One of the great benefits, and challenges, of moving to another country is that you get to experience a new cuisine. Increased globalization and the omnipresence of Mr. McDonalds might give you the impression that food is food is food pretty much everywhere you are in the West. But as it turns out, just like Canada, Norway has it's own specific flavour. A flavour that takes some time before you appreciate it (at least, our family took a while).
Just like beauty is in the eye of the beholder, taste is in, well, the mouth of the muncher. And the munchers in our house differ significantly from one another. The best eater of all of us is Nori. She likes everything, tries everything and eats with gusto. Eluin is definitely a good eater, too, unless of course her 4-year-old logic takes over. Like last week when she decided that she refused to eat animals. Whatever dish we served, she would meticulously pick out all things animal protein and put them next to her plate with a look of great pity and regret on her face. So, I decided during my weekly grocery trip, to pick her up some vegetarian fake chicken nuggets. You know, to placate the budding vegetarian (I do applaud her effort, don't get me wrong). And simultaneously easing my mind about her weekly protein intake. So...I made her some ficken nuggets that night and serve them to her. I informed her that I bought her some special chicken nuggets that were not made out of chicken, so she would not have to eat a dead animal again. Insert full-on 4-year-old meltdown here. Turns out, the lady likes the chicken in her nuggets. So I had to take them back to the store and "put the chicken back into them". I kid you not, that was the request I got (so of course I walked back to the kitchen, opened the fridge, rummaged through few drawers, closed the fridge again, walked back to the kitchen table with the same plate of ficken nuggets and informed Eluin that the chicken was back in the nuggets...sheesh!).
At the other end of the table, we have Menno and Jura. Now, Menno is not really a picky eater. But he is definitely a creature of habit. And he does not like meat with bones. Or beef. Unless it is ground beyond recognition. And he sometimes has an issue with the texture of food. Which brings me directly to Jura, the pickiest eater of all of them. And her biggest issue with food is texture, too. For years she would refuse to eat anything with a skin on it, because once a piece of skin of a cherry tomato got stuck at the back of her throat. So, out went the apples (unless they were peeled), berries and nectarines. And, because tomatoes could not be trusted, obviously, out went all things tomatoey, too. Including pasta sauce and ketchup. Or curries. Or basically anything in which you could not clearly see what exactly is in it.
And then there's me. I Love Food. And eating. Obviously, I would say, because I did not get overweight eating celery sticks ;-) And, this is pretty awkward, I tend to, erm, really show how much I like food. My foodie-friend back in Vancouver used to kid that she should videotape my food-ecstatics, because in some dark corner of the internet, there might be a group of food-fetishist that would pay good money to hear me moan over sushi :-D
Unfortunately, though, besides having a good appetite, I also have IBS (Irritable Bowel Syndrom). That is no fun. Luckily, I got introduced to a new diet by my physician in Vancouver, called Fodmap (the diet, not the doctor). The reasoning behind the diet is that some types of sugars can act as a trigger for intestinal discomfort. So, although leaving out those sugars do not cure the underlying illness, it can reduce the number of triggers. So, I started out by eliminating all those sugars from my diet (there's a lot of them) and by slowly reintroducing them, I found out what my triggers are. They include gluten, legumes (peas, beans, soy, etc.), stonefruits (cherries, mangos, avocados, etc.), high-fructose corn syrup, onions and garlic. Thankfully I figured out that fresh garlic is not nearly as much of a trigger as garlic powder, so I still use it in pretty much everything I make ;-)
On the plus side, eating on plan makes me feel a whole lot better. I no longer feel as if I have swallowed a piano and have no idea what tunes it is going to play (from tediously painful ballads to Rachmaninov, but never easy listening ;-) ). On the downside, food takes a lot more time, because I have to cook so many things from scratch. Also, it makes eating out/with friends always a bit more awkward. Since I'm not in mortal danger if I eat anything from my "nono-list", I tend to eat on plan as much as I can, but also sometimes just close my eyes and cross my fingers and eat food that other people serve me. Because I don't want to be rude and whiny and because I don't always feel like explaining why I cannot eat their delicious food!
So, now you know who are at our table, let's get back to Norwegian food. With the munchers above in mind, it should not come as a surprise that the first time I ever went to a supermarket in Norway to get my weekly groceries, it took me two hours! And not just because I had to Fodmap-approve pretty much everything that went in my cart. So many new things, so many options, so many things I had no idea about what it even was! Take meat for example. It's all called kjøtt. But except for kjylling (chicken) I still have no idea which kjøtt comes from which animal. I'm sure there is a logic to the meat section at the supermarket. I just haven't found it yet...
Which is why I usually drift over to the seafood aisle. Sweet lordy pyjama pants, there is some gooooooood seafood here! Which should come as no surprise because of Norway's geographical lay out, but still; omnomnom! Again, though, there are still things I dare not buy yet, because I have no idea how to prepare them. Lutefisk for example. Or fiskeboller.
But, for every thing in the supermarket that I have not brought home yet, I have at least sampled two other products that I have never had before. And as per all our Norwegian adventures, Eluin has been leading by example. I can't say it enough, Eluin has truly won the jackpot with regards to the school she is going to! At school, they have a cook, that cooks them a warm lunch three times a week. They eat bread with cheese and fruit in the afternoon as well. Freshly baked, homemade bread that is. Plus, they often cook while they are on tour, outside on the wood fire. One time, they even wrapped some meat in tinfoil, dug a hole, built a fire, heated some stones under the fire, took the fire of the stones, put the meat on the stones, covered it up with soil again and dug it up again after a couple of hours. At least, that's how I think they did it. According to Eluin that was the best food she ever ate, so she has been pestering me to build a fire pit like that in our backyard, so we can try it out as well ;-)
Because Eluin is such a great ambassador to Norwegian food, we have slowly introduced some Norwegian staples into our diet. Perhaps not always how they were meant to be eaten, but hey, live and learn! New favourites include makrell i tomat (yes, that's right, mackerell in tomato sauce), knackebrød and brunost (a sweet-salty specialty cheese that everybody eats here). Oh, and risgrøt. That is technically something you eat for dinner, but Eluin and I have decided to gloss over that fact and so we eat it for breakfast sometimes as a special treat (with sugar and cinnamon, sooooo good!). To Norwegian people that is probably the equivalent of eating mac and cheese for breakfast, but hey, we have no Norwegian people at our breakfast table, so who cares. Added bonus is that one of the ready-made containers comes with a vent in the plastic lid that whistles/moans when it is done. The mention of that feature has Eluin out of bed in no time in the morning, eagerly watching the tub turn in the microwave until it makes that weird sound.
Having had dinner with Norwegian families a couple of times now, I have come to realize what characterizes Norwegian food. First off, it is very seasonal. People integrate local produce in their dishes. So, in summer, you eat berries. Norwegian strawberries (jordbær) are the stuff of dreams, so imagine how lucky we felt that pretty much the first friends we made here own a strawberry farm. All through late summer and early fall we picked blåbær (blueberries) and tyttebær (cranberries). I still have bags and bags of tyttebær in the freezer that I some day hope to one day turn into tyttebær syltetøy, a tartly sweet cranberry compote that is a bit like the cranberry compote you eat with your Turkey, but not quite...
Of course, people also pick mushrooms in the fall. And they taste amazing! Freshly picked cantharells are incredibly good. Too bad that I am too scared of picking the wrong ones (well, eating the wrong ones I picked would be more accurate), so I will leave that to the professionals for the next couple of years. Because so much food comes from the forest, people enjoy preparing food in the forest as well. It may seem to be a bit of a hassle, and truth be told, we have never done it as a family yet, but a lot of families hike into the woods during the weekend with firewood and stuff to cook on the fire. Whether it be pølse (sausages), brødskive med ost (bread with cheese) or freshly caught fish (again something that our family will need a couple of years for before we get to that stage ;-) ), it is all grilled on the fire and it all tastes amazing. If you don't drop it in the fire, of course.
Overall, Norwegian food is all about hearty and authentic flavours. The kind of stuff that you want to eat after a day of cross country skiing. Or after a day of picking berries in the woods. My only frustration is that there is so much more I want to try, yet because the tastes are pretty outspoken sometimes, I am afraid that my family won't like it. It is with this in mind that I am a little bit anxious about December.
As in every cuisine, the holidays are a reason to go all out. And Norway is no exception. And the dishes are pretty, well, exotic. As in, I had never heard of any of them before they started showing up in the special Christmas flyers of the supermarkets. The traditional foods are, amongst others (because every region seems to have their own favourites), lutefisk (which is fish with lye???), ribbe (like spareribs, but then looking as if the pig's skin is still attached to it) and pinekjøtt (lambchops, but marinated and dried it looks like). There are special Christmas sausages. And Christmas meatballs. There's risgrøt, too, with an almond hidden inside it that brings a year of good luck to the one who finds it. And some kind of saffron bread rolls. It all sounds and looks delicious and I really hope I get to sample some of it in the coming months. I just hope my kids will be good sports and not turn up their noses for these very elaborate dishes and thus by insulting them jeopardize what little social contacts we have here... ;-)
Thursday, December 1, 2016
Thursday, November 17, 2016
Finding my way around Norway, one note at a time
Disclaimer: This blogpost is purely a reflection on my own experiences and I by no means mean to draw conclusions about what truly makes Norwegian people tick...in fact, this blogpost is probably more about my own social awkwardness than it is about Norwegian people.
There is a general idea among people not from Norway that Norwegian people are stand-offish, hard to read, gruff, proud of their own country and fond of everything to do with nature, winter and physical hardship. Their society is hard to become a part of as an outsider. You are never truly Norwegian, unless you AND your parents were born there. This makes it hard for an outsider to feel at home.
This is what I read before moving our family to Norway. And this proved to be true and absolute rubbish in such equal proportions, that I think I would have been better off not knowing what I was getting into. So let me share my story with you about how I got to know Norwegian people as one of the kindest and most welcoming people I have met. While also experiencing social awkwardness at a level that I had been spared since my high school days. And no, that is not because Norwegian men are all insanely good-looking Viking offspring. If that were the case, life would have been even more awkward!
In approaching Norwegian social life, I had two big handicaps. First, I did not (well still don't actually) speak Norwegian. Yes, I know, a lot of people here speak excellent English, but still... There is a certain freedom in talking that is lost if you have to think about everything you are going to say. Second, I came fresh from Canada, Small-Talk Country of the world! In Canada, your day is not worth calling a day if you have not at least engaged one stranger in a conversation about a completely random topic. That's just what life is like over there! After living there for a couple of years it became harder and harder to meet that one stranger, but I feel I still made pretty much every day worth living there.
So since I did not/do not speak the language, I used google translate to find the Norwegian version of Canada's conversation starter: "Hey, how are you?". GT came back with: "Hvordan går det?". So, for the first couple of days in Norway, I would ask that question to everyone I met. In the streets, at the supermarket, when meeting the principal of the girls' school, etc. Little did I know that "Hvordan går det?" inquires how people are actually doing. It is the kind of question you ask when you know someone has experienced a life-changing event, like a big surgery, loss of someone dear or moving to another part of the country. It is a pretty deep question. Kind of lacking in the non-committal, conversation starting aspect of the Canadian: "How are you?". So, instead of starting up nice conversations with my neighbours, I got quizzical looks about how on earth I could know that they were going through a rough patch in life... Of course, it took me a while to find out why my friendly enquiries were not met with a barrage of friendly responses, but I soon stopped asking it anyway.
Soon after, I realized that there was some truth to the stand-offish prejudice about Norwegian people. Out of the house, there is really little contact to be made. When shopping, everybody goes about their business, their OWN business. There is no eye-contact, no chance to make the odd comment about how nice somebody's rainboots look, how cute their baby is or where they bought that jacket that looks utterly Norwegian-weather-resistant. Nothing. Again, the contrast with Canada could not have been bigger.
Fortunately, we met some of the parents of the friends Jura and Nori made at school. And, they were awesome people! Very outgoing and welcoming, sharing stories about living in our small town and helping us navigate our way through all things new in Norway. I still feel incredibly grateful to these people for inviting us over, because they provided a much needed contrast with the rest of our contact with Norwegian society.
