" in it?  I think there should be.

***Yeah it's a pretty horrid photo of me.  But in my defense, it was a rotten angle.  Even skinny people look gross from that angle.  Also I was 38 weeks pregnant.  Only celebrities and supermodels are cute then, and then only a few of them.  The rest of them go into hiding on their compounds only to emerge a few months later super fit and gorgeous to make everyone feel inferior.

****I loved my dress and think the whole wedding event happened so quickly that I didn't get to wear it long enough.  I wore it the next day in our hotel until we had to change to get to the plane.  Then when we got back from our honeymoon, I wore it again to eat a breakfast of boiled eggs with Husband and my sister.  I do not think this is weird.  On our tenth anniversary, we're going to do it all again.  Only eight more to go...

A Short Story About Hats

Every single year, the International School in Stavanger celebrates Guy Fawkes Night* by building a bonfire and burning the poor guy in effigy.

We had a plan to meet up with several other families from our babies group.  We were going to visit, watch the bonfire and stay for the fireworks.

Elliot hated it.

And we're not quite sure if it's because of the darkness, the fire, the wind or AS's hat.**  But after a bit, it just seemed the nicer thing to scoot out early.

At least we missed the traffic.

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*In 1605, Fawkes was one of the leaders in a plot to blow up the Brit's Houses of Parliament.  It failed. So depending on how you feel about that, you can feel a bit sorry for him...or not.

**It was a furry one, kind of like a cartoon hunter's.  (I'm not cracking on it, really...It suited him.) And every time he leaned into Elliot's face to talk to him, Elliot wailed.  So I'm going with the hat.

The Governor Wins

Not to debate the Michael Jackson vs. Farrah Fawcett* newscycle, the real winner is that governor from South Carolina. When pop icons die, it makes politics even that less interesting and front page worthy. Even if it is some rambling guy who not only cheated, but also may have used state money to fund some of the travel. Has he not learned anything from the cheats of the past?

But, from thousands of miles away, all this news makes me miss my old jobs more than I have in months. While it's pretty unlikely that I would have gotten an assignment out of either death** covering celebrity news was what I did for the vast majority of my journalism career. 

(This is the one photo I have from those years.  It was my last interview in New York before moving to Atlanta. Check the striped hair. It was 2004.  Also note who is holding my recorder.)

And this morning felt like old times a bit. Elliot and I sat on the stairs and visited with Husband as he got ready for work. And we had our usual debate.

We were talking about how I missed working. 

I spent years covering celebrities in New York and then in Atlanta. Along with the regular assignments of party coverage, movie premieres, ten-day festivals and usual interviews, if there was breaking news, I'd get a call and would be off as soon as I could get out the door...sometimes to the airport to catch the next flight to a starlet's hometown to interview her middle school dance teacher. Other times to the courthouse to search for papers in a legal dispute. Other times to go to a town somewhere and find my own sources.

Husband who always supports my work, indulges me and loves my stories more than he lets on, was giving his familiar high brow refrain, which is a variation of "Why does anyone care about this?"

And then I defend it all, which is a mixture of "it's driven by the public need for 24 hours news"and "when you are a public figure who makes money from every press hit, it lowers your threshold of privacy, plus often they like it""*** and "people like escapism."  

Then I point out that it's just another faction of news, much like the financial pages he loves to peruse.

Then I blame it on MTV,**** Jerry Springer and his ilk.**** 

Also, it's fun.  

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

*In case you are wondering, I am all in Farrah's camp. On Charlie's Angels she was a roundhouse-kicking, perfect-hair wearing, sports car driving badass. In retrospect perhaps it was all a little sexist (to wit: nipples) but at the time they were like real life superheros (as real as it could be in Aaron Spellings tv world). Afterward she did some fine acting, picking up an Emmy along the way. Her exploits with the loony Letterman interview and that weird stint of rolling around in gold paint, were a little bit endearing and little bit more sad. And then there was her firey relationship with Ryan O'Neal, again a little bit endearing and a little bit more sad. And then when she was sick, she did everything she could to live and publicized her struggles to raise awareness.

