Naw

We've been back in the United States for about six weeks now and (almost*) every single conversation I've had has started with, "So are you guys settled into your house yet?"

And the answer is, "No.  Thanks so much for asking, but we are not."

See this photo?

This photo was taken in the guest/man room in our apartment in Stavanger the day before the movers came to load everything into the giant container, which would then be put onto a cargo ship.  And then, one day, four to six weeks afterward, that ship would pull into a port in Savannah, Georgia, where then it would clear customs and then be put onto a truck and one day show up at our house in Atlanta.

That should have happened last week.

That did not.

Not one of those boxes in the photo in are in our house. Neither are any of the other boxes, filled with all our things that we thought were vital enough to send over to Norway and then send back to the United States.  Those boxes are in the country, still stuffed into the giant container that transported them across Europe and then the Atlantic Ocean.

But they are stuck in Savannah.

We've been flagged by the US Customs Authority for a random search.  Of. Every. Single. Box. And. Every. Single. Item. In. Every. Single. Box. In. Our. Container.

Much like the random searches going through airport security, we've been pulled aside.

And I am not against searches.  I was in New York when all of that happened, so (within reason) I am all for doing what needs to be done to keep everyone safe.

But, along with the annoyance of it all, pulling us for a random search does not make good sense.

Seriously.

First of all, Husband and I have been wracking our brains to think of what could have caused an alarm to the security force.  There's no contraband in the shipment.  We did not smuggle any explosives, pickled herring, dirt from a potato field or a live sheep from the meadows near the beach.  We claimed every piece of baby furniture and the vast majority of the clothes we bought over the two years.

Also, we did not pack it ourselves.  The goods were packed by a company, hired by Husband's employer, whose sole job was to pack our possessions securely while making sure all the international import/export/customs laws were followed.

And Husband called our relocation handler yesterday who said, "I have no information about why your container was flagged.  I also don't know when it will show up, as it might be a queue. And we shouldn't ask any questions.  Not only do they not have to give us any information, they don't like to be asked."

And again, I am not against any searches.  I really do believe that, within reason, the government should do what is necessary to keep us all safe.

I do question whether or not it is the best use of time and resources, man and financial to search a family consisting of a couple and an infant**, relocating from Norway***, completing an expat contract****, packed by a vetted moving company*****.

And no matter how I go over it, I am thinking, "Nope."

But that's how it is.  So, until the U.S. Customs Authority is done pawing through our stuff, we'll just be hanging out, with our six suitcases and giant new television.******




_____________________________________________

*My mom (BigD), my sister and my sister-in-law, along with a few others, do not ask this question anymore.  Also, I talk to the three of them almost every day. So there's that.

**None of whom have any sort of negative record, credit, criminal or otherwise.

***Not known to be a hotbed of insurgency.

****With one of the world's largest companies.

*****This is their bidness.

******Which is slightly trashy, if you think about it. We have practically no furniture(don't worry, we have some things from my old apartment, toys and several boxes random things) but we have a  television, not as giant as Wendy's who happens to have the largest television I've ever seen outside of a sports bar, but I love it all.  Really, it could only be tackier if we took the wheels off the cars and parked them in the front yard.

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.

___________________________________________




*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.

Buckshot Traveling

Tomorrow we're leaving for the Spanish sunshine and what could possibly be our last European vacation.

While our trip this summer was great fun and so good to see so many of our friends and family, it wasn't calm and it wasn't so relaxing. We criss-crossed the country thinking about maybe coming home and what and where that even means. And between luggage, time zones and sweet baby Elliot, it was a journey. A great journey, but a journey nonetheless.

So when we got back, as we all got sick, we decided that some quiet time in the sunshine would cure it all. And for the first time we're going to leave laptops at home to completely tune out.

The coming months are going to be big ones full of major decisions and this could be the last family vacation for a while.*

So, as we do, on any vacation that requires calm and not much at all**, we employ The Buckshot*** Method of Travel.

First we set out the constants, the factors that will not change. And for this trip they were:

1) A certain budget

2) Sunshine and warmth

3) Within a six-hour window of travel, which is about as long as we want to travel with a six-month old.

4) A direct flight

5) The one-week window Husband has between projects

6) Nothing nearby that we would feel guilty for not going to see.

