An Odd Christmas

Well, before continuing to update my semi-functional journey through Norway, allow me to quickly make note of something. See, Blogger has this odd thing that causes a delay when one types when initially writing a post. But if you 'publish' the post, and return to 'edit' it, suddenly the delay goes away. So, the previous post was quite incorrectly dated (especially considering that it was written on Christmas Eve), but I will see if saving as a draft will also make this typing delay stop. If such is the case, it'll help keep from having semi-complete posts anymore. But anyway, thought I'd at least get that out of the way.

That aside, after spending two or three days with Keiko and Kjell at their home, we decided that it was time to go visit the relatives. this first involved going to the house of Kjell's daughter Bente, so we headed west from Oslo for about eight hours until we ended up in Haugasund. She's a single mother, probably , I'd say, in her late thirties, and has a seventeen year old son named Roald. As par usual, I ended up with the room that used to be the kid's room. Let me tell you, there is no way of starting off on the wrong foot than , before you even show up, having the kid know that regardless of who or when this visitor walks through the door, they will displace you from your room. I was lucky enough with Roald, that he spent most of the time in the basement with his megacomputer, webcam, xbox, and whatnot. Over the course of the three days that we were there, I'd say a grand total of twelve words were spoken between us.

Bente was nice though. And of course, I know what you're already thinking, "Well Nick, was she a MILF?" The answer to said question is an obvious yes. Do I have pictures? Well, provided that Kjell gives me that photos he took until I got my camera back, yes. So, I began the usual routine of breaking out the book on Michigan and my photo album from home, and explaining just where the hell Michigan is. After a few hours, Kjell's other daughter, Hilde, who lives about ten minutes away, showed up. Disturbingly enough, she's only about two years older than me, and equally attractive. All of us had dinner together, and then I went up to my room to read The Tempest by Shakespeare, as I had neglected to do such during the final week of the semester. Over the course of the next day or two, Kjell and I made several trips over to Hilde's to use her internet, as all of the neighbors around Bente had locked down their connections. Well...okay...to be honest, I would find a faint signal in the kitchen two days later, but that's not relevant. Even though I still typed it...oh well.

Other than that we were blessed with Keiko's fine cooking for several nights, I assisted in shopping for Roald, we went and got a Christmas tree for Bente's house, and just generally stayed up quite late each night talking about one thing or another and watching the most odd programs. Quite perhaps my favorite of all of them was a Canadian broadcast about the worldwide love for chocolate.

They had this French woman who was like, "This Snickers, Mars bar, Herseys, these are not chocolate, they are...imposters!!!" She then proceeded to stick her nose up in the air...as much as I hate cliched stereotypes, that is actually what happened. They then showed this amazingly flamboyant American man guiding a bunch a American women around a large amount of chocolate shops, and watching them get progressively fatter as they went back and forth between segments. At one point, the French woman was in a cocoa tree plantation, which looked something like I imagine the deep South did, say, 200 years ago. She picks up this bean in front of this big chocolate executive, smashes it upon with a small Machete (or whatever the actual term for a small looking Machete would be) sniffs it, and says, 'This smells like freshly upturned soil...and smells of the sweat of animals.' I more or less wet myself at this point. The best part is that the CEO, clearly sweating beyond what should be considered humanly possible in his Armani suit (the total cost of which the workers surrounding him will make in a light year) takes her absolutely seriously, profusely nodding his head. "She's very good," he says.

After three days at his two daughter's places, we traveled another three hours west to the home of his son, Sven, who lives in Bergen. Sven is married, and has three kids: Maximile, 15, Markus, 11, and Isaac, 5. Thankfully, the older two brothers spoke English quite well, and were able to translate Isaac's non-stop inquiries in Norwegian. I was equally lucky that the entire family turned out to be quite the American movie buffs, as that made for a good amount of conversation in itself. Off the bat, I was quite worried. Isaac, after happily hugging Kjell, saw me, ran behind his mother, and, a few seconds later, up the stairs to his room. When I was shown to my room (I got the middle child's room this time) Isaac peeked out his door, pointed at my shirt, and said something in Norwegian, then ran back in his room. My logical conclusion was that he had just declared me the Antichrist. Instead, he came out a few seconds later with a package of cards in his hands. The cards were of Marvel Superheroes, of which, four of them were on my green graphic t-shirt. And while it saddens me that my fashion choices seem to resonate best with an audience that recently crawled out of the womb, well...I'll take common ground however I get it.