As for MJ, yep he was inarguably a megastar of the highest wattage who left a catalogue of timeless hits, but I still can't get past the Jesus juice and slumber parties with little boys.

**Usually celebrities are assigned to offices based on locations and both Fawcett and Jackson are LA based and also long-term stories. So they would most likely use West Coast reporters unless there was an East Coast angle.

***I explained it here months ago.  Click, then scroll down to the bottom.

****i.e. shortened attention span in the general public, especially in people our age; the opening of celebrity lives...suddenly everyone feels like they "know" them more so than ever; plus more sexual images.

*****schadenfreude as an afternoon pastime.

This is Not a Third-World Country

(Out for our first anniversary dinner.) 

So last night I was talking to BigD.  She sent a lovely "going home"* outfit for Pickle, so I called her to thank her, to catch up and also to whine about various "I'm sick of being pregnant"** sort of things.  

In the course of conversation, she mentioned that she ran into a friend at a party.  This friend's son (who is about my age) married a woman from another country and are expecting a baby as well.  But they went home to Gainesvegas to wait out the final months until the baby is born. 

So this friend, who isn't the first one to say so, mentioned that they were surprised that I was having our baby in Norway.  

And a second ago, I checked the stats for their daughter-in-law's particular country, which is associated with many things that tend to be somewhat negative.  And, unsurprisingly, I suppose, I find that it has one of the highest infant mortality rates in its region of the world and one of the lowest standards of maternal care. 

So it's totally understandable that this couple would jet off to a safer place to deliver their baby. 

That is not the way it is in Norway. 

I've written of the medical system "flaws," many of which I am not into.  I am not on board with the all-natural, and abhor the bullying into it.  I would rather have a doctor, not only follow me through the pregnancy, but also be there when Pickle arrives.  And I won't even get started about the easy drug access and the lack of choice about how he will eat once he arrives.

But Norway is safe and completely focused on family and babies.  

And in the past week, I've started feeling much better about it. 

After our appointment with Kari, the Wonder Wife, Husband, without my knowledge went back to the hospital.  He searched out the head of the department and re-explained everything. Together they amended my chart and registration---which lovely Kari had filled in to say merely "Anxious American"---to reflect my notes and wishes.  

And last week, my doctor sent a note to the department saying I was feeling pressured and made an appointment for Husband and me to talk to another midwife on staff at the hospital.  

A few days ago we went and instead of the "It will all be fine, we will take care of you" dismissiveness we've had thus far, she explained the national process and offered advice on how to navigate better.  

So, really, most likely, it's all going to be fine.  

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*For those of you not from the Southern United States, let me explain.  When a baby leaves the hospital, he or she must be dressed up in some sort of finery for the photos and the ride home.  This is important.  And no, Husband did not understand it either.  We opened it together and knowing better than to tease or mock, especially right now, he said "Ohhhhh, so these are the times when we pretend Pickle is a doll and you just dress him up." Clearly.  Also, because the ride home is relatively short, I may make Husband take a drive through town just because it seems like we should enjoy the schmancy outfit, which is really cute, but I won't show it now.  I'd hate to ruin the surprise. 

**Too boring for words. Suffice to say, among other things I cannot sleep, I waddle and I am now shaped like a beer-gutted redneck.  Seriously, check the photo.  If I had stubble and was wearing a stained tank top, you may for a moment wonder if I was about to give birth to a keg. 

(Last Sunday at 39 weeks.) 

Who's Your Daddy?

As you may have gathered from the writings here, unless you'd like to do something totally sweaty and outdoorsy*, there's not much going on in Stavanger, Norway, at least not on a Sunday.

So last weekend we were spending our usual lazy Sunday** sleeping late, cooking pancakes and watching hours of quality television --- which includes but is not limited to Miami Ink, The Daily Show and various CNN anchors pontificating on the state of the world.  