As mentioned in another blog post, dealing with bureaucracy in Norway wasn't exactly easy. Furthermore, I was trying to find a job as well. As suggested by the NAV (Norwegian social security agency), I wrote open applications to all possible employers around me (read: barnehagen and dental practices). But no one, and I mean no one, wrote anything back to my enquiries. Of course I had not expected to be showered with job opportunities, but coming, again, from Canada, I at least expected some form or reply. Something along the lines of: "Thank you for your interest in blahblah. Unfortunately we have no position available for non-Norwegian speaking middle-aged career-misfits who really should have thought about their job prospects before coming to Norway... We will contact you should such a position become available". That's only decent, right?!
So, after those dreadful summer months, I decided things needed to change. And quickly, too! Me, Ms. Chatterbox-pur-sang, I was starting to feel lonely! And not just lonely, I realized that I started to dislike Norway and at the same time was developing stalker-like tendencies to the people that I had had a good time with, aka the parents of Nori and Jura's friends. I could not rely on my Canadian experience anymore, nor did I want to rely solely on the goodwill of the Norwegian families who we had gotten in contact with so far. It was time for a change in tactics!
I decided to forego the job seeking mishap and focus on "learning Norwegian through social contacts" instead. I realized quickly that beggars can't be choosers and that perhaps I had to venture a little out of my comfort zone. In a way, I kind of thrive outside my comfort zone, once I have made the step to embrace the new and awkward so to speak. I decided to grab every opportunity I got to wiggle my way into Norwegian life. Over the course of a month, our family joined a family choir, I joined a local choir and I volunteered to become a member of the FAU at Eluin's barnehage (kind of like a PAC).
And almost immediately, things clicked! Because what people don't tell you about Norwegians, is that they are incredibly social, funny, welcoming, openhearted and supportive If They Have A Reason To Be Around You. That is the key. Don't expect people to chat with you at the playground. With every family being a double income family, there is no one at the playground during the week anyway. But, if you are part of a social gathering, you are part of social Norway, too. I learned how deeply ingrained going out, building a fire and being active in nature is in Norwegian culture. And come to think of it, why shouldn't it? Our natural surroundings are absolutely stunning and you sure do appreciate that fiery glow a lot more after a day in the woods! I've come to understand that even though people don't carry their heart on their sleeve, they are by no means shallow or cold. Indeed, moving to the Trondheim area from another part of Norway can leave one quite as in need of new friends as I was and I truly appreciate the people who have reached out to me and shared their stories of moving here with me. Then again, I have met quite a few Norwegians, both male and female, who are even more talkative than I am!
Also, I am really grateful to our friends who invited us to join the family choir (and the local choir).
It has given me insight, in how big a role music and singing plays in Norwegian life. Almost all the kids I know play an instrument and are a member of the school band. Nori and Jura both really enjoy singing at school. I truly enjoy singing at the choir, although I still find it pretty scary, too. I mean, I've never heard half the song before, so I don't know the melody, I don't know how to pronounce the words and I have no idea 90% of the time what the choir conductor is saying when she explains how she wants us to sing certain parts. What could possibly go wrong, right? Right.
But something that happened at the choir struck a chord in me and stirred a memory from long, long ago. During my studies, I went on an internship to South Africa. I worked with local volunteer groups in a rural, traditional Zulu community. Every meeting we had, we started with singing. They were mostly hymns, and they were sung with a heartfelt joy and spirit that gives me goosebumps just remembering it. Every single person I met there could sing. And every voice had the practice and power to go to a different place from where we were at that moment. To truly lift the spirit. I learned many a lesson over there, but the power of music, of singing, of forging a common goal at the beginning of each meeting is something I have not encountered ever again. And I am still in awe of that.
So, now I am here in Norway, quite far away from South Africa. And one night I joined the choir to sing at an evening where a number of local choirs gathered. It was my first social outing in Norway. The choir meeting was held in a "samfunnshus", kind of like a community centre. Everybody looked their best. There was good food and drinks to be had and the performances of the choirs were incredible. After the performances, the lights dimmed a little and people engaged in conversation. Until, at one point, one of the bass singers in our choir started a song at the other end of the table. His deep voice was joined almost instantly by another bass singer and an alto. Before I knew it, the table I sat at had burst into what I can only imagine to be an old seaman's song (though it could just as easily have been a song about how good oranges taste or the difficulties of finding a suitable partner in life, I have no idea actually ;-) ). Again, I felt the power of a song lifting the spirits. Of singing just for the sake of singing, because it is something that brings people together. I felt the same kind of goosebumps and connection that I had felt so many years ago in South Africa...
...wouldn't it be beautiful if I could end this blog post on finding my way around Norway on this magical, inspiring note? I bet it would, but alas, that is not me. Because the truth is, something else made me feel even more at home, and confident that I would have a good time in Norway after all. And that was something that has less to do with the power of music...and more with my potty mouth and dirty mind. It is no secret that I have a dirty mind to rival any 15-year-old. And although I met some cosmic twin sisters in Canada that met my level of tongue-in-cheek-jokes, the truth is that Canada was not entirely supportive, shall we say, of my particular tendency for "underpants-humour" as the Dutch proudly refer to it.
But lo and behold! At this local choir in rural Norway, people truly appreciate the power of a good joke! And the fact that I missed the clue on both the choir conductor's comparison between a choir conductor and a condom and a hilarious story involving a bass singer who's fly was open at the start of a concert has made me even more determined to learn Norwegian! Those jokes were too good to get lost in translation :-)
There is a general idea among people not from Norway that Norwegian people are stand-offish, hard to read, gruff, proud of their own country and fond of everything to do with nature, winter and physical hardship. Their society is hard to become a part of as an outsider. You are never truly Norwegian, unless you AND your parents were born there. This makes it hard for an outsider to feel at home.
This is what I read before moving our family to Norway. And this proved to be true and absolute rubbish in such equal proportions, that I think I would have been better off not knowing what I was getting into. So let me share my story with you about how I got to know Norwegian people as one of the kindest and most welcoming people I have met. While also experiencing social awkwardness at a level that I had been spared since my high school days. And no, that is not because Norwegian men are all insanely good-looking Viking offspring. If that were the case, life would have been even more awkward!
In approaching Norwegian social life, I had two big handicaps. First, I did not (well still don't actually) speak Norwegian. Yes, I know, a lot of people here speak excellent English, but still... There is a certain freedom in talking that is lost if you have to think about everything you are going to say. Second, I came fresh from Canada, Small-Talk Country of the world! In Canada, your day is not worth calling a day if you have not at least engaged one stranger in a conversation about a completely random topic. That's just what life is like over there! After living there for a couple of years it became harder and harder to meet that one stranger, but I feel I still made pretty much every day worth living there.
So since I did not/do not speak the language, I used google translate to find the Norwegian version of Canada's conversation starter: "Hey, how are you?". GT came back with: "Hvordan går det?". So, for the first couple of days in Norway, I would ask that question to everyone I met. In the streets, at the supermarket, when meeting the principal of the girls' school, etc. Little did I know that "Hvordan går det?" inquires how people are actually doing. It is the kind of question you ask when you know someone has experienced a life-changing event, like a big surgery, loss of someone dear or moving to another part of the country. It is a pretty deep question. Kind of lacking in the non-committal, conversation starting aspect of the Canadian: "How are you?". So, instead of starting up nice conversations with my neighbours, I got quizzical looks about how on earth I could know that they were going through a rough patch in life... Of course, it took me a while to find out why my friendly enquiries were not met with a barrage of friendly responses, but I soon stopped asking it anyway.
Soon after, I realized that there was some truth to the stand-offish prejudice about Norwegian people. Out of the house, there is really little contact to be made. When shopping, everybody goes about their business, their OWN business. There is no eye-contact, no chance to make the odd comment about how nice somebody's rainboots look, how cute their baby is or where they bought that jacket that looks utterly Norwegian-weather-resistant. Nothing. Again, the contrast with Canada could not have been bigger.
Fortunately, we met some of the parents of the friends Jura and Nori made at school. And, they were awesome people! Very outgoing and welcoming, sharing stories about living in our small town and helping us navigate our way through all things new in Norway. I still feel incredibly grateful to these people for inviting us over, because they provided a much needed contrast with the rest of our contact with Norwegian society.
As mentioned in another blog post, dealing with bureaucracy in Norway wasn't exactly easy. Furthermore, I was trying to find a job as well. As suggested by the NAV (Norwegian social security agency), I wrote open applications to all possible employers around me (read: barnehagen and dental practices). But no one, and I mean no one, wrote anything back to my enquiries. Of course I had not expected to be showered with job opportunities, but coming, again, from Canada, I at least expected some form or reply. Something along the lines of: "Thank you for your interest in blahblah. Unfortunately we have no position available for non-Norwegian speaking middle-aged career-misfits who really should have thought about their job prospects before coming to Norway... We will contact you should such a position become available". That's only decent, right?!
So, after those dreadful summer months, I decided things needed to change. And quickly, too! Me, Ms. Chatterbox-pur-sang, I was starting to feel lonely! And not just lonely, I realized that I started to dislike Norway and at the same time was developing stalker-like tendencies to the people that I had had a good time with, aka the parents of Nori and Jura's friends. I could not rely on my Canadian experience anymore, nor did I want to rely solely on the goodwill of the Norwegian families who we had gotten in contact with so far. It was time for a change in tactics!
I decided to forego the job seeking mishap and focus on "learning Norwegian through social contacts" instead. I realized quickly that beggars can't be choosers and that perhaps I had to venture a little out of my comfort zone. In a way, I kind of thrive outside my comfort zone, once I have made the step to embrace the new and awkward so to speak. I decided to grab every opportunity I got to wiggle my way into Norwegian life. Over the course of a month, our family joined a family choir, I joined a local choir and I volunteered to become a member of the FAU at Eluin's barnehage (kind of like a PAC).
And almost immediately, things clicked! Because what people don't tell you about Norwegians, is that they are incredibly social, funny, welcoming, openhearted and supportive If They Have A Reason To Be Around You. That is the key. Don't expect people to chat with you at the playground. With every family being a double income family, there is no one at the playground during the week anyway. But, if you are part of a social gathering, you are part of social Norway, too. I learned how deeply ingrained going out, building a fire and being active in nature is in Norwegian culture. And come to think of it, why shouldn't it? Our natural surroundings are absolutely stunning and you sure do appreciate that fiery glow a lot more after a day in the woods! I've come to understand that even though people don't carry their heart on their sleeve, they are by no means shallow or cold. Indeed, moving to the Trondheim area from another part of Norway can leave one quite as in need of new friends as I was and I truly appreciate the people who have reached out to me and shared their stories of moving here with me. Then again, I have met quite a few Norwegians, both male and female, who are even more talkative than I am!
Also, I am really grateful to our friends who invited us to join the family choir (and the local choir).
It has given me insight, in how big a role music and singing plays in Norwegian life. Almost all the kids I know play an instrument and are a member of the school band. Nori and Jura both really enjoy singing at school. I truly enjoy singing at the choir, although I still find it pretty scary, too. I mean, I've never heard half the song before, so I don't know the melody, I don't know how to pronounce the words and I have no idea 90% of the time what the choir conductor is saying when she explains how she wants us to sing certain parts. What could possibly go wrong, right? Right.
But something that happened at the choir struck a chord in me and stirred a memory from long, long ago. During my studies, I went on an internship to South Africa. I worked with local volunteer groups in a rural, traditional Zulu community. Every meeting we had, we started with singing. They were mostly hymns, and they were sung with a heartfelt joy and spirit that gives me goosebumps just remembering it. Every single person I met there could sing. And every voice had the practice and power to go to a different place from where we were at that moment. To truly lift the spirit. I learned many a lesson over there, but the power of music, of singing, of forging a common goal at the beginning of each meeting is something I have not encountered ever again. And I am still in awe of that.
So, now I am here in Norway, quite far away from South Africa. And one night I joined the choir to sing at an evening where a number of local choirs gathered. It was my first social outing in Norway. The choir meeting was held in a "samfunnshus", kind of like a community centre. Everybody looked their best. There was good food and drinks to be had and the performances of the choirs were incredible. After the performances, the lights dimmed a little and people engaged in conversation. Until, at one point, one of the bass singers in our choir started a song at the other end of the table. His deep voice was joined almost instantly by another bass singer and an alto. Before I knew it, the table I sat at had burst into what I can only imagine to be an old seaman's song (though it could just as easily have been a song about how good oranges taste or the difficulties of finding a suitable partner in life, I have no idea actually ;-) ). Again, I felt the power of a song lifting the spirits. Of singing just for the sake of singing, because it is something that brings people together. I felt the same kind of goosebumps and connection that I had felt so many years ago in South Africa...