7) Good food.

So with a few internet searches and a map of Europe, we came up with a flight to the Alicante airport in Spain, which is on the southeastern coast of the country.

Then we did another few searches and came up with a villa in Moraira, Spain, which is a little town about 82km up the highway. Apparently, it is a small fishing village that is not even listed in the Fodor's Spain guide.

We looked at the photographs of the villa and sent an email. We settled on a price with the owner and wired the money to an account in England. And just yesterday the keys came in the mail.****

It's near the beach, a tapas bar and has its own pool.

Best of all, September is the off-season so it's cheap cheap cheap.

We're going to go to the grocery store and sleep late and take Elliot to the beach.

And when he's had enough, we're going to go home and sit by the pool while he naps inside. In the evenings we may go to dinner a few times, but that's pretty much it.*****

Until the past few days, I hadn't done much research on it at all, because really, who cares?

I'll be hanging with my two best people close to good Spanish food and the ocean.

But, while the little man was napping this morning, I started looking at some traveler's notes online...apparently the Costa Blanca (the area of Spain where we are headed) is about a 50/50 split of Spanish and British expats.

And most of the beaches are topless, often populated by portly British grandmother types.

I love it.

Seriously, if this is true, I think it sounds even more awesome. I love grandmothers.****** Grandmotherly types love babies, so they will be friendly Elliot. And the more portly they are, the less portly I will seem.

Perfect.

_____________________________

*And really, this is our first family vacation of just the three of us--Unless of course you count the places we went before he was an actual person...

**The Buckshot Method got us to Jade Mountain for our honeymoon, Nice for Christmas and Portugal for last summer's holiday. It works. Trust.

***For those not familiar with Southern Culture, meaning the Southern Culture of the United States, hunting is big. And, buckshot is a type of ammunition. When you shoot buckshot, it sprays out and unless you're very unlucky, you'll probably hit something. The Buckshot Method, as I call it, works for lots of things, but you have to be enthusiastic. That helps.

****Yeah, I thought it was a little risky, too, but I did an internet search on the owner and he seemed normal. Plus, he apparently lodged a complaint with his township in England about unpicked-up dog poo on his street. So by logic, if he's particular about his street, he's probably particular about the house. I'm sure it will be fine.

*****We may also play lots of Scrabble. I am also hoping to read a book.

******Well, most of them.

Burning up at Midnight (Or How I Disappoint Trekkies When They Google)

A few weeks after we told BigD I was pregnant, I opened our mailbox to a slip of paper informing me that there was a package waiting for me at the post office.

Inside the package was a copy of Dr. Spock's Baby and Childcare, a copy of What to Expect When You are Expecting and a note that said, "These two are the only books you'll need. Love, Mom."

In the days before Elliot (AKA Pickle) arrived, I read them cover to cover. I underlined things, scrawled notes in the margins and highlighted key bits for Husband to scan.

I thought I was a bit prepared.

But last night, Husband and I were downstairs visiting, with the baby moniter on low. Elliot, who has had a little sniffle for days, had been in bed for a few hours.

Around eleven, we heard him whimpering a bit, which was odd. Elliot is a LOUD baby. He rarely whimpers. He does babble and often call out, all of which usually happen at top volume.*

So I went to check on him and he was burning up, like I have never felt a baby. His eyes were glassy, his cheeks were red and he was damp all over.

This may not be frightening to more seasoned mothers, but as I am not one of those mothers**, it was frightening to me.

We took his temperature and it was right on the borderline of all the measures. Our farenheit thermometer read 101.4. Our celcius one read 38.3. He is four days shy of the six month mark.

If you believe Dr. Spock,*** "If your baby is three months old or younger, call right away for a temperature of 100.5 or higher."

And a few lines down..."As a rule, consult your doctor if your baby has a temperature of 101 or more."

Therein lies the rub.****

We have no one to call.***** We don't have a pediatrician. Not really.

We sort of do. There are very few pediatricians in the Stavanger area. There are a few on staff at the hospital and another small number that work privately. Seriously. That is it.

Early on, Elliot and I went to meet one, so we could be all acquainted when and if we needed to come and see him. And I wish I could describe this person here, but the person is a character and you might recognize this person.