Also, Husband likes to save the universe. 

But last weekend, Sunday was just days from the best monthaversary we had planned thus far. 

In Norway, once a pregnancy is confirmed, the doctor registers the mother and the due date with the hospital where she plans to give birth.  The hospital counts to a day that will fall somewhere between Week 18 and Week 22 and sends a note inviting the mother to come in for a detailed ultrasound.  

During that visit, not only will the ultrasound person look at the progress of major organ development and measure to more accurately gauge the due date, but also ---if Pickle feels like participating--- determine whether Pickle is a girl or a boy.

And we when received our letter weeks and weeks ago, it turned out that our date happened to fall our eighth Monthaversary...

So of course we had been looking forward to it for months. 

Because I couldn't totally predict the health, I focused on what I could, which was the sex, so I looked up all the old wives tales and Husband was nice enough to help*** me test them. 

And we found that we had a 75% chance of having a boy.****

So finally when the day came, instead the usual dinner, flowers or travel, we started early in the morning with Ultrasound Lisa.

She counted and measured all the parts, finding that everything seems to be exactly as it should be (at least up until right now...), which was the most important part of the whole morning.  

Then she poked my middle enough to make Pickle wiggle into just the right view.  And what she saw was pretty clear to both Husband and me...

The little person who is due sometime around March 8th will be known for the next while not just as Pickle, but also as Baby Boy Durel.

And judging from the photos, he's going to be just as handsome as his dad. 

*Don't get me wrong, I am a huge fan of the outdoors and trees. (I love knowing they are out there and I really like to look at them from a pretty clean window. Also, thanks for the oxygen, trees. Good stuff.) And I adore hiking, especially the urban kind, usually measured in blocks. And camping, I'm all for it, especially in a place with 400 count thread sheets, designer furniture made of wood and one those swanky huge showers...even better if I can see the outdoors from it.

**Not this Lazy Sunday.

***And by "nice enough to help" I mean, "was coerced into helping" with smiles and promises of nice things.  When we were done, his only real comment was "if I wasn't convinced already about finding out the sex, the possibility of 20 more weeks of this is enough for me to immediately beg for someone to check and tell us what Pickle is..."

**** In case you were wondering, these are the highly unscientific tests:

MAYBE IT'S A BOY

--Have I been extra moody? Nope, just the usual amount.

--Have I had any morning sickness? Nope.

--Middle is poking out front (boy) or spreading out wide (girl)? Poking out front

--Wedding ring on a string hung over middle. (swings in a circle is girl, swings in a line is boy)

--Bad skin during pregnancy (Yes is girl, No is boy) No more than usual

--Chinese Gender Predictor

MAYBE IT'S A GIRL

--Mother's age at conception and year of conception. (Both even or odd is girl, One of each is boy) 36/2008

--Other Chinese Gender Predictor

A Cookout (or "The Beginnings of a Brainteaser with Just a Little More Effort")

Even though the weather report forecasted rain (for the most part, when doesn't it?), last week, Erin and Kyrre hosted a cook-out. 

It was a really fun mixed group, both nationally (Norwegians, Americans, Dutch, Australian, Swedish/Italian, Venezuelan) as well as professionally (school administrator, various kinds of project managers, engineer, journalist, consultant, physician), so it was pretty lively overall.

And no, this is not the beginning of a brainteaser, though it could be:  

Eleven people were at a barbeque. Six were women and five were men. The majority were European--- 4.5 of these were Scandinavian---but there was also one South American, one Australian and three Americans.  Everyone has a profession, but some don't work in an office. Four were drinking beer pulled from a Norwegian's purse where it had been stuffed.  Three were drinking champagne.  One was drinking a fruit cocktail that most of the rest thought was stiff with vodka.  Eight sat on chairs, while one lounged and sneaked bits of sausage to a sweet dog who just wandered up.  The Norwegian, Dutch, French and English languages were all used, often in the same conversation. So who was a vegetarian?