...wouldn't it be beautiful if I could end this blog post on finding my way around Norway on this magical, inspiring note? I bet it would, but alas, that is not me. Because the truth is, something else made me feel even more at home, and confident that I would have a good time in Norway after all. And that was something that has less to do with the power of music...and more with my potty mouth and dirty mind. It is no secret that I have a dirty mind to rival any 15-year-old. And although I met some cosmic twin sisters in Canada that met my level of tongue-in-cheek-jokes, the truth is that Canada was not entirely supportive, shall we say, of my particular tendency for "underpants-humour" as the Dutch proudly refer to it.
But lo and behold! At this local choir in rural Norway, people truly appreciate the power of a good joke! And the fact that I missed the clue on both the choir conductor's comparison between a choir conductor and a condom and a hilarious story involving a bass singer who's fly was open at the start of a concert has made me even more determined to learn Norwegian! Those jokes were too good to get lost in translation :-)
Wednesday, November 2, 2016
Don't let money change yaaahhhh-deeptap-dabeedooowaahhh....
Holy mackerel, we're rich!!! I still can't really believe it myself, but we are... We finally sold our house and the savings from our mortgage thus became available to us as well. Technically speaking, it is not that big a load of cash, but for me it feels as if we have become millionaires overnight!
And so a period of our life seems to have come to an end. A way of life we not necessarily have to cling to anymore. Well, at least not for the coming months, at least ;-) The lifestyle of the let's-see-how-we-can-make-ends-meet-this-time.
Don't get me wrong, we have never been poor. But we have experienced a rather prolonged period of life in a state of not-having-enough-money. And while it may sound as if I am looking for some form of pity, I actually want to share with you some of the lessons I learned from being on a budget. Lessons I learned with the help of Menno, who, aside from being an amazing husband, also is a pretty steadfast financial conscience. True, I have called him stingy in the past, but let's face it, if it had been left up to me, we probably would be knee-deep in debt right now. So thank you! Plus, his budgeting and my creativity inspired us to do things that we normally would never have done. Or even considered a possibility!
Let's start at where our financial situation started to slope downhill. January 17th, 2011. The day we arrived at YVR airport in Vancouver. With only 2 children and no more than 7 suitcases (and 4 hand luggage trolleys, let's be fair) we were ready to start our new life at the other side of the globe. We had briefly considered shipping our furniture and belongings from The Netherlands, but even with my meagre grasp of math I was able to figure out that the added value of our belongings was less than how much it would cost us to ship it.
So, that first night, we came into our empty apartment, unrolled our thermarest mats and slept on the floor. The next few days we spent collecting the basic necessities of furniture, because we had a rental car for a week. It was during our search that we already met with the kindness of strangers. For people on a budget, the kindness of strangers is like your christmas bonus at work. Out of nowhere, people can make you so happy with what they have to share. In our case, we picked up a super cute, second hand, wooden toddler bed from a house in Coquitlam. Of course Jura and Nori, heavily jet lagged at that time, wanted to come into the house with me. While Menno lugged the bed to our car, I chatted with the lady who sold us the bed. Upon hearing that we had just moved to Canada and had only few toys for the girls, she gave us some very nice things for free! I felt bad accepting it, because, well, I had never been in the situation where somebody had felt the need to give me things for free...but seeing how happy Jura was to have another chalkboard to replace the one she had had to leave behind in the Netherlands, I decided to swallow my pride.
And that, right there, is the first lesson I learned. Having less money than you would like to have, places you in a strange position. All of a sudden, you become aware of what is considered "the norm" for spending money on. Like buying a coffee when going to the playground. Or having a car. Or bringing presents to your child's friend's birthday party. Or, heck, handing out goodie bags at your child's birthday party. It takes some courage, or at least, it took me some courage, to navigate those particular waters. To realize that it is ok not to have the things that society somehow thinks you should have in order to be successful. Now, I am not talking about the big things like buying a house or a fancy car. But even in the small things, you can feel the sting of the have's vs. the have-nots. If you are susceptible to that feeling, that is. You have to learn to take pride in living on a budget (because nobody else will applaud you for it ;-) ) while at the same time swallowing a different kind of pride and allow people to help you where they want to help you. Accept what is given, because it will make your life a lot easier!
When it comes to learning life on a budget, I am still eternally grateful that I got to go to the University of British Columbia. Living on campus taught me basically everything I needed to know, with a little extra help from my dear Dutch friend who lived 70km away from me. On campus, everybody was struggling. Life in Vancouver is insanely expensive, the cost of living is ridiculously high. You may think upon reading this that it is prosaic exaggeration, but let me tell you, this is the regular way to talk about life expenses in Vancouver. To exaggerate would be to say that nobody can afford to live there. That only being an exaggeration, because obviously people still do. Live there, I mean.
Add to that, that as a family from another country, you are dealing with the common money-slurping shenanigans of immigration bureaucracy. You do not move oversees because it makes your life easier, or less expensive, that's for sure. By leaving the Netherlands, we said goodbye to the child support we received there and were not eligible for child support in Canada until we had lived there for 18 months. Those kinds of rules and regulations held for every international family that lived in the UBC student-family or faculty-and-staff-housing. Those from Canada were also far away from family and support networks, so there was a general atmosphere of helping each other out.
My dear friend M. and I have spent many happy days collecting second hand furniture, or even dumpster furniture, to build ourselves a house worthy of Martha Stewart (just kidding, M ;-) ). She would call me whenever she had seen something nice, and later when I met my friend S who lived off campus, she would do the same! The first year I decorated, and re-decorated, our apartment with furniture found at the side of the street. More often than not, Menno would come back home from work and would see something was different, but would not be able right away to put his finger on what it was... Which was always kind of funny, because it gave me the feeling of what it would be like to have gone to the hairdresser and Menno not noticing. Of course, we had no money for me to actually go to the hairdresser, so this was a good second ;-)
Life on a budget also meant we did not have a car. Luckily, the public transportation system is excellent in Vancouver. One of my fondest memories of our first year in Vancouver, though, is our first christmas eve. Our dear friend M had lent us our car, because they were visiting family in Toronto for christmas. On christmas eve, after dinner, we put Jura and Nori in the car with a sippy cup filled with hot chocolate. With Cookie (Eluin's working title while I was pregnant with her) doing summersaults in my tummy, we drove around the neighbourhoods surrounding the UBC campus. The girls were completely mesmerized by the insanely beautiful christmas decorations. In fact, that drive around town became one of our christmas traditions in Vancouver.
Still, I felt we had to invest in some form of transportation. So first we bough a bike for me with a double bike trailer. Later on, while pregnant with Cookie, we bought a Phil and Teds stroller. Second hand of course, from someone in Surrey. The girls thought the trip on the skytrain to Surrey was the best trip they had ever had (all credits go to the bag of snacks that I had brought with me on that trip ;-) ) and I arrived home with 2 kids sound asleep in the new double stroller.
That double stroller was such a life-saver, that it inspired me to the most ambitious holiday I have ever organized. Going camping. By public transport. Yup, you read that right. Our family (Menno, Roos, Jura (5), Nori (3) and Eluin (4 months)) decided to go camping on Vancouver Island and to travel there by bus and ferry. We made so many good memories!
In preparation for this trip, I went to the Canadian Tire to stock up on some camping gear. Of course, I brought the Phil and Teds stroller, because that was basically going to be our tent trailer. I spent quite some time in the aisles fitting all the necessary items (double air mattress, new tent, sleeping bags, etc.) in the stroller. Feeling like the queen of Tetris, I finally found all the things to fit into the stroller, with room to spare for a child to sit in the stroller. Happy as a clam, I took my loot to the check out. The lady behind the register asked me if I needed help getting it to the car. This is the conversation that followed:
C(heckout lady): "Are you sure? We really don't mind and it looks like you have your hands full..."
R(oos): "Thank you, but it's ok...I came here by bus."
C (surprised): "You came here by bus? But how are you going to take it back?"
R (feeling proud): "Well, I just spent some time trying how everything would fit in my stroller"
C (impressed): "Wow, smart thinking if you have to take it home by bus."
R: "Well...actually...we don't own a car. So I bought this camping gear for a camping trip to Nanaimo and we will travel there by public transport"
C (incredulous): "What? Are you taking 3 kids camping by bus? Wow...that is kind of, well, ambitious... Can I call my manager? He definitely needs to see this!!!"
:-)
So now, fast forward about 3 years. In the meantime we had moved from our place on campus to a place off campus. Menno had been awarded a prestigious research grant that gave us a lot more financial leeway. We were actually able to save some money!
And then we got to move overseas again...
Really, there is no thing that makes you lose your money as quickly as a trans-continental move. Maybe we are playing this particular game the wrong way, but as much as we tried to prevent history from repeating itself, we found ourselves in Norway in a uncomfortably similar situation as how we had started in Canada.
First off, this time we did decide to ship our stuff. Because, frankly, we had more that we wanted to keep from our time in Canada than we did moving out of the Netherlands. In part because we left most of our life locked away in our families' various attics before moving to Canada. With our stuff on the way, Menno made his way to Norway and me and the girls travelled to Holland to sell our house. I left Holland after three months with a signed preliminary buying agreement in my pocket...only to see that fall through at the last moment, because the buyers were unable to secure a mortgage. Bummer.
Not only did this mean we had to find some way to sell our house while already overseas (thank you, parents-in-law!), it also meant double rents and financial insecurity. Our savings from Canada were mostly usurped by the deposit for our rental home here (a whopping 5.000 euros) and an exorbitantly high storage fee for our goods at the port in Oslo.
So there we were again... Trying to build our house on no money. Lending money from our parents. With more stuff, that's true, because we have a much bigger house here in Norway than we ever had in Canada. And the comfort of having our "own" material rubble around us (toys, books, plates and cutlery) from the start, rather than having to forage for an inventory, does make a lot of difference. But starting up a new life is expensive, it always is. And I have felt so bad about not being able to be as generous as I want to be for all these years and then starting anew with the stingy scurmudgeon lifestyle, that I have to admit that I have felt lost sometimes during our first months here...
But all that is a thing from the past now! We are out of the deep and murky waters. And I am so grateful for that. Because having learned my lessons in appreciating health, family, friends, love, laughter, traditions, food, kindness, volunteer work, crazy plans and shoestring holidays above material wealth, the money we have now feels like something that gives us opportunities, rather than something we need to make us happy in life.
And on that note: I realize that although we may not have been wealthy in the traditional sense of the word for the past years, I truly recognize my wealth in how lucky we are to be alive. I can't believe how little misfortune we have had over the years. Even my grandmother, who I anticipated to pass away during our time in Canada is still alive!!!
So please, if anyone anywhere is in charge of making us pay our dues for outstanding debts in the bad things of life, whether it be karma, God, Allah or the Flying Spaghetti Monster... I know we have been lucky these past few years, but could you please hold off your payments for a couple of months? So we can relish in this new found financial peace? Much appreciated! :-)
And so a period of our life seems to have come to an end. A way of life we not necessarily have to cling to anymore. Well, at least not for the coming months, at least ;-) The lifestyle of the let's-see-how-we-can-make-ends-meet-this-time.
Don't get me wrong, we have never been poor. But we have experienced a rather prolonged period of life in a state of not-having-enough-money. And while it may sound as if I am looking for some form of pity, I actually want to share with you some of the lessons I learned from being on a budget. Lessons I learned with the help of Menno, who, aside from being an amazing husband, also is a pretty steadfast financial conscience. True, I have called him stingy in the past, but let's face it, if it had been left up to me, we probably would be knee-deep in debt right now. So thank you! Plus, his budgeting and my creativity inspired us to do things that we normally would never have done. Or even considered a possibility!