Suffice to say, this person is great and Elliot loved him. And I thought this person was really nice and seemed to know exactly what he was talking about. I'd heard great things about this particular one from other expat moms who had used this person, so there you have it.

(And I wish I could tell you some of the statistics about how many pediatricians there are in the enormously wide swath of southern and western Norway where we're located. But I won't.)

But all that said, the pediatricians don't seem all that busy.

On our first visit, as we were chatting, this person said that he/she'd been to Atlanta once, to meet some business people, because he/she's come upon a business that was exactly what Norway was missing.

The second time we went to the office, was when Elliot wasn't feeling well after our travels. (After thousands of miles, he apparently caught a bug of sorts on the way home.) As we were sitting in the waiting room, a friend of ours walked through the lobby. She, who is about 30 or so years past childhood, has been seeing this person for nutrition and dietary needs.

So, as you might note, being a pediatrician is not big business in these parts.******

Most babies go to the family doctor for illnesses and to the health station for shots and growth checks, etc...

Baby health care in these parts is a tricky business. At least it is for me.

And, to make it more complicated, while we are eligible for the public healthcare, we also have private insurance through Husband's contract. So, in many case, we are fortunate to be able to pick and choose what we'd like from the many private doctors in the area. Then we pay for it, submit the bill and get reimbursed for most of it from the insurance company.

Except when it's something big and then the only choices are public.*******

My doctor, who I loved and handled all my prenatal care, was nowhere in the vincinity, most certainly not in the room or even the hospital when I gave birth.

When Elliot was just a few months old, he had a high fever in the middle of the night, so we took him to the urgent care at the hospital. He had a fever of 102, which according to Dr. Spock is a big deal. He wasn't eating, his breathing was labored and he was not his usual self, in the early early morning.

We took him the urgent care and waited and waited for about two hours. When the check-in nurse finally called us up, she took a look at our forms, where we had marked that we had a private doctor. She asked why we didn't go see her and said we should go there even if she didn't open for another 90 minutes.

Then when we asked if someone could please just help us, they put us in a back room with a thermometer and said to check it ourselves. Finally a doctor came in and said he didn't have baby sized instruments, so they sent us to the pediatric wing of the hospital, where a pediatrician did the basic tests and chalked it up to nothing, but an unexplained fever.

It was a less than satisfactory experience, so this time, because all the factors were borderline, we skipped it.

And this is not to say that the healthcare is bad or that the Norwegians are weak. Quite the contrary. No one pays much attention to the "borderline" fevers and antibiotics are not handed out unless it's extreme, but when it rains, which it does often, the children put on their weather gear and get outside to play. They sleep in their prams in the fresh air in practically any temperature. They are a hearty lot, so it just stands to reason that they are doing something right.

But still, I'd love to have my own doctor who follows Elliot through it all. Not just the shots and the growth scale,******** but one who knew every single detail and could put the whole picture together.

And one who had a nice nurse or a 24 hour help line I could call when my son is burning up at midnight.*********

________________________

*Seriously. If I were writing a book and Elliot was in it, I would write all of his dialogue in capital letters.

**I am the other kind.

***Page 699

****In a bit of etomological service-y-ness, did you know this phrase is really a bit of slightly paraphrased Shakespeare? I knew that it meant a conundrum of sorts, but who knew that it's all thanks to Wills? You're welcome.

*****I mean to say professionally. I do have the Big D, my sister, my sister-in-law and a smattering of friends, but just in a coincidence, I only got my mom for a second and then answering machines for all the rest. We're on our own in these parts.

******My friend looks fantastic, though. And, to this person's point, there is a distinct lack of eating establishments that serve awesome wings and foamy beers on platters carried by bosomy women wearing orange short shorts and nude tights.

*******PS This is not the forum to debate Obama's healthcare plan, in case you are thinking on that. I am not making any sort of statement pro or con'ing it or any nuances et. all. I haven't done enough research on it to make an informed statement. I will say that I was uninsured for many years because though I was making a really good living in New York, I couldn't afford it. That was scary and not right.

********Which is a whole other post. Norwegians are tall people. Americans are medium sized. So Elliot's numbers on the two scales are very different. I'll post about that in a few weeks after his next check up.