The first night I was there, and I don't think it was a coincidence that it happened with my arrival, we had pizza, homemade from scratch. And, truth be told, it was absolutely more or less Nirvana, and I mean that actual state of enlightenment and not the grunge band. Unless we can count bands that came about because of Nirvana. Like Dave Grohl's Foo Fighters. In which case, the band is acceptable. After dinner, after suggesting several movies that the kids hadn't seen, and that they didn't own, I went about teaching them how to locate and stream free movies off of the internet without taking up hard drive space. This made me quite popular. At first Sven was a bit hesitant about what I was teaching his children, until I suggested that old BBC series' like Blackadder could be found with equal ease. That got him hooked as well.

Oddly enough, we opened all the gifts on Christmas Eve. The tradition in Norway, is that one of the neighbors comes to your house dressed as Santa, and he pulls out a gift for each family member from his bag. After he leaves, the parents and other family members can then bring out their gifts for the children, or whomever. When I told them that children in America are told that Santa won't even show up until they are fast asleep, they were, well, not really shocked. Moreso...probably saw it as the predictable way that Americans handle things. When I told them that we didn't open anything until the 25th, they suggested that I call up all my friends and tell them that I had opened everything. I politely declined.

As for Christmas, all the interesting differences aside, it was odd. I mean, when you've spent 20 Christmas' doing the same thing, with the same people, at the same places, change is...well...it's huge. Especially when none of them are related to you. Still, they were quite nice about it. I got a CD by a popular Bergen artist named Sondre Lerche. Now, I know it sounds like something disastrous, local music and all, something ripe for being torn to threads by my sardonic personality...but I was surprised. I looked him up on Wikipedia, he actually has made it several times into Rolling Stone's Top 50 Albums of the Year, three times now. And the CD was actually good. There's even a duet with Regina Spektor, whom I think is pretty awesome, if only in limited doses.

I got the kids a book from Michigan and some American candy. For the parents, some high-grade Scottish Walker's shortbread, and for Keiko and Kjell a very expensive bottle of Aberdeenshire whiskey, a pair of 100% pure wool tartan scarves with the design of my ancestor's tartan, as well as some of the same shortbread. My parents sent them some clothing from Michigan Rag Company out of Grand Haven, but I'd like to think that I took care of shopping quite well myself, without their assistance.

On Christmas Day, we took a 5 K walk to Maximile's school, where they had this enormous pyramid like climbing structure, shown at the top of this post. It went up about forty feet, and needless to say, after a bit of peer pressure from the boys, I decided that I would also attempt the climb. And while I didn't have a sherpa, or supplementary oxygen tanks, I can safely say that I made the summit. From here, things got pretty low key...there was a dinner party on the night of the 26th with Ingunn's side of the family. And...once again, I got to break out the "Wonderful Michigan" book from the tourism dept of Michigan. It's bad...I've practically got a semi-comedic routine surrounding that book that I've now had to present about twelve times, though it won't seem as funny without the book, but here are a few examples:

(When showing the pictures of Tulip Time in Holland, Michigan:

"You guys know the Dutch, right? You know, Amsterdam, so on and whatnot? Well, as hard as this may be to believe, the Dutch weren't always a mushroom-downing, prostitution-legalizing, and euthanizing-loving society. See, all of the prude, party-poopers decided that it would be great fun to all hop on a boat and subject the American people to their self-induced misery. I mean, come on, who wears wooden shoes? However, unlike the Pilgrims who came to America to escape religious persecution, only then to impose such viewpoints upon others, the Dutch pretty much knew what they were doing from the beginning. So, while the ones that stayed behind were having bong-a-thons with the Grateful Dead Bears, the ones in America were preaching hellfire, damnation, and a future of eternal misery to those refusing to convert to the Dutch Reformed way. And we all know how religiously tolerant the Dutch are, right? Right?

(On the 5 pristine pictures on the Detroit page)

"These are the only five nice pictures of Detroit still known to be in circulation."

"I mean, its not to say that you don't have your critics that claim that these weren't photoshopped anyway. Note how none of the cars are on fire, and how none of the people are exhibiting bullet wounds? What you have here is Pleasantville, not Detroit."