Let's start at where our financial situation started to slope downhill. January 17th, 2011. The day we arrived at YVR airport in Vancouver. With only 2 children and no more than 7 suitcases (and 4 hand luggage trolleys, let's be fair) we were ready to start our new life at the other side of the globe. We had briefly considered shipping our furniture and belongings from The Netherlands, but even with my meagre grasp of math I was able to figure out that the added value of our belongings was less than how much it would cost us to ship it.
So, that first night, we came into our empty apartment, unrolled our thermarest mats and slept on the floor. The next few days we spent collecting the basic necessities of furniture, because we had a rental car for a week. It was during our search that we already met with the kindness of strangers. For people on a budget, the kindness of strangers is like your christmas bonus at work. Out of nowhere, people can make you so happy with what they have to share. In our case, we picked up a super cute, second hand, wooden toddler bed from a house in Coquitlam. Of course Jura and Nori, heavily jet lagged at that time, wanted to come into the house with me. While Menno lugged the bed to our car, I chatted with the lady who sold us the bed. Upon hearing that we had just moved to Canada and had only few toys for the girls, she gave us some very nice things for free! I felt bad accepting it, because, well, I had never been in the situation where somebody had felt the need to give me things for free...but seeing how happy Jura was to have another chalkboard to replace the one she had had to leave behind in the Netherlands, I decided to swallow my pride.
And that, right there, is the first lesson I learned. Having less money than you would like to have, places you in a strange position. All of a sudden, you become aware of what is considered "the norm" for spending money on. Like buying a coffee when going to the playground. Or having a car. Or bringing presents to your child's friend's birthday party. Or, heck, handing out goodie bags at your child's birthday party. It takes some courage, or at least, it took me some courage, to navigate those particular waters. To realize that it is ok not to have the things that society somehow thinks you should have in order to be successful. Now, I am not talking about the big things like buying a house or a fancy car. But even in the small things, you can feel the sting of the have's vs. the have-nots. If you are susceptible to that feeling, that is. You have to learn to take pride in living on a budget (because nobody else will applaud you for it ;-) ) while at the same time swallowing a different kind of pride and allow people to help you where they want to help you. Accept what is given, because it will make your life a lot easier!
When it comes to learning life on a budget, I am still eternally grateful that I got to go to the University of British Columbia. Living on campus taught me basically everything I needed to know, with a little extra help from my dear Dutch friend who lived 70km away from me. On campus, everybody was struggling. Life in Vancouver is insanely expensive, the cost of living is ridiculously high. You may think upon reading this that it is prosaic exaggeration, but let me tell you, this is the regular way to talk about life expenses in Vancouver. To exaggerate would be to say that nobody can afford to live there. That only being an exaggeration, because obviously people still do. Live there, I mean.
Add to that, that as a family from another country, you are dealing with the common money-slurping shenanigans of immigration bureaucracy. You do not move oversees because it makes your life easier, or less expensive, that's for sure. By leaving the Netherlands, we said goodbye to the child support we received there and were not eligible for child support in Canada until we had lived there for 18 months. Those kinds of rules and regulations held for every international family that lived in the UBC student-family or faculty-and-staff-housing. Those from Canada were also far away from family and support networks, so there was a general atmosphere of helping each other out.
My dear friend M. and I have spent many happy days collecting second hand furniture, or even dumpster furniture, to build ourselves a house worthy of Martha Stewart (just kidding, M ;-) ). She would call me whenever she had seen something nice, and later when I met my friend S who lived off campus, she would do the same! The first year I decorated, and re-decorated, our apartment with furniture found at the side of the street. More often than not, Menno would come back home from work and would see something was different, but would not be able right away to put his finger on what it was... Which was always kind of funny, because it gave me the feeling of what it would be like to have gone to the hairdresser and Menno not noticing. Of course, we had no money for me to actually go to the hairdresser, so this was a good second ;-)
Life on a budget also meant we did not have a car. Luckily, the public transportation system is excellent in Vancouver. One of my fondest memories of our first year in Vancouver, though, is our first christmas eve. Our dear friend M had lent us our car, because they were visiting family in Toronto for christmas. On christmas eve, after dinner, we put Jura and Nori in the car with a sippy cup filled with hot chocolate. With Cookie (Eluin's working title while I was pregnant with her) doing summersaults in my tummy, we drove around the neighbourhoods surrounding the UBC campus. The girls were completely mesmerized by the insanely beautiful christmas decorations. In fact, that drive around town became one of our christmas traditions in Vancouver.
Still, I felt we had to invest in some form of transportation. So first we bough a bike for me with a double bike trailer. Later on, while pregnant with Cookie, we bought a Phil and Teds stroller. Second hand of course, from someone in Surrey. The girls thought the trip on the skytrain to Surrey was the best trip they had ever had (all credits go to the bag of snacks that I had brought with me on that trip ;-) ) and I arrived home with 2 kids sound asleep in the new double stroller.
That double stroller was such a life-saver, that it inspired me to the most ambitious holiday I have ever organized. Going camping. By public transport. Yup, you read that right. Our family (Menno, Roos, Jura (5), Nori (3) and Eluin (4 months)) decided to go camping on Vancouver Island and to travel there by bus and ferry. We made so many good memories!
In preparation for this trip, I went to the Canadian Tire to stock up on some camping gear. Of course, I brought the Phil and Teds stroller, because that was basically going to be our tent trailer. I spent quite some time in the aisles fitting all the necessary items (double air mattress, new tent, sleeping bags, etc.) in the stroller. Feeling like the queen of Tetris, I finally found all the things to fit into the stroller, with room to spare for a child to sit in the stroller. Happy as a clam, I took my loot to the check out. The lady behind the register asked me if I needed help getting it to the car. This is the conversation that followed:
C(heckout lady): "Are you sure? We really don't mind and it looks like you have your hands full..."
R(oos): "Thank you, but it's ok...I came here by bus."
C (surprised): "You came here by bus? But how are you going to take it back?"
R (feeling proud): "Well, I just spent some time trying how everything would fit in my stroller"
C (impressed): "Wow, smart thinking if you have to take it home by bus."
R: "Well...actually...we don't own a car. So I bought this camping gear for a camping trip to Nanaimo and we will travel there by public transport"
C (incredulous): "What? Are you taking 3 kids camping by bus? Wow...that is kind of, well, ambitious... Can I call my manager? He definitely needs to see this!!!"
:-)
So now, fast forward about 3 years. In the meantime we had moved from our place on campus to a place off campus. Menno had been awarded a prestigious research grant that gave us a lot more financial leeway. We were actually able to save some money!
And then we got to move overseas again...
Really, there is no thing that makes you lose your money as quickly as a trans-continental move. Maybe we are playing this particular game the wrong way, but as much as we tried to prevent history from repeating itself, we found ourselves in Norway in a uncomfortably similar situation as how we had started in Canada.
First off, this time we did decide to ship our stuff. Because, frankly, we had more that we wanted to keep from our time in Canada than we did moving out of the Netherlands. In part because we left most of our life locked away in our families' various attics before moving to Canada. With our stuff on the way, Menno made his way to Norway and me and the girls travelled to Holland to sell our house. I left Holland after three months with a signed preliminary buying agreement in my pocket...only to see that fall through at the last moment, because the buyers were unable to secure a mortgage. Bummer.
Not only did this mean we had to find some way to sell our house while already overseas (thank you, parents-in-law!), it also meant double rents and financial insecurity. Our savings from Canada were mostly usurped by the deposit for our rental home here (a whopping 5.000 euros) and an exorbitantly high storage fee for our goods at the port in Oslo.
So there we were again... Trying to build our house on no money. Lending money from our parents. With more stuff, that's true, because we have a much bigger house here in Norway than we ever had in Canada. And the comfort of having our "own" material rubble around us (toys, books, plates and cutlery) from the start, rather than having to forage for an inventory, does make a lot of difference. But starting up a new life is expensive, it always is. And I have felt so bad about not being able to be as generous as I want to be for all these years and then starting anew with the stingy scurmudgeon lifestyle, that I have to admit that I have felt lost sometimes during our first months here...
But all that is a thing from the past now! We are out of the deep and murky waters. And I am so grateful for that. Because having learned my lessons in appreciating health, family, friends, love, laughter, traditions, food, kindness, volunteer work, crazy plans and shoestring holidays above material wealth, the money we have now feels like something that gives us opportunities, rather than something we need to make us happy in life.
And on that note: I realize that although we may not have been wealthy in the traditional sense of the word for the past years, I truly recognize my wealth in how lucky we are to be alive. I can't believe how little misfortune we have had over the years. Even my grandmother, who I anticipated to pass away during our time in Canada is still alive!!!
So please, if anyone anywhere is in charge of making us pay our dues for outstanding debts in the bad things of life, whether it be karma, God, Allah or the Flying Spaghetti Monster... I know we have been lucky these past few years, but could you please hold off your payments for a couple of months? So we can relish in this new found financial peace? Much appreciated! :-)
Friday, September 30, 2016
The last child in the woods
In Canada, I started a forest project at Jura and Nori's school. What started as a walk in the woods beside the school, slowly grew into a inquiry based outdoor science curriculum, thanks to the amazing teachers who let me be a part of their classroom.
We started to explore a trail at the edge of the school ground, called Swordfern Trail. Over the course of a year, 140 grade 1 and 2 kids slowly made this patch of forest their own. They learned the names of the trees on the trail and what ecosystem those trees were a part of. We looked for fungi and used a (crude) determination table as a puzzle to find the names of the mushrooms we found on the trail. I talked to them about the web of life and how even on that short stretch of trail each organism had it's role in the ecosystem. Outside of the science periods, the teachers took their groups to the same trail to have the kids inspired by their surroundings and write beautiful poems. We built fairy houses with the bounty of the woods
The children's curiosity was sparked and I got more questions than I ever could answer. The trail transformed from a path that some kids used to walk to school on to a part of the forest that they "knew". Probably the best part was when the grade 3 students the next year asked for "play time" in the woods as the last thing we did for the science program before I left for Norway. Seventy-two kids running wild in the woods for an hour, climbing logs, building dams in streams, finding treasures and trying very hard to get "lost" ;-)
In Canada, this was something relatively new. It felt like I had finely found a little niche for myself where I could use my biological knowledge in a way to teach outside of the regular "sit-at-a-table-and-repeat-after-me-way". If we had stayed in Canada, I would have explored my options to obtain some form of teaching degree and turn what I had been doing on a voluntary basis into a real, grown-up job.
Alas. We moved to Norway. And in Norway, outdoor education has been a substantial part of the elementary school curriculum for ages. Which, of course, is awesome. Jura and Nori have had 3 "friluftsdagen" so far (they have gone to school for only 1.5 months now!) where they do exactly what those grade 3 kids did...but instead of 1 hour, they do it all day! So aside from the language barrier preventing me from trying to become some sort of outdoor education teacher, it's not exactly as if what I have to offer has any "niche-value" around here. Bummer. Then again, at least my girls get to experience the benefits of outdoor education firsthand! And over the past couple of weeks, even I got to experience some :-)
Eluin in particular is the lucky duck. Because the barnehagen (that's what Norway's amazing daycares are called) in our town had no spot for Eluin available, she started at a barnehagen the next town over. This barnehagen has a strong focus on outdoor education. In fact, they even have an outdoor pedagogue who oversees all things outdoorsy. How cool is that?! Their school is at the edge of a beautiful forest and they take regular trips into the woods. Also, next to their school yard, there is a part of the forest that has been turned into a play-climbing-forest for the kids. I know. I want to go to school there, too!
Aside from the regular school-life, they also go on "outdoor weeks" twice a year (I think). They pick a place in the woods near one of the "wooden shelters with firepits" you find in the woods here everywhere. And they stay there. All week. Even if the weather is, well, Norwegian. Eluin got to experience her first outdoor week two weeks ago. She had an awesome time! Everyday she came home smelling like a smoked potato, full of stories about sawing tree trunks and swinging on rope swings and, on her first day, she even brought home an invisible troll friend named Lars that she had found in the woods. Over the week, her independence and feeling of freedom in the woods grew even more.
It was during this week that I decided to be bold and ask if the teachers perhaps needed some extra hands... Of course they did not need any extra hands, but they were polite enough to let this outdoor education groupie sniff up some of the good stuff. And, really, those couple of hours are amongst the best hours I have had in Norway so far! First off, I felt for the first time that I was conversing with people at the same level, in Norwegian no less! Two-to-four year olds are apparently right at my level of Norwegian language proficiency. By which I by no means am implying that I understood everything the kids said to me. But kids are a lot less awkward about using crude sign language to make themselves understood, so it still felt as if I was engaging in true conversation.
