Since the two most recent assignments were rather similar, I decided to put them both in the same post. Thus, here comes a summary of the days, customs, parties and rituals we celebrate in Norway.

Even though this country is, by and large, quite secular, we have a state religion and should, no matter how heathen we become, thank Jesus for ensuring that we have so many days off. Every Sunday we dutifully observe the fourth commandment by keeping shops closed, unless they are below a certain size, in which case they are allowed to stay open.

Spring is the best season by far, abundant with “red days” (official holidays) scattered all over the calendar. There’s a day off for Ascension, two for Lent, four Easter days, and then there’s Labor Day on May 1st and National Day on May 17th.

Customs are adopted and changed as we see fit. For example, we still celebrate the end of fast (fastelavn) by decorating fagots with colorful feathers, munching on wheat buns filled with whipped cream and jam, even though most of us skip the troublesome prerequisite of actually fasting.

During Easter we are required to go skiing in the mountains. Not all of us do, but those who don’t aren’t considered proper Norwegians. In our cozy cabins we decorate eggs, eat chocolate and oranges, quiz each other and read crime novels. We don’t have an Easter bunny, but luckily we still somehow have cardboard eggs filled with candy.

The night before Labor Day, May 1st, leads up to the worst hangover of them all, which actually may not be that inappropriate, considering how alcohol serves as a means to subdue the masses into blindly accepting the status quo. It is hard to rebel against the establishment when you’re shit-faced and singing to the porcelain abyss.

May 1st also marks the beginning of the “russefeiring”- high school students’ non stop drunken brawl, culminating seventeen days later when the graduates wake up to realize they are sadly unprepared for their final exams. This tradition is in many ways the modern equivalent of an unsupervised rite of passage where youths are socialized into the adult world of hazardous drinking and all sorts of promiscuous behavior. 

The National Day is especially tailored for kids, who revel in unlimited supplies of ice cream and hot dogs. It is also customary to dress up in national costumes and sing blatantly patriotic songs, saluting the flag with teary eyes. All over the country people follow marching bands in parade, shouting “Hip Hip Hooray!”   After an uneventful stretch of summer and fall only punctuated by a rainy mid-summer’s feast, Christmas season officially opens on December 1st . Every morning children find small treats in their “Advent calendars,” and for each of the four Sundays of Advent we light purple candles for joy, hope, longing and peace. December 13th is the day of Lucia, the Sicilian lady who was tortured and had her eyes gouged out without being blinded. This family friendly incident is celebrated by making kids wear white sheets adorned with tinsel and have them go around school carrying candles, handing out saffron buns (lussekatter) and singing the praise of poor Saint Lucy.

All self-respecting housewives have to obey ancient numerology by baking seven different types of cookies. Christmas lunch usually comes in the form of rice porridge with a blanched almond, and whoever finds the hidden treasure is awarded with marzipan in the shape of a pig. Those of us who hail from farms are careful not to forget to leave a bowl of porridge out by the barn for the domestic gnome. If not, there is no telling what mischief he can stir up. During the “romjul,” the days between the 24th and New Years Eve, children of all ages dress up and go “julebukk” (Christmas goat), begging for candy or drinks.

Celebrating the end of the year typically happens in the form of champagne parties, turkey dinners and sometimes lethal fireworks. The following morning initiates the next year, traditionally by watching the annual ski jump competition televised from Garmisch-Partenkirchen, and, of course, by cooking up yet another set of futile resolutions.

First of all, thanks for inviting me to this exciting project. I’m not sure Norway would choose me for ambassador, but when I think about it, maybe they should. What I lack in diplomacy and etiquette I more than make up for in spirit and sass.

There are plenty of places in this country that both natives and visitors consider worthwhile pastimes: Trying to figure out what the sculptures in the Vigeland Park are thinking; suffering insomnia in Lofoten’s magnificent midnight sun; searching for Santa in the Christmassy streets of Lillehammer by winter. You can lose your breath to the fjords, get a glimpse of the ancient history of stave churches, or take a look at more modern impressions in the street art of Oslo.

These activities are all swell. But frankly, you don’t need me for this information. Any travel book you pick up would guide you there. What I want to share with you is a better kept secret. Now, if someone I cared for came visiting, I would take them to…

My hometown  

 

With a population density of one square kilometer per person Lesja should have enough room for all the people I care for and a couple of those I don’t like so much, too. If I wanted to, I could stretch to my full length 555 times in either direction of my personal square kilometer without risking bodily contact with another person. My hometown is nothing like Monaco, where I’d have to fight with 23660 other fools for leg room.