*********He's much much better now. Still a little hot and sniffly, but not scary.

Mmmmm Mmmmm

I hate being told what to do.

I am all for solicited advice and I regularly look to competent people for ideas, but in the end, I am fairly confident in my own intelligence, reasoning and research skills.

So usually, after a bit, I can figure out exactly what I would like to do.

Norway and I have butted heads on more than one occasion regarding this issue.

It and I had difference of opinion on how I would like to deliver our baby. I lost (and miserably).*

I would’ve liked a bit more choice on whether or not I intended to breastfeed.**

And now Norway is forcing me to make Elliot’s baby food.

I am annoyed.

Not that I wouldn’t have wanted to whip up all of his meals,*** but it’s just another thing I do not have much choice about and it bugs me.

I knew that eventually I would have to figure out how to feed the little man "real food."

So I read up on the first foods, which are the simple ones (carrots, sweet potatoes, green beans, etc…), which tend to be the least likely to cause allergies. I learned that you give them one at a time for several days in a row to make sure that if there is an allergic reaction you can pinpoint the culprit. Also that there are several things that no baby should have until at least the first year (strawberries, nuts, honey, etc…) because they can cause major allergies later on…

So then I went to the store, a large grocery store called Ultra, particularly popular with the expat community because it imports American goods.****

This is what I found when I went looking for the baby food.

I've cruised down that aisle before, of course--that's where the diapers are, too. But I've never paid much attention other than, "Yep, there's some food."

But that's it. In a town full of babies.

No joke.

You cannot swing cat without hitting a baby.

Promise.

And in the first foods...

That was it. Look closely. There is one single food. The rest are a mix, some of which include strawberries, too.

For a country that is occasionally called a Nanny State*****, they are putting a lot of trust in me.

Given a choice, I would eat a diet that consisted solely of appetizers culled from the left side of restaurant menus and the Whole Foods prepared food section, key lime pie, cheese, chocolate popsicles and the occasional steak.

To trust me to adequately prepare and serve my baby nutritious food is asking alot.

Clearly I can barely feed the adults in the house.******

I am trying though.

I started with a sweet potato.

Baked it in the oven.

Whirled it in the blender with some milk.
Froze the concoction into cubes.
And served it up.

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

*Seriously folks. There is no need to discuss, but suffice to say…No matter how long we live here, I will NEVER have a baby in this entire country again. And just head off any extraneous comments...this is not a comment on socialized medicine, by the way. This is a comment on my lady parts and how I would like for them to be treated---with drugs if you must know. It's just my choice. If anyone reading this has a different opinion on ladyparts, that's all good. I have no opinions on anyone else's ladyparts but my own.

**I probably would have anyway, but the societal pressure is enormous. Also there are exactly three kinds of formula, which are fairly expensive. Again, I am so glad I am breastfeeding (health, convenience, etc…) but would have liked much, much less pressure.

***I kid. I would have been all about the Gerber. No joke. I read the labels. It’s just the ingredients and water. That’s good enough for me. (And it was good enough for me. I ate it. My sister ate it. Everyone I know ate it, including several healthy little niece and nephew people who were running all around BigD’s house a few weeks ago.)

****Most of which are clustered on one-half of an aisle. The shelves are crammed with all sorts of goods, most of which change weekly. On any given week, you can find six-packs of Cherry Coke, Twizzlers, generic brand stuffing and cans of pumpkin. It's random, as if it just fell off the back of a truck.

*****Without going into too much detail, Norway taxes the hell out of certain things (along with all of the rest of the things) like alcohol and cigarettes to discourage their use. And recently a bill was put forth to add an extra tax to fatty food. This is not real discouragement. It is in fact encouragement to pack ones suitcase full of booze and smokes whenever traveling cross-borders.

******This is a slight exaggeration. I actually do cook, often using recipes. And the results are usually pretty good. And as the BigD said once, "Of course you can cook. You can read, can't you?" The difference is that it is food for fully grown adults. It is also by choice.

Companion Certificate in Expat Pregnancy

As you might remember, early on, I started thinking about devising a Masters in Expat Housewifery Program. 

It's been on the back burner for a while, but the past few months have convinced me it is necessary.  And not only is it necessary, but also that there should be an attached, or perhaps sub-program, in Expat Pregnancy.