What struck me most was that the kids hardly needed any motivation or guidance in their activities. Every now and then a teacher would suggest something, like try out the zip line, and all munchkins would trundle after said teacher to wait their turn on the zip line. But for the most part, they were just, well, playing. With whatever they found lying around. Figuring out their own ways to cooperate, turning logs into trains or horses and just having a good time. They never, ever got bored. And they were so independent!
I had already noticed that new found independence in Eluin before she had her outdoor week, though. She actually freaked me out one of the first times we went on a family hike together after she had started school. It was the beginning of autumn and the woods were filled with berries of every imaginable kind. Of course, I pointed out the blueberry bushes to the girls and suggested we would take a break to snack some. When I looked at Eluin, I saw her mouth was already stained blue. Oh boy. So, I asked her what berries she had been snacking on, and she pointed to several bushes. Not all of them blueberries. Rats. I looked at the other bushes she had pointed out and racked my brains to see if I could come up with the name of the plants she was pointing at, and whether they were poisonous, but of course drew a blank. I decided to push the memory of Jura having food poisoning and projectile vomiting for 48 hours straight to the back of my mind and just told Eluin not to eat any more berries, unless she asked me if she could eat them. To which she muttered: "Fine...but everybody at my school eats them...but you don't go to my school, so you don't know..." A couple minutes later, I found her picking some heart-shaped leaves instead and munch on them. What the peep? Did I not just tell her not to eat anything unless she asked me? No, I had not. I had in fact told her not to eat any more BERRIES, unless she asked me. I had said nothing about leaves, because, well, it had not crossed my mind she would. But there she was, eating leaves and giving me a look of utter disdain that I told her that I wanted her to stop eating things. She rolled her eyes at me and said: "But mom, EVERYBODY at my school eats these. Even the teachers. They say it is ok. Try one!" So I did. And decided from that moment on to ask Eluin about anything outdoorsy. I mean, with all the fires they build at school, she's probably better at building a fire than either of her non-outdoorsy parents...
Last Tuesday, I got a chance to get a glimpse of what they do at Eluin's school. They had organized a parent meeting and in the invitation they mentioned that part of it would be outside. And that we had to bring the same 'tour-backpack' that our kids bring and to dress for the weather. Unfortunately, Menno was not able to join due to a deadline at work. Because it said to dress for the weather, I decided not to be stubborn and to wear the only piece of outdoor clothing I owned. My ski pants. It had been kind of chilly, so I combined it with my down jacket, my hat and my fingerless gloves. Menno took one look at me and asked if I was planning to go on an arctic expedition. Haha. Very funny. I just tried to be in Rome and do as the Romans. Even though it did leave me wondering that if this was my outfit for a walk in the woods on a night in September, what on earth I would wear on a night in December?!
The first part of the evening was a talk about the school and general information about things that were coming up. At least, that's what I think it was about ;-) After that, the parents were divided into groups and were assigned one teacher who was the leader of the group. In the woods around the school, they had set up different stations to explain different parts of the school's philosophy. Best. Parent night. Ever.
The group of parents I was in was really nice. They were joking and laughing with the teacher. It was so nice to be in a group of adults again that had fun together! Forget about what they say about Norwegians being stand-offish and quiet, these people were a hoot! If only I could understand what they were laughing about... ;-)
The first station we visited was hosted by the "special pedagogue" who, as I understood it, works with kids in small groups to, amongst others, deal with language issues. Like little Eluin learning Norwegian. He explained what he did by focusing on one word (in our case "bil" = car) and talking about all the things you can think of around "car". Anything ranging form the fact that it starts with a "b" and is one syllable to what it does (drive), what it sounds like, what colour it has and different brands of cars. So cool! I immediately figured that this was something I needed to do with the girls at home, as part of our quest to master the Norwegian language. Such a great way to go beyond the tedium of learning one word at a time. In fact, it might even be a good format for Menno and myself to use for learning Norwegian, but instead of "bil" we would put something like "health insurance" in the middle...
After this, we walked over to the next station, where 2 teachers gave us insight in the benefits of unstructured outdoor play in the form of a role play involving a log. Pretending to be kids, they turned the log into a boat, found sticks to turn into fishing rods and used collaboration to get the log from the place it was at, where there was obviously no fish, into open sea. They explained to us how parents usually like open places, but how for kids the density of the forest gives a lot more opportunity for play and games. And again, I was able to understand what they were talking about!
The third station was at the edge of the little lake that is close to the school. I knew that the school had canoes and that they sometimes took the kids on a little canoe trip on the lake (I know, this school is just AWESOME!). Darkness was falling as we stood on the edge of the lake and the scenery was just breath-taking. Whether it was that my brain had reached its limit for absorbing Norwegian or that this particular teacher spoke quite a strong dialect, I don't know, but I had a hard time following what he was saying. So I just enjoyed the scenery. I snapped back to attention when he held up a life jacket and one of the other parents took it. Cool! We might be going on a little trip ourselves! So, when he held up the next life jacket, I grabbed it. The other parent was putting it on, so I decided to put mine on as well. There were three parents and a teacher, so we paired up and climbed into a canoe. As I stepped into the canoe, though, I realized that I had no idea whatsoever what the plan was. I had not paid attention to the instructions. Darn. Why do I always get myself in this kind of situations?! Apparently we were going for a little tour on the lake, because we got pushed off shore and so I started paddling. Had the teacher explained anything on how to paddle? No idea... I mean, I have gone kayaking and canoeing before, but I was either on my own or the one in the back doing the steering and the main part of the paddling, because the one up front was a kid. Being in a canoe with two adults, this quickly turned into a team building exercise with the added challenge of a language barrier. Thankfully, the dad in the back was really kind and we even managed to win the race back to the shore! Probably because the other boat was not aware that we were racing them, but still.
Being on the water makes me hungry, so hurray for the next station being the "food" station. While eating Italian vegetable soup (yum) and drinking coffee, we listened to a story about the importance of good, nutritious food and lightweight thermos bottles to make sure our kids' backpacks did not weigh too much while they were on tours. The barnehagen offers hot lunch three days a week and I was tempted to ask if they had ever considered writing a cookbook. All I ever heard from Eluin when I asked what she had for lunch was: "So-and-so...and it was SO GOOD!!!" Thanks to the cooks at barnehagen, we in our family got introduced to typical Norwegian staples as mackerel in tomato sauce and the weird sweet-and-sour-cheese (Eluin does not eat it, but she told me a lot of kids in her class eat it, so I decided to be brave and try it...and now I am hooked!). They even ate chanterelle mushrooms that their teacher picked in the forest one day! And they cooked lamb in a fire pit which they covered up with earth... Talk about the pedagogical value of having children eat a variety of food in a group setting, so they all try new stuff because the person sitting next to them does too :-)
As I was digesting (pun intended) the talk about food, we walked over to the last station. The teachers in charge of that station had put up a little tent in the woods and all parents in the group before us were huddled inside. So, our group waited outside and I asked the teacher who was the leader of the group whether this kind of barnehagen was normal in Norway. It's not the mainstream kind of barnehagen, but because of the location of this barnehagen, it seemed only fitting to have such a focus on the outdoors. I think they are doing an amazing job, not just on the outdoors stuff, but basically at every level they care for and teach Eluin. And hearing how this is not the standard, I truly feel we got lucky in having no spot at our "own" barnehagen and being bumped one village over.
Soon it was time for us to crawl into the tent. I wondered what we could possibly learn more that night, but when I saw the bag of clothes I knew... This was the Tent of Bad News. Well, ok, it was the Tent of Appropriate Clothing for the Weather, but in my case, this could only spell bad news. And I was right. Now, don't get me wrong, I truly understand the need for kids to be warm and comfortable, especially if you take them outside for longer periods of time. And I also get that Norwegian weather calls for a larger variety in attire than Haarlem or Vancouver did. I even get that there is a certain correlation between the price of a piece of clothing and it's quality. But boohoo us... It turned out that the wardrobe I got Eluin was just her late-summer-early-fall wardrobe. I still needed more. Lots more. Darn. The past couple of months we have been scraping by (scraping is part of the expression for living from paycheck to paycheck because of all the peanut butter he has scraped out of jars over the past couple of months (it's the only thing he eats on sandwiches these days)). With our house in Holland still not transferred to the new owners, we have had to pay the mortgage on our home in Holland on top of our rent here. I really want my girl to be warm, but for now I just have to cross my fingers that the bad weather does not set in until mid October when our house is finally sold.
Once we got to the winter attire, with extra thick park dresses, I could see black spots in front of my eyes. I was just wondering whether it would be too awkward to put my head between my knees and thus keep from hyperventilating, when I heard the teacher say that although this particular snowsuit costs about 2000 kroner (~$330 CAD) it at least lasts for up to three children. In broken Norwegian, I groaned: "But Eluin already IS my third child..." But once I had said that, and as I listened to another parent explain to me that you could buy them second hand and they would still be good quality, one word flashed through my mind...
...TWINS! Twins. Twins would be the solution for the dilemma of investing in new, high quality outdoor clothing for Eluin! If we had twins, as indeed Jura and Nori are desperately hoping for in the highly improbable case of me ever getting pregnant again, that would solve the problem! We would have three kids that can use the fancy snow pants which lasts at least three kids. And, added bonus, if we apply soon enough, perhaps those two could go to this amazing barnehagen, too!
Last Tuesday, I got a chance to get a glimpse of what they do at Eluin's school. They had organized a parent meeting and in the invitation they mentioned that part of it would be outside. And that we had to bring the same 'tour-backpack' that our kids bring and to dress for the weather. Unfortunately, Menno was not able to join due to a deadline at work. Because it said to dress for the weather, I decided not to be stubborn and to wear the only piece of outdoor clothing I owned. My ski pants. It had been kind of chilly, so I combined it with my down jacket, my hat and my fingerless gloves. Menno took one look at me and asked if I was planning to go on an arctic expedition. Haha. Very funny. I just tried to be in Rome and do as the Romans. Even though it did leave me wondering that if this was my outfit for a walk in the woods on a night in September, what on earth I would wear on a night in December?!
The first part of the evening was a talk about the school and general information about things that were coming up. At least, that's what I think it was about ;-) After that, the parents were divided into groups and were assigned one teacher who was the leader of the group. In the woods around the school, they had set up different stations to explain different parts of the school's philosophy. Best. Parent night. Ever.
The group of parents I was in was really nice. They were joking and laughing with the teacher. It was so nice to be in a group of adults again that had fun together! Forget about what they say about Norwegians being stand-offish and quiet, these people were a hoot! If only I could understand what they were laughing about... ;-)
The first station we visited was hosted by the "special pedagogue" who, as I understood it, works with kids in small groups to, amongst others, deal with language issues. Like little Eluin learning Norwegian. He explained what he did by focusing on one word (in our case "bil" = car) and talking about all the things you can think of around "car". Anything ranging form the fact that it starts with a "b" and is one syllable to what it does (drive), what it sounds like, what colour it has and different brands of cars. So cool! I immediately figured that this was something I needed to do with the girls at home, as part of our quest to master the Norwegian language. Such a great way to go beyond the tedium of learning one word at a time. In fact, it might even be a good format for Menno and myself to use for learning Norwegian, but instead of "bil" we would put something like "health insurance" in the middle...
After this, we walked over to the next station, where 2 teachers gave us insight in the benefits of unstructured outdoor play in the form of a role play involving a log. Pretending to be kids, they turned the log into a boat, found sticks to turn into fishing rods and used collaboration to get the log from the place it was at, where there was obviously no fish, into open sea. They explained to us how parents usually like open places, but how for kids the density of the forest gives a lot more opportunity for play and games. And again, I was able to understand what they were talking about!