(On the excessive amount of lighthouse pictures in the book)

"These are lighthouses. They used to assist ships in navigating their way into the harbor, but now they serve a different function: being crack for Senior Citizens. See, it's an American tradition that when your parents get old enough, you put them in a home with bad food, frequent instances of neglect, and other old people. But when these old people started to find out what these were all about, we had to find another alternative. In Michigan, I think we somehow convinced them that if they visited all of the lighthouses in Michigan, they'd somehow find the fountain of youth, and be contributive members of society again. The catch of course, is that there are WAAAY too many lighthouses to visit even in one lifetime."

And so on and whatnot. And for those of you reading this, that don't frequently read my stuff, just remember that this is all in jest. After that, we had two more days in Bergen, and then made the long drive home on Friday.

Norway Or The Highway

I've now been in Norway for a little over a week. That in itself is a strange notion to me, considering that, at least in my mind, I've only been here a matter of three or four days. Granted, the notion of time passing without one knowing it is cliche in itself, but sometimes we need to stop and realize that things become cliche for a reason: a shared common experience that we've found the ability to sum up in a pre-constructed phrase. After all, not many people enjoy being their own linguistic constructionist on a regular basis.

Getting here was a bit of a small feat in itself. Amazingly enough, I'd actually never flown alone until Monday of last week. Somehow, there'd always been somebody with me, whether a full fledged group, or a singular individual to keep the event from being a 'solo' activity. I got up quite early Monday morning, in order to split a taxi with Holly Anderson. Granted, I could have slept in three more hours, but when those three hours will cost you a calculated twenty-two dollars, one really begins to question the (literal) value of sleep. All it required was a few extra hours in Aberdeen International Airport, reading some pulp horror novels by H.P. Lovecraft.

Important lesson learned: this new rule? You know, the one about taking your computer out of the case? Yeah, umm...well...it's pretty much EVERYWHERE. I know this because I attempted to subvert the rule of only one carry-on (no carry-on PLUS laptop in the UK) but putting my laptop bag in a larger piece of luggage small enough to pass as a carry-on. This didn't fly. After the older security guard pulled me aside, and asked me a question or two about my luggage he points to my laptop, while pulling it out of the case, and quizzically turns to me and asks, 'American or Canadian?'

Now, I could have lied, but the man obviously knew that I must have my passport on me in order to have checked in, so, with a sigh of exasperation, I admitted defeat...'American,' I pouted.

'And what do you do in the States?'

'Umm...I'm a student.'

'No...what do you do about your laptop there?'

'Err...I use it to write papers.'

'No...I mean, do you take it out of the case when you go through security there?'

'Umm...sometimes?'

'NO...you do it ALL the time!'

Now naturally, this would be the point that being my now disturbingly patriotic self, I would have told the man that he had no right telling an American how things work in America, and that in America we don't check computers because, being the melting-pot nation that we are, we employ a much more effective program that goes by the phrase 'racial profiling.' Instead I just rolled my eyes as he began scrubbing down my computer with a special brush to search for gunpowder, because, not only do I hide an explosive material in an actively working, high-temperature device, but I also hide it in the one that I'm required to take out during security. Personally, I think he was spreading some special cocktail of mercury and lead all over the keys that I am currently typing on.

If only to make things worse, his little assistant decided that after my little altercation with Senile Airport Worker #1, that I was to be 'selected' for the 'random' pat-down. I just want to say this, that is the last and ONLY time I want another man's hands that close to my 'danger zone' EVER.' By about ten seconds in, I'm pretty sure he'd reenacted all of Cruel Intentions on my wiry frame. Seriously. Like, what exactly does the application for this job look like? 'Must enjoy the occasional massaging of a man's crotch?' Furthermore...who signs up for that sort of job? Do they even tell you before you get the job? 'Oh, by the way, that man that keeps itching himself...yes...we want you to pat him down...yeah, see where his hand is....there...yeah, get that spot.'