It would include classes such as, but not limited to...

Medical mindset 101: 

Norwegian's do it differently. That is all. Get with the program or don't be shamed for how you want it handled.

Worries 101:

What happens, happens.  Come see us at about 20 weeks.

Do the Math 206:

They like babies so much, they'll pay you to have them.

and most importantly for my purposes here:

Cravings 301:

If you think you'll want it, save yourself some hassle and get it yourself --- from home

On Friday night, I spent part of the evening talking to C., a Norwegian friend who is about 32 weeks pregnant.  She and I have similar thoughts that pregnancy is a whole lot of "meh" but that the end result is worth it.  

When I asked her if she had any big cravings, she said no, that other than apples, she was just eating whatever.  Nothing cravings-wise has driven her nuts, which shocked me, but then we went on to something else...

But Sunday afternoon, I was lamenting the distance between me and the nearest* Whole Foods, which for those you who may not know, is one of the greatest places in quite possibly the entire United States.  

And by greatest, I am not talking about the "whole" part, I absolutely mean the "food" part. 

Whole Foods is a giant organic grocery store, but organic in a cool way, not in a "chokes you with the smell of pachouli and feet" way. 

Most importantly, it has miles and miles of prepared food and encourages sampling, so you don't have to commit** to a selection until you are absolutely sure.

And on this Sunday, I would have strongly considered selling my first born***  for just ten minutes in Whole Foods.  I would speed sample the soup bar selections and choose the best chunky soup, then head over to the hot counter for a mess of collard greens and a container of the best macaroni and cheese. ever. 

Then with the remaining seven or so minutes, I would just taste all the things I have been missing.  

I explained all of this to Husband, who just listened a bit and handed me a tissue when I got teary, because not only could I not have ANY of it, but all the grocery stores are closed on Sunday, so we couldn't even try to approximate it.   

(I also wanted a mani/pedi, but that is another post altogether.) 

It made me start thinking about how C. said she never had any major cravings in the way I described.  One possibility is that she just didn't. Every pregnancy is different, so that could just be that. 

Another (and this is the one that I'm going with...) is that a pregnant woman craves what is familiar and comforting.  

Even if you explain in scientifically (ie. a craving is your body needing to fulfill a need for a particular mineral or vitamin...) it only makes sense that you crave what you know.  

And if she craved, say for instance, Norwegian staples like salmon or reindeer meat or a sheep's skull or caviar in a tube, she could get it and quickly.  

But me, I'm hosed.  

There's no Thai food, at least not what I am used to eating.  The tomatoes are not from my Nana's garden.  Vanilla/Chocolate combo milkshake? Bwahahaha. Though there's a rumor that collard greens can be had with the right connections, I haven't seen them yet. Pudding had to be shipped from 7,000 miles away. I am even having a hard time find a good crunchy tart pickle. And there is no such thing as pickled okra.

But to be fair, the hosing is not complete...as I sat on the sofa sniffing, Husband,  who had just been listening patiently, got up, headed to the kitchen and started pulling all sorts of things out of the cabinets and refrigerator.  

He spread out things on the counter and chopped them all up...

And made a pot of soup-y goodness...

And cooked until it got even better...

And then served it up...

And it was about as close, to a Whole Foods soup I would have chosen, as it could be...

So that's something...

*564 miles---it turns out there are a few in London, still not helpful on a Sunday afternoon in Stavanger.  Also, it's approximately 5249 miles to the one in our neighborhood in Atlanta, also not helpful in the least to my predicament. 

**This also is a big selling point to me in all things.

**I kid, I kid.  No one can have Pickle, not for any price. Though if I know you, you can hold it or change a diaper, especially the yuck ones, whenever you'd like, free of charge. 

Traveling 4,209.19 Miles of Makes No Dang Sense

As you may know, Husband and I got married almost six months ago.  

We had a very short engagement of only eight weeks.  In that time, Big D (my mother for those who just arrived) and our friends and family pulled together so we could have a wedding that was lovely, and, in record time. 

Overall, everyone was incredibly generous in myriad ways from events to gifts to all sorts of unexpected and lovely kindnesses, so naturally that means thank you notes should be soon on the way. 