The third station was at the edge of the little lake that is close to the school. I knew that the school had canoes and that they sometimes took the kids on a little canoe trip on the lake (I know, this school is just AWESOME!). Darkness was falling as we stood on the edge of the lake and the scenery was just breath-taking. Whether it was that my brain had reached its limit for absorbing Norwegian or that this particular teacher spoke quite a strong dialect, I don't know, but I had a hard time following what he was saying. So I just enjoyed the scenery. I snapped back to attention when he held up a life jacket and one of the other parents took it. Cool! We might be going on a little trip ourselves! So, when he held up the next life jacket, I grabbed it. The other parent was putting it on, so I decided to put mine on as well. There were three parents and a teacher, so we paired up and climbed into a canoe. As I stepped into the canoe, though, I realized that I had no idea whatsoever what the plan was. I had not paid attention to the instructions. Darn. Why do I always get myself in this kind of situations?! Apparently we were going for a little tour on the lake, because we got pushed off shore and so I started paddling. Had the teacher explained anything on how to paddle? No idea... I mean, I have gone kayaking and canoeing before, but I was either on my own or the one in the back doing the steering and the main part of the paddling, because the one up front was a kid. Being in a canoe with two adults, this quickly turned into a team building exercise with the added challenge of a language barrier. Thankfully, the dad in the back was really kind and we even managed to win the race back to the shore! Probably because the other boat was not aware that we were racing them, but still.
Being on the water makes me hungry, so hurray for the next station being the "food" station. While eating Italian vegetable soup (yum) and drinking coffee, we listened to a story about the importance of good, nutritious food and lightweight thermos bottles to make sure our kids' backpacks did not weigh too much while they were on tours. The barnehagen offers hot lunch three days a week and I was tempted to ask if they had ever considered writing a cookbook. All I ever heard from Eluin when I asked what she had for lunch was: "So-and-so...and it was SO GOOD!!!" Thanks to the cooks at barnehagen, we in our family got introduced to typical Norwegian staples as mackerel in tomato sauce and the weird sweet-and-sour-cheese (Eluin does not eat it, but she told me a lot of kids in her class eat it, so I decided to be brave and try it...and now I am hooked!). They even ate chanterelle mushrooms that their teacher picked in the forest one day! And they cooked lamb in a fire pit which they covered up with earth... Talk about the pedagogical value of having children eat a variety of food in a group setting, so they all try new stuff because the person sitting next to them does too :-)
As I was digesting (pun intended) the talk about food, we walked over to the last station. The teachers in charge of that station had put up a little tent in the woods and all parents in the group before us were huddled inside. So, our group waited outside and I asked the teacher who was the leader of the group whether this kind of barnehagen was normal in Norway. It's not the mainstream kind of barnehagen, but because of the location of this barnehagen, it seemed only fitting to have such a focus on the outdoors. I think they are doing an amazing job, not just on the outdoors stuff, but basically at every level they care for and teach Eluin. And hearing how this is not the standard, I truly feel we got lucky in having no spot at our "own" barnehagen and being bumped one village over.
Soon it was time for us to crawl into the tent. I wondered what we could possibly learn more that night, but when I saw the bag of clothes I knew... This was the Tent of Bad News. Well, ok, it was the Tent of Appropriate Clothing for the Weather, but in my case, this could only spell bad news. And I was right. Now, don't get me wrong, I truly understand the need for kids to be warm and comfortable, especially if you take them outside for longer periods of time. And I also get that Norwegian weather calls for a larger variety in attire than Haarlem or Vancouver did. I even get that there is a certain correlation between the price of a piece of clothing and it's quality. But boohoo us... It turned out that the wardrobe I got Eluin was just her late-summer-early-fall wardrobe. I still needed more. Lots more. Darn. The past couple of months we have been scraping by (scraping is part of the expression for living from paycheck to paycheck because of all the peanut butter he has scraped out of jars over the past couple of months (it's the only thing he eats on sandwiches these days)). With our house in Holland still not transferred to the new owners, we have had to pay the mortgage on our home in Holland on top of our rent here. I really want my girl to be warm, but for now I just have to cross my fingers that the bad weather does not set in until mid October when our house is finally sold.
Once we got to the winter attire, with extra thick park dresses, I could see black spots in front of my eyes. I was just wondering whether it would be too awkward to put my head between my knees and thus keep from hyperventilating, when I heard the teacher say that although this particular snowsuit costs about 2000 kroner (~$330 CAD) it at least lasts for up to three children. In broken Norwegian, I groaned: "But Eluin already IS my third child..." But once I had said that, and as I listened to another parent explain to me that you could buy them second hand and they would still be good quality, one word flashed through my mind...
...TWINS! Twins. Twins would be the solution for the dilemma of investing in new, high quality outdoor clothing for Eluin! If we had twins, as indeed Jura and Nori are desperately hoping for in the highly improbable case of me ever getting pregnant again, that would solve the problem! We would have three kids that can use the fancy snow pants which lasts at least three kids. And, added bonus, if we apply soon enough, perhaps those two could go to this amazing barnehagen, too!
Wednesday, September 28, 2016
On Norwegian bureaucracy...
It's no secret that I do not take pleasure in, nor have any talent for, the bureaucratic, form-filling, official part of life. But after our second Trans-Atlantic move, both Menno and I have at least some experience with dealing with red tape in another country. So, we were less concerned about the daunting task of becoming "official persons" in Norway then we were when we moved to Canada. We found out quickly, though, that this confidence was in fact hubris in it's most concentrated form...
Whether it was the notion that Norway, although not part of the European Union, still counted as Europe, or whether Canadian customer service had tricked us into thinking we were seasoned form fillers, I still don't know. I do know, however, that our confidence crashed hard and fast after only a couple of weeks in Norway. Due to our moving schedule, it was Menno's confidence to crash first. He told me about his struggles during numerous phone calls over the months that I was in Holland with the girls, but as I was at that point knee-deep in my own murky-house-selling-situation, I did not fully grasp the severity of the situation. Plus, I also thought that with all beginnings being hard, it was actually nice to have Menno as a test case to become a Norwegian official person. So that when the girls and I finally made it up North, we could use Menno's experience to navigate around the pitfalls and potholes of newcomer issues.
Again. Hubris.
The first step for me and the girls was to get "our number". In Norway, the number of numbers is called the Fødselsnummer. One obtains this by first going to the police to get a number that allows you to be in Norway (of course if you are not a European citizen, you have to fill in a shitload of forms to get the right immigration papers, but this did not apply to us). Once you have the police number, you go to the tax office to apply for your Fødselsnummer. This Fødselsnummer will then grant you access to all things official. One should not lose it, because you can only obtain it once. The paper should be kept at home at all times. Except for the times that you have to bring it to official institutions. And no, knowing the number by heart is not enough. Only problem is that you never know what official institution will need the official Fødselsnummer paper, so you take it with you more often than one with my knack for misplacing things feels comfortable with...
Anyhow, the girls and I successfully went through step one and two of obtaining our Fødselsnummer. Step three would only consist of us receiving our numbers in the mail in about 2 weeks time. Now, any time indication given by a Norwegian official institution is actually a word for a completely random number of days that have but one defining feature; the number of days will be more than the number of days indicated in the time indication.
The arrival of our Fødselsnummers was highly anticipated, because it would unlock doors to services like our family's healthcare and signing up for the girls' schools. After four weeks, we finally received the first sign that our papers might be on their way. A sign in the form of a notification from Post Nord (the Norwegian postal service) that there was important post for Rachel Spanjers which could not be delivered to our post box, because Rachel Spanjers was not yet registered on any Norwegian address. The notification told us our options to register me as a post-worthy entity in Norway. But guess what? That's right. In order to register myself at our address, I needed my Fødselsnummer. Which was currently on its way to us. By post. In fact, the particular enveloppe that prompted Post Nord to send us the notification that mail to Rachel Spanjers was undeliverable, might very well be the enveloppe containing the letter with my Fødselsnummer. Please tell us, Mr Heller? Do we have a Catch 22 situation on our hands here?
In the end we managed to receive our Fødselsnummer enveloppe and emboldened by this I decided to go all out and deal with some other stuff. Like, say, register myself as a job seeker. (So far an unsuccessful endeavour, but there will be a blog post about my adventures in job seeking land, soon!) Register for child support. And open a bank account, so the child support could be deposited in my account, giving me a semblance of "pay" for the fact that I keep my kids alive until bedtime every day.
After our struggle with The Post, I was happily surprised when Menno informed me that banks in Norway are very much automated. Lots of internet banking and the likes. Sweet, that makes things a lot easier, right? Right. Think again...
When I walked into the bank to open my bank account, I was met by a rather stern looking, middle aged lady. I told her right away that I had just moved to Norway and that I spoke little English. To which her eyes narrowed slightly in suspicion and she continued on in Norwegian. Perhaps a little slower than she had spoken before, but I am not entirely sure about that. After filling in some forms, though, I left the premises with the impression that I had actually succeeded in opening a bank account...either that, or I had joined in a hedgefund.
The first sign of successful account application came by old fashioned mail. Turns out I needed to fill in a couple more forms. And, as an extra bonus, I received a link to an English file containing the terms and conditions for opening an account at the bank. So no hedgefund, whew... Some time later, I received three separate text messages from the bank. One to inform me that I should download 2 apps and two with no less than three passwords. "Great", I thought, "the cyber scam artists have found me before I even received my bank card..." So, I decided to forget about those texts until I got some sort of proof that it was no hoax. Which came yet a couple of days later in the form of a text message that informed me that my bank card was on it's way via regular mail and should be there in a couple of days. A week later, that card indeed showed up (more than a month after I went to the bank to open my account).
Giddy with excitement about the prospect that if I should ever come in possession of some kroner to call my own, I could actually keep them somewhere safe, I looked for the information on where to find my PIN code for my card. And that's when things got really complicated. The letter accompanying my bankcard informed me I could find my PIN code on my own personal, yet to be created, page on the bank's website. At which point I decided to consult Menno. He had, after all, supposedly gone through all the same steps when he got his bank account. So, he asked me if I had received any text messages. Well, sir, as a matter of fact I had!
Proudly I showed him the text messages (all in Norwegian, of course) and started downloading the suggested apps on my phone. Meanwhile, Menno got onto the bank's website, to get me started. But no matter how hard we tried, I could not log on with any of the codes provided. They were all "ulopt" it seemed (expired). So, that left me with little choice but to go back to the bank to get some help in person.
Back at the bank, I was met, again, by a stern-looking, middle-aged lady. Drat. This did not bode well. Call me prejudiced and judgmental, but in matters of online banking, I'd much rather deal with a 20-year-old geeky Steve Jobbs look-a-like. Instead, this librarian-lady asked me what she could do for me. I informed her in my best Norwegian (again, my mention that I spoke little Norwegian got only a cocked eyebrow in response) that apparently my passwords were "ulopt". So, she walked me over to a computer at the branch and asked me to show her wether I had indeed downloaded the apps. She then told me to go to the bank's website, click on log-in and start the process. However, my codes did not work (told you so). So, she took me to a little office and made sure that I was who I said I was, before ordering a new set of passwords. She then explained to me in rapid Norwegian the multiple steps, all involving passwords, to get online and happening at the bank. Without waiting for me to give any indication of having actually understood her ramblings, she told me to delete all the text messages I had received so far from the bank, so as not to have any mix ups when the new codes arrived.
So I did. And retreated to the waiting area, while Mrs. McGonagall helped out some other sorry souls. Once I received the text messages, I proceeded to the computers to try out my new codes! Alas... One code still appeared to be AWOL. So now what? The lady who had helped me out was now helping other customers and did not give me as much as a sideways glance. Still, I was missing a code and giving up so close to my goal would be very sad... Heeding all warnings about never disturbing a working librarian, I cleared my throat and waved at her with an apologetic smile plastered over my face. And hurray! She came over!
I told her that I was still missing one of my codes. I showed her what I meant, taking her through the various steps in my log-in process. Whenever I had to type in a password, she demurely looked the other way, lest she should see, memorize and be tempted to use my passwords again to, well, steal the zero kroner that were in my account ;-) I mentally crossed "becoming a bank employee" off my list of possible jobs in Norway for the sole reason that I simply would not be able to control my curiosity impulse in the way this lady had just demonstrated. Arriving at the bottleneck step with the missing pass code, the lady asked me to show her my text messages again. She asked if I had ever received a pass code that consisted of letters as well as numbers. I told her I had. But that I had deleted that text message half an hour ago as per her orders. She did an eye roll, told me to wait in the waiting area and ordered yet another new password for me.