(I used to love those.) 

But back to the shindig.  

Husband was charged with opening the champagne bottle.  He aimed it out the window because he didn't want to put an eye out, at least not one of anyone we knew.

Then the guys went outside to help Kyrre get the grill going. Truthfully, I'm not sure Kyrre needed the help, but the rest of the men enjoyed it. 

Kyrre and Husband are hard at work.  Note that Husband is wearing my flip-flops, over his socks.  When I noticed my shoes had gone missing (remember no one wears shoes inside houses in Norway...) I immediately (and with Erin's permission) stole a pair of Kyrre's.

Most of the rest of the crowd on K&E's back porch, waiting on the good eats.

Alex is a bit sassy and grins when she sees cameras in the vicinity, Åshlid, while also sassy, missed the grin moment.

Alex does not know that dog, but thought it looked hungry.

Husband is not a grump, he's just playing one in this photo.

Eva is trying her sausage wrapped in a potetkaker, which a sort of potato pancake. It's used instead of buns.  It's really tasty and much lighter and you can still stuff it full of the good stuff like sauerkraut and ketchup. 

Eventually, the party moved inside.

 

Float On

Cruise ships freak me out.

I've only been on one cruise (AKA the "Giant Floating Bucket of Vomit") in my entire life, but that was enough.

A week or so after we graduated from high school, most of my class joined about 500 other graduates on a Senior Cruise. We left from Miami, headed to the Caribbean and then back.

It was miserable for a variety of reasons.

There is no drinking age (or maybe it's a lowered one...I don't care enough to check) in international waters, so when we were about five miles out, the bar was open.

So mix 600 or so thirsty 18 year olds with rough waves and hence the name "Giant Floating Bucket of Vomit." (Of course, about three days in, all the booze was gone and a helicopter had to come and drop off some more.)

But along with the memories of the smell, along with all the other reasons, I also don't like ships because I cannot get off them.

Passengers are completely stuck.

If the vacation is not going as planned, there's really no way to leave, unless of course you want to hire massively expensive alternative transportation or just throw yourself off the side.

But people, not including me, love cruises. Many of which dock here during the sunny months.

The Stavanger harbor gets packed with giant boats and the biggest one I've seen thus far is the Queen Mary.

Look closely, she's peeking up over downtown, like some nautical Godzilla.



She's so big, that I couldn't even get the entire ship in the frame without standing in the middle of the street.



These are the lifeboats.*



*Every time I see lifeboats, I think of my friend F.

She's been one of my dearest since we were ten or so and was one of the Senior Cruisers.

Our little gang was sticking together and looking out for each other. Not only was it fun, but the notion of watching out for all the drunk, hormoned men was drilled into our heads, pre-boarding.

But one afternoon, F. disappeared. Once we realized that no one had seen her for a while, we split up and started searching.

I poked my head through the door labeled "No Admittance--Staff Only" and started wandering around. It was the emergency deck with all the lifeboats covered and hanging from hooks.

I called her name, while also exploring a bit.

About halfway around, F. popped her head out of one of the lifeboats where she had been lounging with a new friend and confirmed she was just fine.

In Which I Do Not Appreciate Nature (Enough)

I believe I've mentioned in the past that Husband and I are very bad tourists.

Overall, we don't plan very well.

And the reason is not that we cannot plan well, it's just that in our leisure time, often, we don't want to...*

Which is why we took a cab part of the way to Preikestolen.

This is the view from the back seat of the cab


Preikestolen is one of the major tourist attractions in Norway.

It's a giant cliff about 2000 feet above Lysefjorden, our local fjord, located about an hour or so outside of Stavanger.

In English, Preikestolen means "Pulpit Rock." Some people think it's because it is a flat protrusion out into the fjord, so perhaps it is similar to a kind of stage for a minister.

But at least one source suggested that it's called Pulpit Rock because that is where the ancient people used to sacrifice their offerings to the gods.