In the 1823 Encyclopediae Britannica article on Norway, the natives of my valley are described along these lines: They grow so tremendously old that they become sick with life and in the hope of dying sooner they move to areas with less healthy climates. A long standing joke says that we are very impulsive people, as long as we get some time to think it over. This is surely an attitude that keeps us out of danger, hence the long life spans.

Neighboring Dovre is home of the Mountain king, the troll that Ibsen’s Peer Gynt parties with. In fact, this area is ripe with trolls. In folk tales it is said that only German mythical mountain Blocksberg rivals Dovrefjell as venue for the best annual troll & witch conventions. Dovrefjell represents the ancient, the eternal, the unchanging, the grounded. In 1814, when Norway wrote its constitution, the founding fathers formed a circle, held hands and proclaimed: “United and true until Dovre falls.”

So, in a place like this, what would I have my guests do? Well, if the weather was nice, meaning a notch above blizzard-level, we could sit on the veranda enjoying some of the strawberries that we proudly consider the world’s finest. The veranda is an integral institution in Norwegian culture. In the cities you can easily tell the home-owner’s ethnicity by the set-up of their verandas. If they use them as storage space, they haven’t been properly integrated into the Norwegian way of life.

 

From the veranda we could watch the scenery and talk about how we wonder if the snow will finally melt this year, a topic that has been highly debated ever since the first people set foot on what eventually became Norwegian soil. This practice is called sitting in the “solvegg” (sun-wall), where we drink “utepils” (outdoors beer) while we desperately work on our tans.

This is a strange country, indeed. If you’re too brown by way of southern genes, they tell you. But if you’re born pigmentally challenged, like me, they make sad faces and ask if you can’t tan - like it’s a dreadful disorder.

 

If it is a really good summer, one of those we barely see once in a decade, we could go to the river beach and play a game of boules. But if it gets too hot we start complaining. Our houses are built to keep the heat, not to keep us cool. And the only thing we love more than our verandas and strawberries is complaining. It is considered life-affirming.

 

When we’re done complaining, my foreign friends could join me on a hike to a mountain lake, where we could fish for pink-fleshed trout – which, judging by the expression on my face, clearly is as much crazy fun as a person could ever hope to have.

 

We could wash off sleep with chilling morning baths and as night falls we could light a fire, gather round and listen to recording artist Terje Nordgarden perform a private session to no one but us and the reindeer that happen to pass by.

 

No museum or fjord cruise can compete with this. Welcome to Lesja.

(This text complete with links and video)

By the time you have finished reading this, your entry into Norwegian social life should be a smooth one, as I will give you a basic understanding of our culture and warn you against some common semantic pitfalls.

For instance, my Pakistani-Norwegian boss still cracks up every time a shop keeper asks if he needs a “pose” (bag), which means “fart” in Punjabi. My Somali friend was for a long time appalled at what he thought was Norwegian hostility: People kept asking him to “get lost.” Little did he know that when they said “takk,” they actually meant “thank you.” Numerous exchange students have been tricked into ordering “morrabrød,” an expression that translates logically as “morning bread,” but that unfortunately instead means “morning woody”.

Another thing one should be wary of is the importance of pronouncing “kj” and “skj” correctly. Say that you want to talk about a chain of some sorts, a necklace for instance. You want to pay a compliment and say: -I like your “kjede.” Now, if you pronounce your “kj” sloppily, as kids these days increasingly do - causing hysteria and claims of phonetic decay from the adult population - you end up saying “skjede,” which at best means “sheath”, but more commonly refers to something completely different, and as a result you compliment her vagina.

Embarrassments aside, what is typical Norwegian? Well, for one thing we spend fortunes on refurnishing and decorating our homes. I read somewhere that at any given time 20% of Oslo’s inhabitants are “på flyttefot” (on the move) - restlessly searching for the next upgrade in comfort level, however minuscule. I think the reason for this is that we are forced to spend so much time indoors, and thus like our homes to be “koselig.” There is no word in English that “koselig” adequately translates to, but imagine cozy times ten: Snuggling up under the blankets with a cup of hot cinnamon/vanilla chocolate and freshly baked brownies, the room illuminated by scented candle lights, and Nick Drake playing in the background. That’s the definition of “koselig.”