The code arrived and I was finally able to log on, retrieve my pin code and start using my bank card! Too bad I had received a text message from Menno in the meantime, suggesting I would order BankID på mobil as well. This option would make online banking a lot easier, according to Menno. So I decided to go ahead and order that function, too. I felt like a true virtuoso behind the computer at the bank, clicking and typing in passwords like nobody's business! Bustin' the dope moves in online banking, ha!
Until I came to the part where I had to fill in my email address. Shoot. Now, as some of you know, the Norwegian alphabet has 3 extra letters. The å, the ø and the æ. Of course, that means that you need keyboard space to put those extra letters somewhere. I get that. But guess what symbol got kicked off the keyboard to make room for one of the above? Take a guess. Dingdong, you've got it! The @ is nowhere to be found on the Norwegian keyboard! Because who ever uses that symbol anyway, right?!
So there I was, again, trying to get the attention of my favourite middle-aged lady. I bowed my head in shame and told her the reason I asked her over, was because I could not find the @. She smiled and told me that this was an easy problem to solve. She pressed some random keys and came up with ~. She frowned, pressed another random key combination and came up with ‡. At this point, I was looking around for a hidden camera, I was sure someone was taking the piss out of me! After coming up with $, € and —, we finally made it to @ and I was able to complete my application for whatever it was that Menno said would make my online banking life easier...Right...
Now, I apologize if this blog post was tedious to read. I tried to pick out the more absurd-but-hilarious stories to convey my daily struggles with Norwegian bureaucracy. I am sorry to say that most of them are just absurd and/or tedious, though. Perhaps in a later blog post, I will try to shed some light as to where things get particularly hairy for a foreigner trying to navigate it's way through the Norwegian system, but for now I will just promise that my next blog post will be a lot more uplifting!
Whether it was the notion that Norway, although not part of the European Union, still counted as Europe, or whether Canadian customer service had tricked us into thinking we were seasoned form fillers, I still don't know. I do know, however, that our confidence crashed hard and fast after only a couple of weeks in Norway. Due to our moving schedule, it was Menno's confidence to crash first. He told me about his struggles during numerous phone calls over the months that I was in Holland with the girls, but as I was at that point knee-deep in my own murky-house-selling-situation, I did not fully grasp the severity of the situation. Plus, I also thought that with all beginnings being hard, it was actually nice to have Menno as a test case to become a Norwegian official person. So that when the girls and I finally made it up North, we could use Menno's experience to navigate around the pitfalls and potholes of newcomer issues.
Again. Hubris.
The first step for me and the girls was to get "our number". In Norway, the number of numbers is called the Fødselsnummer. One obtains this by first going to the police to get a number that allows you to be in Norway (of course if you are not a European citizen, you have to fill in a shitload of forms to get the right immigration papers, but this did not apply to us). Once you have the police number, you go to the tax office to apply for your Fødselsnummer. This Fødselsnummer will then grant you access to all things official. One should not lose it, because you can only obtain it once. The paper should be kept at home at all times. Except for the times that you have to bring it to official institutions. And no, knowing the number by heart is not enough. Only problem is that you never know what official institution will need the official Fødselsnummer paper, so you take it with you more often than one with my knack for misplacing things feels comfortable with...
Anyhow, the girls and I successfully went through step one and two of obtaining our Fødselsnummer. Step three would only consist of us receiving our numbers in the mail in about 2 weeks time. Now, any time indication given by a Norwegian official institution is actually a word for a completely random number of days that have but one defining feature; the number of days will be more than the number of days indicated in the time indication.
The arrival of our Fødselsnummers was highly anticipated, because it would unlock doors to services like our family's healthcare and signing up for the girls' schools. After four weeks, we finally received the first sign that our papers might be on their way. A sign in the form of a notification from Post Nord (the Norwegian postal service) that there was important post for Rachel Spanjers which could not be delivered to our post box, because Rachel Spanjers was not yet registered on any Norwegian address. The notification told us our options to register me as a post-worthy entity in Norway. But guess what? That's right. In order to register myself at our address, I needed my Fødselsnummer. Which was currently on its way to us. By post. In fact, the particular enveloppe that prompted Post Nord to send us the notification that mail to Rachel Spanjers was undeliverable, might very well be the enveloppe containing the letter with my Fødselsnummer. Please tell us, Mr Heller? Do we have a Catch 22 situation on our hands here?
In the end we managed to receive our Fødselsnummer enveloppe and emboldened by this I decided to go all out and deal with some other stuff. Like, say, register myself as a job seeker. (So far an unsuccessful endeavour, but there will be a blog post about my adventures in job seeking land, soon!) Register for child support. And open a bank account, so the child support could be deposited in my account, giving me a semblance of "pay" for the fact that I keep my kids alive until bedtime every day.
After our struggle with The Post, I was happily surprised when Menno informed me that banks in Norway are very much automated. Lots of internet banking and the likes. Sweet, that makes things a lot easier, right? Right. Think again...
When I walked into the bank to open my bank account, I was met by a rather stern looking, middle aged lady. I told her right away that I had just moved to Norway and that I spoke little English. To which her eyes narrowed slightly in suspicion and she continued on in Norwegian. Perhaps a little slower than she had spoken before, but I am not entirely sure about that. After filling in some forms, though, I left the premises with the impression that I had actually succeeded in opening a bank account...either that, or I had joined in a hedgefund.
The first sign of successful account application came by old fashioned mail. Turns out I needed to fill in a couple more forms. And, as an extra bonus, I received a link to an English file containing the terms and conditions for opening an account at the bank. So no hedgefund, whew... Some time later, I received three separate text messages from the bank. One to inform me that I should download 2 apps and two with no less than three passwords. "Great", I thought, "the cyber scam artists have found me before I even received my bank card..." So, I decided to forget about those texts until I got some sort of proof that it was no hoax. Which came yet a couple of days later in the form of a text message that informed me that my bank card was on it's way via regular mail and should be there in a couple of days. A week later, that card indeed showed up (more than a month after I went to the bank to open my account).
Giddy with excitement about the prospect that if I should ever come in possession of some kroner to call my own, I could actually keep them somewhere safe, I looked for the information on where to find my PIN code for my card. And that's when things got really complicated. The letter accompanying my bankcard informed me I could find my PIN code on my own personal, yet to be created, page on the bank's website. At which point I decided to consult Menno. He had, after all, supposedly gone through all the same steps when he got his bank account. So, he asked me if I had received any text messages. Well, sir, as a matter of fact I had!
Proudly I showed him the text messages (all in Norwegian, of course) and started downloading the suggested apps on my phone. Meanwhile, Menno got onto the bank's website, to get me started. But no matter how hard we tried, I could not log on with any of the codes provided. They were all "ulopt" it seemed (expired). So, that left me with little choice but to go back to the bank to get some help in person.
Back at the bank, I was met, again, by a stern-looking, middle-aged lady. Drat. This did not bode well. Call me prejudiced and judgmental, but in matters of online banking, I'd much rather deal with a 20-year-old geeky Steve Jobbs look-a-like. Instead, this librarian-lady asked me what she could do for me. I informed her in my best Norwegian (again, my mention that I spoke little Norwegian got only a cocked eyebrow in response) that apparently my passwords were "ulopt". So, she walked me over to a computer at the branch and asked me to show her wether I had indeed downloaded the apps. She then told me to go to the bank's website, click on log-in and start the process. However, my codes did not work (told you so). So, she took me to a little office and made sure that I was who I said I was, before ordering a new set of passwords. She then explained to me in rapid Norwegian the multiple steps, all involving passwords, to get online and happening at the bank. Without waiting for me to give any indication of having actually understood her ramblings, she told me to delete all the text messages I had received so far from the bank, so as not to have any mix ups when the new codes arrived.
So I did. And retreated to the waiting area, while Mrs. McGonagall helped out some other sorry souls. Once I received the text messages, I proceeded to the computers to try out my new codes! Alas... One code still appeared to be AWOL. So now what? The lady who had helped me out was now helping other customers and did not give me as much as a sideways glance. Still, I was missing a code and giving up so close to my goal would be very sad... Heeding all warnings about never disturbing a working librarian, I cleared my throat and waved at her with an apologetic smile plastered over my face. And hurray! She came over!
I told her that I was still missing one of my codes. I showed her what I meant, taking her through the various steps in my log-in process. Whenever I had to type in a password, she demurely looked the other way, lest she should see, memorize and be tempted to use my passwords again to, well, steal the zero kroner that were in my account ;-) I mentally crossed "becoming a bank employee" off my list of possible jobs in Norway for the sole reason that I simply would not be able to control my curiosity impulse in the way this lady had just demonstrated. Arriving at the bottleneck step with the missing pass code, the lady asked me to show her my text messages again. She asked if I had ever received a pass code that consisted of letters as well as numbers. I told her I had. But that I had deleted that text message half an hour ago as per her orders. She did an eye roll, told me to wait in the waiting area and ordered yet another new password for me.
The code arrived and I was finally able to log on, retrieve my pin code and start using my bank card! Too bad I had received a text message from Menno in the meantime, suggesting I would order BankID på mobil as well. This option would make online banking a lot easier, according to Menno. So I decided to go ahead and order that function, too. I felt like a true virtuoso behind the computer at the bank, clicking and typing in passwords like nobody's business! Bustin' the dope moves in online banking, ha!
Until I came to the part where I had to fill in my email address. Shoot. Now, as some of you know, the Norwegian alphabet has 3 extra letters. The å, the ø and the æ. Of course, that means that you need keyboard space to put those extra letters somewhere. I get that. But guess what symbol got kicked off the keyboard to make room for one of the above? Take a guess. Dingdong, you've got it! The @ is nowhere to be found on the Norwegian keyboard! Because who ever uses that symbol anyway, right?!
So there I was, again, trying to get the attention of my favourite middle-aged lady. I bowed my head in shame and told her the reason I asked her over, was because I could not find the @. She smiled and told me that this was an easy problem to solve. She pressed some random keys and came up with ~. She frowned, pressed another random key combination and came up with ‡. At this point, I was looking around for a hidden camera, I was sure someone was taking the piss out of me! After coming up with $, € and —, we finally made it to @ and I was able to complete my application for whatever it was that Menno said would make my online banking life easier...Right...
Now, I apologize if this blog post was tedious to read. I tried to pick out the more absurd-but-hilarious stories to convey my daily struggles with Norwegian bureaucracy. I am sorry to say that most of them are just absurd and/or tedious, though. Perhaps in a later blog post, I will try to shed some light as to where things get particularly hairy for a foreigner trying to navigate it's way through the Norwegian system, but for now I will just promise that my next blog post will be a lot more uplifting!
Friday, September 16, 2016
Ok, Norway, how are we doing...?
Dear Norway,
It's been a while since I first crossed your border with the intention to build a new life here. Almost three months ago, actually. And I thought it would be a good time to have a little chat about where we're at. You and me, I mean. I don't necessarily expect an answer from your side, with you being such a big country and all that, but I thought it wouldn't hurt to let you know where I stand.
Slowly but surely the initial Canada-blues are wearing off. They have far from disappeared, but I have come to the conclusion that my feelings about Canada are getting in the way of me getting to know you. It truly serves no purpose to keep comparing you to Canada, other than to make me feel miserable. I know this, because I have basically done exactly that for the first two months. And no, you hardly ever came out as the winning country in my comparison. Which is not surprising when you take into account that I left some rather irreplaceable features in my life behind in Canada. The best friends I ever had for instance. My girls' amazing, innovative school. My volunteer career, Costco, the dog beach and Green Leaf Sushi. Just to name a few...
However, that does not mean that I would not be able to like you! Because if I stop comparing, I can take your, well, your everything at face value. And once I made that switch, I realized you had a lot to offer! And that I had been behaving like a sullen, sulking teenager whose phone was taken away by her parents. Now I realize that the phone will still be there whenever I need it (aka when I have saved enough money to fly back for a holiday) and also that my phone won't care one bit if I go and enjoy myself without it. Does that metaphor still make sense? I don't know, but then neither do my feelings most of the time.