From here, things were relatively painless. I first got a flight to Bergen, Norway, and, about two hours later, another flight to Oslo, Norway. Keiko (the woman that stayed with my mother's family back in the late sixties, and we've gone back and forth visiting one another for a long time now) promptly met me at the airport, and we headed back to her house. That night, I just attempted to acquaint myself with the house, while Keiko and her husband Kjell were at a dinner party until about Midnight. I did get to see Heroes in English with Norwegian subtitles, so that was great fun. As for Tuesday, I continued to not leave the house. Gosh, reading the last sentence, I sound like Howard Hughes or something. Allow me to explain. Turns out that I left my camera in Bergen airport, when going through a security check. So, being the Net-savvy individual that I am, I found the Bergen Airport's help phone number online, and proceeded to call.

"Hallo?"

"Umm...hello, my name is Nicholas White, and I left my camera in Bergen Airport last night at about 6 PM while going through security en route to gate 29?"

"One moment, Mr. White...ah, yes, we have it right here."

"Really? GREAT...umm, I will be going to Bergen in the upcoming week for some Christmas celebrations, could I pick it up then?"

"Yes, the help-desk will only be open on the 23rd or 26th, though."

"That's fine, THANK YOU."

So, it was that simple. Frankly, I'm amazed that, before considering anything else, that they actually had the camera in their hands, let alone that they were going to give it back without some nominal fee, or say...another pat-down. The remainder of the morning was spent convincing my bank that I wasn't some vagabond that fled Scotland with Nicholas B. White's check card, only to find asylum in Norway. Huntington Bank thought it'd be great fun to lock down my card upon my arrival. So several friendly e-mails had to be sent their way to remind them that Europeans, like Americans, like to travel over Christmas break, to combat the depression and monotony that can come from living in a country where the Sun can be classified as an 'urban legend' instead of an actual real thing capable of scientific study and inquiry.

On Wednesday, Keiko and I took the subway into downtown Oslo. After hastily giving me a small lecture on how to navigate the 'National Theater stop' station to hop on the proper train back to Veitvet (a suburb on the east side of Oslo) she went off shopping for groceries and whatnot, leaving me to wander around downtown Oslo, penniless and not knowing a word of Norwegian. I tried to at least alleviate the first of the problems, and began ambling around several city blocks, trying every 'minibank' (that's what they call 'ATMs' or 'cash machines'). Let this be said about my navigational abilities: I get lost quicker than a blind man in a labyrinth. Let this be said about downtown Oslo: It has just as many CCTV cameras stationed around the city as London does. When you combine these two, I'm sure that that the Norwegian 'Politi' are currently spooling over reels and reels of myself walking around the same three blocks and their respective cross-streets over the course of three hours, and probably suspecting myself of planning to case several joints.

But I digress. The ATM mission was a disaster. No ATM would allow me to take out the amount that I wanted, which, really wasn't that much. Finally, I went into the formal banking headquarters of Nordea, the official bank of Norway, to my understanding, and asked if they had any idea. Of course, they asked if I was sure that I had enough money on the card. Now, this might sound stupid, but when one considers that the most useful thing one can do with the American Dollar is burn it for warmth, and that a lunchtime break to McDonalds in Norway requires several financial consultants and a possible promise of allowing several of your non-vital organs to be harvested, it begins to make sense. Though it's still more than disturbing.

They finally suggested that I attempt a lower amount. So I did...and I got that amount. From then however, regardless of where I attempted to get money or how much I requested, it was a 'no go' situation. From what I ascertained, Huntington Bank once again didn't want to take chances that I wasn't secretly funding some nondescript terrorist organization though a seemingly mundane savings account with a low interest yield, and shut my account down again. After falling short of the expected amount that I wanted to take out, I continued to wander around downtown. It was beautifully lit with large bell shaped lights overhanging the main street, and there was just a faint amount of snow in the air to give the appearance that the temperature and geographic region already hinted at...I walked down by the harbor, saw a few of the large freighter ships enter and leave, and then attempted to visit several of the main museums in downtown Oslo.

I'm ill...but actually in a physical way this time

Well, considering that hardly anyone knows about this blog yet, and I haven't actually bothered to tell anyone about it, this post appears to be alarmingly futile. At least, that's the impression I get. I've only got about five minutes to work on this before I have to head over to Liz's to have dinner. She's making chicken, and is a wonderful person. I say this because she is fully aware that I am incapable of taking care of myself in troublesome situations, and because she has some notion of what it means to be an average human being, is helpful.