It takes about two hours to hike to the top and another two to hike back down. Along the way, it is possible to attract loads of flies. (Just a warning and it was not just us. I promise. The liked everyone. These are equal opportunity flies. I did not know about them before we left home.)

About 100,000 people make the hike every year.

Along the way, we passed group of Asian tourists, geared up, holding parasols and chattering away.

We passed Americans with the very best in North Face-wear.

We passed young kids in sundresses.

There were even some couples, one half of which were well into their third trimester of pregnancy.

It was so hot that women were just shucking off their tops, displaying bikinis as well as lacy Victoria Secret-esque wear.

There were even a few that looked like they were just shopping around town and on a whim decided to hike on up the trail. These were dressed in jeans, cute sandals and frilly tops.

We decided that we would take the ferry, then the bus, which would let up off right at the trail. (I love adventures like this. While I don't want to be with all the peoples all the time. It's fun on occasion.)

But on this day, we neglected to check the bus times. So when we got to the other side of the fjord from Stavanger, we happened to hit the time of day when the buses took an hour break. So the bus dropped us off in a parking lot in a little town about half way there.

So we sat, ate our sandwiches and waited for a cab.

This is the beginning of the trail. I am starting to think that hiking is a better idea in theory than practice.



Which to be clear: I am not lazy and I like nature. I especially enjoy urban hiking, perhaps measured in blocks, as opposed to kilometers straight up.

And I am absolutely pro-nature, especially from a distance.

This is the first third of the trail.



The rocks are of varying sizes and stability. I'm okay with this until I start slipping and hanging onto trees.

(Also, to the people hurrying behind us: You are show-offs. If we were in cars, you would be following too close and I would be tempted to slam on my brakes, especially if I was certain that I could get the car restarted if I stalled. I moved aside once I noticed your hot breath on my neck. Also, you are sweaty and gross.)

I fear that missed some key scenery because I was staring at my feet, hoping to stay upright.



At one point I made Husband promise that he would hack off my foot with a borrowed penknife if I got stuck, instead of leaving me overnight for the wolves and nature things to eat me. He promised, but said that it would not be necessary because, not to worry, he would yank me out with brute force.

This is one of the first open views. I made sure he got me below the brat sign




There are lots of different sceneries along the trail. Some are giant rocks and forests overlooking mountains. Others are wood-y vistas and others are lakes and valleys in open spaces. This is one of those in the middle part of the hike.

Groups of people had stopped to swim or picnic or just sit close (and most likely make out once the hikers were out of eyeshot.)



We're starting to get pretty high up. The views here are lovely, but I am starting to get nervous. I am not sure if it is because I realize we're only about halfway there or because I am about natured-up.

It also could be the flies. Also, we're pretty high up. Seriously. People could fall. (And by people, I mean me. Husband is sure-footed and not clumsy.)



We walked on this little ledge. I gripped the chains with a death grip until we got to the next vista.



Then felt slightly light headed when Husband casually mentioned that the chains are fairly new. Apparently there were no chains the first time he walked up in 2004.

We stayed pretty close to the wall of the mountain until we got to this part.



There were no chains here. Right around the corner is a narrow ledge. The only way across is to wedge a hand in the rock, then wiggle or shuffle across.

I started getting slightly nervous about this. So Husband went across first and reached back and offered his hand.

After surveying the situation close up, I hissed "Move away from me. And shhhhhhhh, be very quiet. I'll be there in a minute."

Not understanding and feeling a bit hurt, Husband stepped back and waited for me to get across. Then I had to explain to him that if I accidentally fell over (and there was a fair chance of that happening, given my general balance issues coupled with the width of the ledge), I intended to go alone.

That he would be safer if he just stayed a good distance back until I made it across.

This of course horrified him.

But really, I love him and, on most days, want him to live. And also, we we needed to be logical. Who would take care of our pack if we both fell over the edge?

He did not see it that way.

This is Husband at the closest point to the edge either of us was allowed.



