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.