When someone has fed you, the minute you put down your fork you MUST say “takk for maten” (thanks for the food). Saying “takk for meg” (thanks for having me) as you leave is not quite as crucial, but still a sign of appreciation. I myself yearn desperately for the English language to incorporate these phrases. I tend to get so confused that I end up saying nothing at all and spend the night ruminating over my lack of manners. Sometimes I have to fight the urge to run back and finish my duties as the courteous guest.

Along with our Scandinavian neighbors we drink tons of “kaffe” (coffee) and the average Norwegian reads more “aviser” (newspapers) than anybody else. Admittedly, Norwegian newspapers are crappy, so one should not be misled into thinking we are an intellectual people.

Norwegians wear more thongs than any other women on this planet. According to statistics, Norwegians also have more one night stands than people of any other country. So, I guess a useful phrase for visitors would be: ”Vil du pule?” (wanna’ copulate?) Luckily, Norway has a very low HIV prevalence. We do, however, have what can almost be described as an epidemic of Chlamydia, but this is a disease that is easily cured. A couple of pills and you’re good to go.

No country donates as much foreign aid per capita as Norway does. Every year we glow patriotically as the Nobel Peace Prize puts us in the spotlight. We are eager to market ourselves as the world’s primary exporter of peace. At the same time, Norway is the sixth largest arms dealer of the world, top-ranking per capita. Norway has sold weapons to Turkey and contributed to the escalation of the Iraq invasion by supplying the US, Great Britain and Australia. Parts of weapons produced in Norway have indirectly ended up in Israeli hands. Thus, another word you should know in my language is “hykler” (hypocrite).

On a lighter note we also have fun words like “navlelo” (belly-button lint), and a descriptive term from my dialect, “hjælimillom,” which refers to the cold spot on the mid-torso when your sweater slides out of your pants.

If you’re still not tired of the language lesson, try saying this tongue twister:

Takpapp, veggpapp, papp og papir

(Roof cardboard, wall cardboard, cardboard and paper)

Takk for i dag.

(Class dismissed) Go here for audio clips.

It is sad, but it is true. What my country lacks most, are manners.

In Norway, urban culture is a relatively new phenomenon and thus, we tend to get anxious and insecure in situations where we have to interact with people we don’t know intimately. We are clueless on matters of etiquette and utterly helpless at small talk. As soon as more than two people are gathered in a public space, politeness is gone with the wind. It is every man for himself and damned be the poor fellow who happens to crack a smile or catch the eye of a stranger. He must be a loony, for sure. Better to pretend he’s not even there.

People don’t know how to queue properly. They crowd in front of doors, probably out of fear that the bus will leave without them or that someone else will occupy their seat of preference. Escalators are living nightmares. The person getting off always stops and takes a moment to decide which direction to go, effectively bottlenecking his followers, making them drop like human dominos.

The other day I had to take two turns through a revolving door. The people in front of me blocked the exit, dumb as sheep. I also recall with great pain the horrifying incident when I single-handedly had to transport three very heavy turkeys from the shop to my house. I took turns, carrying one turkey a few meters, always keeping the other two in sight, then going back to get another, zig-zagging down the street to Canossa. People stopped, stared and laughed. But not one person showed enough mercy to offer assistance.

Oslo’s provider of public transportation is now planning a campaign in the hope of changing people’s behavior. Knowing how well posters appeal to our moral sensibilities, I have my doubts. One can always pray. The time is ripe.

The event most crucial to my country’s fate took place when the Gulf Stream begun its journey from Mexico to our northern shores. I’m not sure exactly on which date this would have happened, but if it hadn’t, life in Norway would be much more frigid than it currently is. More entertaining, though, is Snorre’s tale of the early constitution of Norway. You see, back in the day there was no Norway at all, just a collection of petty kingdoms ruled by chieftains. Among these was Harald Hårfagre (Harald Fairhair) who came to be the first king of Norway.

Behind every great man stands an equally great gold digger. The most important person in Norwegian history would be a little lady by the name of Gyda Eiriksdatter. She was daughter to a neighboring king, and, as the story goes, a maiden of the fairest sort.
The future overlord sent his lackeys to offer her a hand in marriage, but she refused to waste her virginity on a man whose rule consisted of nothing but a couple of measly parishes. -I find it strange, she said, that there is no king to conquer it all, like Gorm of Denmark and Eirik of Uppsala. On one condition will I accept his proposal, she said: -If he lays the whole of Norway under his rule.