But don't be fooled into thinking it's at the highest point. This spot was carefully chosen based on the fact that if there was slippage, the rescue could most likely be somewhat easily managed.



And then we turned a corner and there it is.



Okay, I am not meaning to be unappreciative of the natural world, but my first thought was "Is that is?"

I even asked Husband, who confirmed that we had indeed reached Preikestolen.

It's not that big. Seriously.

Really it reminded me of the first time I saw the Statue of Liberty up close and the Mona Lisa.

In all three cases, I was mildly disappointed.

This does not in fact mean that I went all the way to the edge. I did get on my hands and knees and peak over the side a little bit. (And my little bit I mean I crawled over, stopping about five feet from the edge, then craned my neck a little bit. Then rolled back toward the middle.)

This is the view down the fjord.



This is the view of us.



Then we headed back down....




*Okay, to be really really truthful, I kind of want to plan everything, but Husband doesn't. So we compromise. He plans just enough to make me happy and I let some of the details go. Often this is much much fun.

Now You Are As Smart As a Fifth Grader

While I like to tell where we've been, I also like to tell you where we are.

And recently, Husband and I worked on a Flat Matt project for our nephew Matt, who is in elementary school in California.

Flat Matt is an adaptation of a project called Flat Stanley, which begins with a somewhat sad and gruesome story.

Stanley was a little boy in elementary school whose parents were poor and couldn't send him to visit a friend. Stanley was disappointed but luckily for him (depending on how you look at it, I suppose) there was an accident in his classroom.

A chalkboard fell down on him and squashed him flat. But, as gruesome as the incident was, it also allowed his parents to laminate him, stuff him into an envelope and mail him off to Stanley's friend.

So though he was now flat, Stanley could visit his friend.

So now, elementary students from all over, smash themselves flat and mail them off to their friends and relatives in distant lands. The recipients take the flat versions of their young friend around their own town, take photos and assemble a project and mail it back.

Then the living, breathing, un-smashed versions have geography lessons from around the country and the world.

So this is what we sent back to California last week.

The version Matt and his classmates got was a booklet, so you'll just have to do with it in blog-form (and with a few details removed.)

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Flat Matt Goes to Scandinavia
Hanging with Uncle and Aunt Elizabeth
Stavanger, Norway

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Norway is the northernmost country in Europe, part of a group of four countries called Scandinavia*

Norway is not a very big country, but it is a long one. (If you took the tip and swung it around, you’d end up in Rome. Italy.)

Only about four million people live in the entire country.

About 118,000 people live in Stavanger. That is pretty close to the population of Flat_Matt's_town, but Stavanger is much farther north resting on about the same latitude as Anchorage, Alaska.

(*The other three are Denmark, Sweden and Finland.)

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Almost 10 days after the giant yellow envelope was posted from Flat_Matt's_town, it arrived in the Durel’s mailbox.

Because it had traveled more than 5,000 miles, it must be important. So Aunt Elizabeth took it around the corner and across the harbor, so it could be opened immediately by Uncle.


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Uncle works for a big company. They have offices all over the world.

This is his desk in his office building. His business believes that everyone should work in the same room so they can collaborate and get things done.

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The heart of Stavanger is the harbor. Years ago, Stavanger’s main industry was the ocean, but over the past few decades is know for the oil in the region. Its newest nickname is The Petroleum Capital.

The Harbor is often packed with ships of every size. Small rowboats and giant oil tankers are moored alongside each other almost every day.

Behind Uncle and Flat Matt is the view from Uncle’s office front door.

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Often when people think of Norway, they think of snow and cold, which is true of some parts of the country.

But because Stavanger is located on the southwest coast, the average temperature is about 40 degrees Fahrenheit and it rains about 220 days during the year.

Stavanger is so far north on the globe that during the winter, there are long dark days. In the summer, though, it is exactly opposite. There are long light days.

Because sunny days are so rare, when the sun is out, the people go out as well. So after work, Uncle took Flat Matt for a burger and a soda.