But, yes, I am sick. The usual cold, cough, runny nose symptom dealio. Thankfully I have not yet resorted to getting my pockmarked hands on some of the over-the-counter meds here, because of the fact that they have basically no drug testing boards over here. Don't get me wrong, the United States takes about eighty five years before they actually decide to approve anything:

Surgeon General: So, are we ready to disclose that controversial vaccine that will prevent the dreadful Polio vaccine?

Scientist: Well, yes sir, but....

Surgeon General: But what? This needs to get out to the public, so that future generations will not have to suffer the way their forefathers did.

Scientist: See, umm...Polio was eradicated several decades ago, sir. We just kinda were forced to continue testing during that time.

Surgeon General: So...we're talking like, everywhere? Is this one of those diseases that even those sad looking, rib-showing, children on the "Save The Children" commercials don't actually have?

Scientist: Almost likely, sir. If it would make you feel better, we could always come forward with the fact that we have the cure to AIDS figured out. That'd make a good press release!

Surgeon General: Nah, let's just wait that one out a bit longer...

Scientist: But, sir...

Surgeon General: You heard exactly what I said.

That being said, I've resorted lately to buying two rather large boxes of Kleenex from the Hillhead Shop. Each of which cost two American dollars. For such a fare, I was honestly expecting them to have small diamonds embedded into the small floral patterns, and to be moisturized with the famed elixir of life...but I can see how that would probably keep them from ever having any repeat customers. Aside from the price, I'm more concerned about the notion that all of the people that work at the Hillhead Shop are now quite convinced that I am a chronic masturbator, if not ill. If there are any other reasons that men would find themselves at the mercy of purchasing large quantities of TISS-ues (as they like to call them here) I wouldn't know.

Well, I could spin the purchases off with the understanding that I get unimaginably sensitive during film viewings of any sort, and must have some sort of an absorbing force to keep my caring and frail nature from drowning the viewing populous. Riight. As it stands, I can either come across as the revival of the Bubonic Plague (and they would just eat it up, the notion that an AMERICAN of all people, would bring this plague upon them) a chronic masturbator, a flamer, or an overly sappy emo (even though emos are likely more inclined to wipe their tears with a blood-stained cloth they've kept over their years of 'cutting'). I guess my lesson to fellow males is to avoid the purchase of Kleenex at any cost. Women, who wonder why men seem to not want to leave the house, when they appear to have nothing more than a cold...it's because of the simple act of having to buy Kleenex. It kills us, ladies...honestly.

*note...this blog entry was continued, and, consequently modified Monday afternoon*

Well, I just got out of class about a half hour ago, went to the Hub, got myself some money that will hopefully last me through the week, and hopped on this computer. I've got about two more weeks before the semester is over...three more weeks before I have to leave the dorms. I admit I neither have tickets, nor a solid idea of what I'm doing over break. To the students that are going home, I wish I was with you, because if I thought that living on the Pound was hard enough with housing covered, being on the move certainly won't help things...especially with the recent surges of the Euro. That being said, I'm hoping to end up somewhere where housing can at least be taken care of. Norway...perhaps? I know it's an odd suggestion, both because it won't have me on the move, like a lot of students will be, and because the average American has very little knowledge of Scandinavia, aside from Swedish bikini models, but it really looks like my best shot.

Granted, I really don't like the notion of having to impose upon people, or being in debt to people in any various capacity. I always get the feeling that the moment I take a few dollars, or a small gift, or allow anyone to bail me out of some inextricable scenario, the "favor" in return will be comparable to Faustus handing over his soul to Satan. On top of that, nobody ever asks a normal favor of me. It's usually something like, "Nick, could you find out what this person's real middle name is?" or "Nick, could you go a little out of your way today, and manage to get your hands on a contract killer for me, I've got some issues that need...cleaning up." And this, is why I never get myself in debt to people.

Other than that, I've basically got two essays to write before Friday of next week. It's odd, really. I've never had two essays due on the same day, and that made it quite easy in prioritizing how I was to proceed with the two. For some odd reason, having these two on the same day has really thrown me for a loop, and while you, my limited and probably random readers, have no interest in when these things are due, or how I plan to deal with them, I'm going to post such up, if only as a frequent and constant reminder to myself.

Religion essay: rough draft completed by Friday. Submit and advisory work done by end of weekend.

Spend all of week two on the English essay...try to get research done by the end of the weekend, after finishing the Religion essay.

Will any of this hold true?

Probably not.

But...you can't say I didn't at least try.