Consequently, the lackeys had to return with unfinished business. They suggested to the king that it would serve the ill-tempered, obstinate Gyda right if she were abducted and forced into marriage. Harald Fairhair, however, found her request reasonable. She had not said anything wrong or acted in a way that called for revenge. In fact, he was grateful for her inspirational words. He should have thought of this long ago, he said, and swore not to cut nor comb his hair until he had conquered Norway.

Next, the lovelorn king set out on a murderous spree. The battle of Hafrsfjord stood sometime during the 880s and marked the final crushing of the opposition. At long last, Harald could get himself groomed and send word for his bride. The rest is history.
And so it came to pass that the forming of the Norwegian state rests on a bloody love story. It is in many ways sad, yet fortunate in others, that the nation did not retain a passion like that which took part in its making.

Nouveau riche, self-made “car tire baron” and Norway’s second koenigsegg-owner Tommy Sharif is not impressed with politicians’ proposal to implement affirmative action in order to remedy the lack of ethnic plurality in official positions.

-I find it annoying to read complaints that the government isn’t doing enough, and that Norwegians are racists. Why do they stay if they think it is so awful? Immigrants expect that Norwegians shouldn’t be subject to preferential treatment in the workforce. Why should immigrants be, Sharif asks in daily newspaper Dagbladet.

Saying this is like adding fuel to fire in this country, whose poll-winning party “Fremskrittspartiet” last election symptomatically appealed for votes with this charming and attention-grabbing poster:

Four hours later the article had spawned more than 300 comments from readers eager to applaud Sharif’s viewpoint.

”Way to go Tommy! If everybody were like you, immigration would not be a problem. You totally deserve everything you’ve earned. Why should someone get a job for nothing? Sharif has done what every immigrant has the opportunity to do. If you really want to, you can find work or start a business.”

And so they go.

We should, of course, give acclaim to people who work their way up from nothing. Apart from that, Sharif is a fun addition to the public arena. For instance, he offered suspected terrorist Mullah Krekar half a million nkr to leave the country, on the grounds of Krekar being a “pain in the butt for Norwegian Muslims.”

Defying obstacles rather than ruminating on problems is probably a fruitful strategy, on a personal level. I believe that immigrants face a lot of barriers, both hidden as well as more direct. But I also believe that a lot depends on how one chooses to deal with things- and having the stamina not to be broken by ignorance and prejudice is probably a good beginning.

Credit where credit’s due. However, the problem is this: Sharif and his followers demand too much. Tommy Sharif is unique. Most likely, he has a supreme talent for what he does, and on top of that he might have gotten lucky. But not everybody can be a millionaire. And not everybody can be übermenschen, not even immigrants in the pursuit of better lives, and especially not refugees escaping war-torn countries.

One can also wonder if the authors of these comments are truly aware of what they’re asking for. What if all immigrants were like Sharif: Strong, inventive, successful and rich? Life would not be the same for us “original” Norwegians. We would have to clean the floors of tire barons and kebab kings. They should be careful what they wish for.

If one looks back 60 years, another ethnic group in another country earned a reputation for being superior in business. They didn’t win the popularity contest, and we can still see the consequences from that debacle.

If every immigrant were like Sharif, these commentators would not be able to sit on their brooding behinds, taking their god-given opportunities for granted while demanding excellence from others; they would be lucky if they could get a job.

If these commentators got what they claim to want, they would simply have something new to complain about.

The miracle dawns upon me as I am attacking a fully grown sink of dirty dishes, or should I say; as I am bathing the baby Buddha.

It is important to appreciate the simple things. What if I didn’t have arms? Then I couldn't have been here, delightfully doing the dishes! Attitude is key. The glass is half-full.

Parallel to this life-affirming experience I listen to my new workout-mix. Actually, I had given up on the dream of entering my thirties in the shape of my life. After a series of failed attempts last spring, I lost all faith in my physique.

But diet buddy Karina is obnoxiously persistent and well trained in the art of persuasion. She never says: -When are we going to the gym? She's much more cunning than that. She asks: -When are we going to the gym tomorrow, which leaves me with very limited options.

Consequently, I was cajoled into another gym membership. I have also purchased brand new spandex shorts. When working out, it is wise to wear outfits that maximize one’s unattractiveness. Progress will be more easily detectable, I think.

Anyways, as I celebrate life by covering myself in soapsuds, I hear Michael Jackson sing a song I’ve heard many times before. And it hits me: He is singing about himself!