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The coastline of Norway looks jagged and torn. That’s because years and years ago, giant glaciers dug into the land, forming fjords (pronounced “feee-yords” in Norwegian).

So now, sometimes people use ferries to travel from town, so they do not have to drive all around the jagged countryside.
Behind Aunt Elizabeth* and Cousin Milo, you’ll see an oil truck driving into the front of a ferry on its way to Tau.

*Uncle had to go to work, so Aunt Elizabeth, who is a writer with schedule which is more loose, is helping out.

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A few days ago, Norway took the #2 spot on Save the Children’s list of best places to be a mom. (Sweden, one of the other Scandinavian countries, was #1.) Maybe one of the reasons is because moms can choose between so many statues when their kids want to climb and play.

These are two of the statues that seem to be about fairy tales.

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This is one of the statues which are all over town.

But look even more closely at the photo and you’ll notice the old cobblestone streets.

The cobblestones were laid down in the 18th and 19th centuries and now are only for pedestrians to walk on, not cars (unless the cars have taken a wrong turn.)

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Oddly enough, along with the fishing and the oil industry, the hair industry is very big here as well. (Frisør means “hairdresser”)

On almost every single block, there is a place to get your hair dyed or cut or blown out.

Frankly, Aunt Elizabeth is mystified as to how so many stay in business in a town this size, especially when it is so expensive to have the services done.

(Where is Flat Matt? Look closely and you may be able to spot him.)

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This is the Norwegian flag.

Because Norway is a fairly new country, the flag’s design is reminiscent of the other Scandinavian countries.

Norwegians are very patriotic and fly their flag at any time.

May 17th is their independence day, similar to the US 4th of July. It’s a very very big deal. People dress up in the national costume and march in parades.

There are also firm and serious rules about how to handle the flag. It must be folded a certain way and cannot be worn below the waist.

It can, though, be worn on the head.

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Norway is also known for its sweaters.

It can get cold and damp and sheep live here.

So Norwegians made very warm wool sweaters.

Originally sweaters were only black and white because those are sheep colors.

Sometimes fancy ones come in red.

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Trolls play a big role in Norwegian literature and folktales.

Occasionally they are kind, but mostly they are rotten and sometimes they live under bridges.

Often they have big noses and ears.

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Norway also has antelopes.

Not only do they make tasty steaks, but also warm headbands.

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Norwegians believe everyone living in the country should be equal.

This is at the harbor in the middle of town.

Look closely at the steps. Do you see the smaller ones?

When it was time to redo the steps several years ago, the designers thought about all the creatures that may need the steps. The smallest ones are for the ducks.

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Look at the giant statue next to Flat Matt. What do you think it is?

Many years ago, before they found out, Stavanger was a shipping and fishing town.

That giant statue is a silver shrimp.

Then look next to it, at the corner of the harbor. You’ll see just a bit of a house that looks like it has a metal triangle on top.

That is a fishmarket where townspeople buy loads of fresh shrimp that has just come off the ships.

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We spent most of the day lounging around the harbor on the sunny day.

The house behind Flat Matt are hundred of years old.

Now those buildings are restaurants and shops.

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Norway is very ecologically aware. There are separate waste containers for paper, plastic and general trash.

In many grocery stores, there are recycling machines.

Flat Matt is helping to recycle by feeding the bottles into the round opening. Once he’s finished feeding in all the bottles, he pushes the green button.

A slip of paper will come out of the slot, which is kind of like a coupon.

When he’s completed his grocery shopping, he can present the slip of paper to the check-out person who will subtract the amount of money on the slip from the total bill.

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When Uncle was done with work, Aunt Elizabeth and Flat Matt went to meet him.

They walked home, past the Stavanger Cathedral (this is the back door) which is the oldest cathedral in Norway.

It’s been around for more than 900 years.

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And then Flat Matt ended up, right where he began…

At Uncle and Aunt Elizabeth’s house.

Come back again, soon!

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(thanks Erin for taking some of the photos!)