We had our hands full with moving and getting settled and a few other family worries, so the notes did not go out absolutely immediately, but they did go out, well under the Emily Post-prescribed time period.  

Some were even written twice, but that is not the point of this missive...

What I mean to share today is a letter we received last week.  

You'll have to trust me on some of the following information because, in the interests of privacy---the intended recipients', not mine---you'll see I have shielded some of the information on the envelope...

This is a note that was posted from the Stavanger Post Office more than ten weeks ago.  

The problem is, apparently, the people to whom the note was addressed have moved.  And, in the time between sending my wedding invitation and sending the thank you note, their forwarding address has expired. 

So as a matter of protocol, the US Postal Service sent it back to us.  

As an American citizen, a long time resident and United States Postal Service user for more than 36 years, I understand this system. 

Someone in the Gainesvegas Post Office had to handle that note, look up the new address, print out a sticker, affix that sticker, flip over the letter for the return address, see the address in Norway and then toss it into the "international" or perhaps "Europe" bin. 

And then, some time later, that note arrived back to us, here in Stavanger, Norway.

What a giant waste, of time, resources and money. 

That $2.50US that we spent to mail it from Stavanger, Norway to Gainesvegas, Georgia, United States, is just a fraction of the roundtrip cost.

I also know from the time period, that, even if I missed the forwarding window of time, it was only by a few days, at most. 

The Gainesvegas Postal Service People know where this letter should have gone. Both the old and the new addresses are in the Gainesvegas city limits, exactly 3.81 miles from each other.  

So, really, Postal Service People, don't get me wrong.  I admire your "neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night..." brand of perseverance. I'm really sorry you sometimes have to deal with vicious dogs and that whole "going postal" reference is really bad PR.  

But let's be clear here:  I pay taxes to the US government.  The US government runs the US Postal Service.  So, even if it's just a teeny tiny portion, I pay your salary, so that kind of makes me your boss, even if it only works out to a fraction of a second of one day every few years.  

So, I'd like to use my moment of authority right now to say: What were you thinking?  How could it make ANY sense to send a letter back over the 4,213 miles it had just traveled instead of just forwarding it on 3.81 miles to its real destination?

Seriously, peoples. 

Publicist wanted

I hope Obama gets elected for a variety of reason, not the least of which is that because I hope he'll hire a better PR rep than the current administration has. 

Seriously, every single day, I am appalled at what non-Americans seem to think. For example, let me share a portion of a conversation I had just last week. 

(NOTE: I am going to disguise the person's sex as well as switch out the nationality because that person may read this, though I doubt it.  I don't want to hurt its feelings, but I've been thinking about it and it's my blog. The most surprising thing is that this person is travelled and educated, though they have never visited the US.)  

Person I Know: So what do you find most different about Norway from the US?

Me: (Not really focused, so I give some innocuous answer about the number of hours of daylight or other general topic.)

PIK: Really, that's it?

Me: Oh I don't know, there are loads of things that are different, but that is true of pretty much anywhere, but really it's all good.

PIK: What about the Coke bottles?

Me: (Confused) Excuse me?

PIK: You know---The Coke bottles, they are smaller here.  Aren't they giant in America?  You guys are so consumer-focused.  Do you even drink all of it?

Me: Ohhhhh, you mean because we Americans like giant things and are so wasteful?

PIK:  Yeah.

Me: Ohhhhh, well then, definitely.  The Coke bottles here are so weird and small, but I don't care.  I like to buy them anyway, take a sip, then throw it away, just because I can.

PIK: (Not looking in the slightest bit confused and clearly NOT getting what I hope is my polite sarcasm.) We were thinking about going to visit America. My partner's been there, and loves it, but I don't think I want to go.

Me:  Oh really?  There are so lovely and interesting places to visit.  Let me know if and where you choose, I'd love to offer some suggestions if you need it.

PIK: Well, I have heard it's really cheap there.

Me:  I guess it depends on where you go, but the dollar is pretty weak, so it may seem cheap, at least right now. 

PIK: I really meant the food at the all you can eat buffets. 

Me: What?

PIK: Well, aren't most of the American restaurants fast food and all-you-can-eat buffets, so they can eat giant portions. 

(We go back and forth on this for a minute because I am just not sure I've heard correctly.)