“I'm starting with the man in the mirror
I'm asking him to change his ways”

For eighteen years I have been convinced that Michael Jackson in this song addresses a character named: ”Man in the Mirror”. I haven't given too much thought into who this guy is supposed to be, but I have definitely picked up on Michael really, really wishing for him to change.

The man in the mirror must be a very powerful person, I have probably thought subconsciously; since the world would surely become a better place if he only took a look at himself.

Today, while doing the dishes, I realized that Michael is pleading for us all to wake up.

From now on, I too will start with the girl in the mirror.

I was in bed when the phone rang. Somehow it did not seem implausible that famous psychologist, stepfather of the unconscious and proponent of dream analysis Carl Jung would choose me to talk to when he finally broke 45 years of deathly silence.

I was proud, but also terrified. What would I say to one of Western history’s most prominent thinkers? Too much, I thought and let it ring.

But Jung was nothing if not persistent. Not only could he make calls from the other side, he also possessed mystical powers that enabled him to change the contact information saved in my phone.

First he appeared in the guise of Psyche, the beautiful mortal who traveled down a long and winding road, and ended up deified and married to love-god Cupid. Still, I was not duped by Jung’s devious trickery.

Next he called as Odysseys: Adventurer, ladies man and Trojan war-hero. Then as Xantippe, Socrates’ sharp-tongued wife, and as Don Quixote, windmill-fighting dreamer.

When the display read "incoming call from Marquise Isabelle de Merteuil"; Glenn Close’s tragic and manipulating character from "Dangerous Liaisons", I decided to pick up.

After all, Jung had nothing to do but pester me, for the rest of eternity.

My voice trembled: -Hello? I expected a revelation of wisdom, to be forever changed by the professor's profound words.

He asked if I was Tonje. I confirmed.

Not really understanding his next question, yet trusting that he had a brilliant, concealed plan that I was unequipped to fathom; I suffered shock, disappointment and humiliation when he pantingly asked:  

–What are you wearing, baby?

"I don’t get you. You never lose yourself in anything, you have no hobbies, you don’t collect anything. You’re never crazy about anything other than TV or your stupid boyfriends. You never forget time, you never curse, and you never interrupt conversations to tell a funny story."

This male journalist is disappointed with the opposite sex. I agree.

Back when I was younger, stupider and even more willing to judge people by their taste than I am now, I used to work part time at a video store. Night after night I was forced to watch couples try to agree on which movie to choose.

I could smell the types from far away. Boy suggests film. Girl sulks.

We’re not talking advanced avant-garde here. Not Tarkovsky, no Bunuel, no Greenaway. Whitnail & I, Ghost Dog or Welcome to the Doll House would do.

And sure enough; boy caves in, every time. Frustrated I stood by as Costner or Bullock passed over the counter.

Why, I cried desperately to the universe. Why do cute, fun, intelligent guys prefer girlfriends with anti-taste?

The question drove me insane. I saw the best men fall for Oprah’s slaves. When I was dumped for a girl who had never even heard of Taxi Driver, I finally hit bottom.

By that time I had suffered through Hong Kong action even though I could not tell the difference between hero and villain. I had listened to fusion till my ears bled. I had investigated the history of progressive rock with ardent enthusiasm. I had read about hooligans sucking out the eyeballs of policemen’s heads and stubbornly defied the urge to vomit in order to learn to appreciate the hint of petroleum in a manly single malt.

All this pain to no avail. The competition wins on walk-over.

Why do guys settle for girlfriends who don’t share their interests? Well, maybe they have different priorities. Maybe it has to do with easy access to something unspeakable – and possibly the dream of being in a relationship with no contest for the prize of best brains. I don’t know.

What I dear say, however, if I try to be honest, is that the reason for girls like me saying that our own sex is boring might be that the hard work; the blood, the sweat and the tears we have put in to make ourselves interesting- is so bitterly wasted. Like pearls before swine.

With this confession in mind – is it kosher to think that girls are boring?

I’m not claiming that there are no spirited women around. But if one were to draw interesting people from a hat, the chance - for me - of finding an interesting guy would be immensely greater.

If my interests (pathetically) originated in my tactical maneuver to approach a male taste-universe, it might not be unnatural that I accordingly distanced myself from seeing girls as sources of information that I crave.

I tried to become a boy, and in the process I acquired the attitude towards girls I wished boys would have.