Me: That's not where all or even most of the Americans eat all the time.  At least not the ones I know.  Maybe if you are old or live in Nebraska. 

PIK:  Well, that's what I have heard. 

Me: Well, please don't believe it and let me know if you go.

PIK: Well, don't you have thoughts about where I am from?

Me: Sure, all you guys are blonde, wear wooden shoes, have windmills in your backyard, frequent hookers and are constantly high. 

PIK: That's not true.

Me: Really?

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.

 

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.

Poor, Poor Hassan

A few weeks before we got married, Husband and I visited Stavanger.

Really, it was for me to check out the town, for him to work and for us to find a home.

While he went to the office, I was escorted by a woman named Tune (Tooooo-NAH) who had been hired to show me around and start the process of acclimation.

Along with driving me about and helping me learn, she also gave me this book.



I flipped through the pages and read about doctors and shopping and setting up house. Then I came to this page and gasped...



There was no way, I was going to get severe culture shock. I am not a textbook person and am certainly not irritable and hostile.

I am cheery and flexible and up for anything. Plus, I am not one to get in funks often and when I do, they tend to be low level funks. (I have a pretty high funk-tolerence, so even when things are their most tragic, it's really not all that bad...)

All this to say, I was slightly wrong. I've been in a bit of a funk lately. And that funk has been coupled with slight irritability.

Also, while, I refuse to say I've been hostile, perhaps I have been a little bit edgy.



And there is no one reason, but a charming combination of, but not limited to, the following:

1) Time zones
I keep missing all the windows of time to talk to my peeps because they live in highly inconvenient places like Georgia and Hawaii and California and Colorado. They also have jobs and kids, so the windows are even shorter.

2) I hate Car.
Every dang time I want to do anything, no matter how mundane, I have to make a major plan involving rush hour, hills and timing.

3) No one can read my mind.
This poses a major challenge for sweet Husband. Lillie could offer pointers because she usually knows exactly what I need:

A vist


A shake right


A shake left



A little footsie


4) I cannot work.
We got a letter a few weeks ago saying that my application has been put into the pile and that they expect an answer within the next 8-10 months. This is a multi-multi-faceted issue, which goes even further to even if I did have the permits, then what would I do? So there we have isolation and identity all piled into the mix.

5) My pants feel snug.
I haven't been eating and drinking more, perhaps I am just hormonal today or maybe my pants hate me.

5) Language
I have been studying for weeks and am not fluent yet.

All of which are semi-ridiculous on a variety of levels and I am usually not one to indulge these kinds of thoughts, at least not seriously but I have been lately (or at least in the past week or so...).

But today is when I realized that I have lost my mind and need to buck up.

Janice Soprano came over for our regular Wednesday morning lesson.

We're working in a book called "Ny i Norge" ("New to Norway").

And as we were making our way through Leksjon 5, we flipped to "Hassan sender en e-post"



Hassan is one of the recurring characters in my textbook. (Among others, we have Tor, the Norsk teacher and his wife Liv. John, who is from USA who moved to Norway to be with his wife Anne. Urai from Thailand and Larissa, the au pair from Latvia and her young charges Ingrid and Gunnar.)

Hassan, we learned today, was sitting and thinking about his friend Ali in Iran.



Ali is in school in Teheran. Hassan is a refugee and lives in Nordby.



So Hassan goes to the library to write Ali an email to say hello and to tell all about the traveling he has been doing. When he's finished emailing and looking up news about Iran, he leaves the library.

He eats a banana and is a little bit sad. It is a long way from Norway to Iran.



But then he runs into Larissa and Ingrid. Hassan carries her grocery bags while they talk. Then he heads off.

He cycles home. Hassan is not so sad now. He goes to the movies and watches a French film about love.



I am reading this out loud and translating and my voice breaks a bit. Janice, misreading my cues, says "It's a little bit silly, but good vocabulary and lessons."

I say "It's the saddest thing I have ever read. Poor Hassan, he must be so lonely for his friends."

She stares at me for a long minute and says "Ahhhh I know these signs. You are feeling a little bit isolated. We have only been having lessons here at this table. We will fix this. You need to practice with more people. I will help you."

So from now on, we're going to have lessons at the coffee shop.