Instead of writing a more standard list of pro's and cons, I decided to share with you my list of quirks and funs. That sounds a lot nicer, hey? Also, you can decide for yourself whether a topic falls under "quirk" or "fun", because often, it is a bit of both! In this particular blog I probably only have room for one fun-quirk, but over the next couple of weeks I will write some more blogs to add to the list.
Hope you enjoy it! And again, sorry for the rough start...
Med vennlig hilsen,
Roos
It's cool to be wool!
No fibre is more ubiquitous in Norway than wool. To the point that I was able to locate the woollen underwear in the supermarket before I was able to locate the cheerios. Heck, I was even able to find the knitting books in the supermarket before I found the cheerios! Those of you familiar with my knitting fetish can probably guess how utterly thrilled I am to have landed in the land of wool. To live in a country where knitting is not only considered the favourite pastime while waiting for their kids to finish band practice, but where my knitting may actually be an essential skill in improving our family's survival chances during the winter. Knit up, tally-ho!
I never once imagined, though, that there would come a time in my life where I would have at least one full load of wool-laundry per week. Or that 95% of that laundry would be pink for that matter! But here, I seem to have both! When we arrived at the start of summer, there was little reason to wear our thermal underwear, but that changed quickly come August. And with Eluin in barnehagen, there is no escaping the woollen long johns anymore!
At the end of the first full week of Eluin at barnehage, we were kindly requested to make sure that Eluin had enough woollen undergarments to have her going to school in wool everyday, as well as at least one change of wool. Sweet sheeps, that is a lot of wool! Ms. Baba Black-Sheep has her work cut out for her here! And of course Ms Baba deserves a fair wage for the shedding of her coat, so the request from the barnehagen was rather pricey... Luckily, I know finn.no like the back of my hand and in no time I had found a sweet grandma who was selling off some of her granddaughter's hand-me-wools. Added benefit was that I did not have to worry about Eluin making any stains that would not get out, because all garments had a nice selection of those already. Unfortunately, I was not able to get the iron-in-name-tags of the previous owners out, so I just added Eluin's to the mix. If she ever develops multiple personality disorder, at least we know exactly when it started...
With Eluin taken care of, it was only a couple of days before the weather changed to subarctic and Nori and I started wearing wool, too. Now, in Canada I had already bought some woollen undershirts and thermo underwear at Costco. They have since been Nori's preferred type of clothing and I like them, too, when things get chilly. However, Jura turns into Ms. Itchy-and-Scratchy and Menno is simply too cool for wool. That's right, we'll talk to them again in a couple of months. If they have not died of exposure in the meantime, that is.
In all honesty, though, I don't the same love for wool as Nori does. Frankly, I need a distraction not to feel the itch for the first 15 minutes I am wearing my woollen undershirts. Even the garments that are supposedly made of fibre exclusively harvested from the underbellies of newborn lambs still give me the itch. After about 15 minutes, though, it's not that bad anymore and I relish in the warmth of my little sheepy. There is really nothing that makes you warm, without overheating, like wool.
However, there is a catch... And one that I have yet to find a solution for. Because the woollen undergarments (I love the 1920's feel of that word!) I got, are exactly that; undergarments. They are thin to the point of see-through and more formfitting than I would find comfortable in normal clothing. As such, I wear my woollen shirt as a baselayer, on top of which I add a normal shirt or sweater. Which is great when you are indoors and sitting on a couch. Or outdoors and sitting on a couch. That works, too.
The trouble begins, however, when I engage in exercise. As soon as I do and start generating some actual body heat, things go haywire under my top layer. Whether it is the transpiration or mere temperature, I don't know, but the result is that all of a sudden this nice cosy sheep I am wearing, turns itself into a porcupine. The itch is BACK, with a vengeance this time! So imagine me climbing a hill in the forest or going for a run and all of a sudden feeling like I am breaking out in hives. The kind of skin-tingling, spiders-crawling-all-over kind of itch. Like the little lamb I'm wearing has tried telling me sotto voce before, but now has no choice but to make me physically feel how much she needs to breathe and run free in the meadow again!
I so far have deduced that that is the problem. Apparently the layer I wear over top prevents the little sheepy from breathing, because as soon as I strip said layer off, the itch subsides and I feel comfortably toasty again...except for one small detail. I am basically now walking around in my underwear. With the right angle of lighting, one can not only see the colour of my bra, but pretty much every dimple in whatever body-part that is supposedly covered by wool. So now what? I know I need to wear wool. It is really comfortable and the warmth is surpassed by any other garment I own. The two younger girls are totally fine when just wearing their wools and long-johns for at least a couple more years.
But how does this work for adults?! Do I layer with more wool on top? I have seen ladies wearing woollen shirts that look like half-zip fleece vests. Or just a woollen jumper over top. Is that my future? If so, no problem, just hand me my knitting needles. But I also see ladies wearing normal clothing on top of their thermo-shirts...how do they do that? And, am I right in thinking that it is not-done to just wear a woollen baselayer shirt in public if you get too hot, or do Norwegians actually not care as much about these sorts of things once in the woods and overheated? Or perhaps I am just the only one who ever experiences the increased itch once my body starts to heat up... If that is the case, I probably just need to wait for winter, at which point my body will no longer heat up. Problem solved!
It's been a while since I first crossed your border with the intention to build a new life here. Almost three months ago, actually. And I thought it would be a good time to have a little chat about where we're at. You and me, I mean. I don't necessarily expect an answer from your side, with you being such a big country and all that, but I thought it wouldn't hurt to let you know where I stand.
Slowly but surely the initial Canada-blues are wearing off. They have far from disappeared, but I have come to the conclusion that my feelings about Canada are getting in the way of me getting to know you. It truly serves no purpose to keep comparing you to Canada, other than to make me feel miserable. I know this, because I have basically done exactly that for the first two months. And no, you hardly ever came out as the winning country in my comparison. Which is not surprising when you take into account that I left some rather irreplaceable features in my life behind in Canada. The best friends I ever had for instance. My girls' amazing, innovative school. My volunteer career, Costco, the dog beach and Green Leaf Sushi. Just to name a few...
However, that does not mean that I would not be able to like you! Because if I stop comparing, I can take your, well, your everything at face value. And once I made that switch, I realized you had a lot to offer! And that I had been behaving like a sullen, sulking teenager whose phone was taken away by her parents. Now I realize that the phone will still be there whenever I need it (aka when I have saved enough money to fly back for a holiday) and also that my phone won't care one bit if I go and enjoy myself without it. Does that metaphor still make sense? I don't know, but then neither do my feelings most of the time.
Instead of writing a more standard list of pro's and cons, I decided to share with you my list of quirks and funs. That sounds a lot nicer, hey? Also, you can decide for yourself whether a topic falls under "quirk" or "fun", because often, it is a bit of both! In this particular blog I probably only have room for one fun-quirk, but over the next couple of weeks I will write some more blogs to add to the list.
Hope you enjoy it! And again, sorry for the rough start...
Med vennlig hilsen,
Roos
It's cool to be wool!
No fibre is more ubiquitous in Norway than wool. To the point that I was able to locate the woollen underwear in the supermarket before I was able to locate the cheerios. Heck, I was even able to find the knitting books in the supermarket before I found the cheerios! Those of you familiar with my knitting fetish can probably guess how utterly thrilled I am to have landed in the land of wool. To live in a country where knitting is not only considered the favourite pastime while waiting for their kids to finish band practice, but where my knitting may actually be an essential skill in improving our family's survival chances during the winter. Knit up, tally-ho!
I never once imagined, though, that there would come a time in my life where I would have at least one full load of wool-laundry per week. Or that 95% of that laundry would be pink for that matter! But here, I seem to have both! When we arrived at the start of summer, there was little reason to wear our thermal underwear, but that changed quickly come August. And with Eluin in barnehagen, there is no escaping the woollen long johns anymore!
At the end of the first full week of Eluin at barnehage, we were kindly requested to make sure that Eluin had enough woollen undergarments to have her going to school in wool everyday, as well as at least one change of wool. Sweet sheeps, that is a lot of wool! Ms. Baba Black-Sheep has her work cut out for her here! And of course Ms Baba deserves a fair wage for the shedding of her coat, so the request from the barnehagen was rather pricey... Luckily, I know finn.no like the back of my hand and in no time I had found a sweet grandma who was selling off some of her granddaughter's hand-me-wools. Added benefit was that I did not have to worry about Eluin making any stains that would not get out, because all garments had a nice selection of those already. Unfortunately, I was not able to get the iron-in-name-tags of the previous owners out, so I just added Eluin's to the mix. If she ever develops multiple personality disorder, at least we know exactly when it started...
With Eluin taken care of, it was only a couple of days before the weather changed to subarctic and Nori and I started wearing wool, too. Now, in Canada I had already bought some woollen undershirts and thermo underwear at Costco. They have since been Nori's preferred type of clothing and I like them, too, when things get chilly. However, Jura turns into Ms. Itchy-and-Scratchy and Menno is simply too cool for wool. That's right, we'll talk to them again in a couple of months. If they have not died of exposure in the meantime, that is.
In all honesty, though, I don't the same love for wool as Nori does. Frankly, I need a distraction not to feel the itch for the first 15 minutes I am wearing my woollen undershirts. Even the garments that are supposedly made of fibre exclusively harvested from the underbellies of newborn lambs still give me the itch. After about 15 minutes, though, it's not that bad anymore and I relish in the warmth of my little sheepy. There is really nothing that makes you warm, without overheating, like wool.
However, there is a catch... And one that I have yet to find a solution for. Because the woollen undergarments (I love the 1920's feel of that word!) I got, are exactly that; undergarments. They are thin to the point of see-through and more formfitting than I would find comfortable in normal clothing. As such, I wear my woollen shirt as a baselayer, on top of which I add a normal shirt or sweater. Which is great when you are indoors and sitting on a couch. Or outdoors and sitting on a couch. That works, too.
The trouble begins, however, when I engage in exercise. As soon as I do and start generating some actual body heat, things go haywire under my top layer. Whether it is the transpiration or mere temperature, I don't know, but the result is that all of a sudden this nice cosy sheep I am wearing, turns itself into a porcupine. The itch is BACK, with a vengeance this time! So imagine me climbing a hill in the forest or going for a run and all of a sudden feeling like I am breaking out in hives. The kind of skin-tingling, spiders-crawling-all-over kind of itch. Like the little lamb I'm wearing has tried telling me sotto voce before, but now has no choice but to make me physically feel how much she needs to breathe and run free in the meadow again!
I so far have deduced that that is the problem. Apparently the layer I wear over top prevents the little sheepy from breathing, because as soon as I strip said layer off, the itch subsides and I feel comfortably toasty again...except for one small detail. I am basically now walking around in my underwear. With the right angle of lighting, one can not only see the colour of my bra, but pretty much every dimple in whatever body-part that is supposedly covered by wool. So now what? I know I need to wear wool. It is really comfortable and the warmth is surpassed by any other garment I own. The two younger girls are totally fine when just wearing their wools and long-johns for at least a couple more years.
But how does this work for adults?! Do I layer with more wool on top? I have seen ladies wearing woollen shirts that look like half-zip fleece vests. Or just a woollen jumper over top. Is that my future? If so, no problem, just hand me my knitting needles. But I also see ladies wearing normal clothing on top of their thermo-shirts...how do they do that? And, am I right in thinking that it is not-done to just wear a woollen baselayer shirt in public if you get too hot, or do Norwegians actually not care as much about these sorts of things once in the woods and overheated? Or perhaps I am just the only one who ever experiences the increased itch once my body starts to heat up... If that is the case, I probably just need to wait for winter, at which point my body will no longer heat up. Problem solved!
Friday, September 9, 2016
Heal the world (on Michael Jackson and the cool police)
One afternoon, shortly after we moved to Norway, I got into the car to drive to the supermarket for our weekly groceries. Indulging in the luxury of actually being On My Own in the car, without kids requesting to listen to the same audiobook yet again, I cranked the radio to full power. After another incomprehensible commercial on Radio Norge, a new song started. Heal the world. By Michael Jackson.
And that's where it started. Listening to Michael Jackson's 90's voice, I started to cry. I cried for my internet-friend who was making memories with her daughter who was terminally ill (talk about healing the world, hunh?). I cried for my friend whom I had talked to on the phone that week. Her family had come out on the losing side of a power struggle in their church. A power struggle that they had worked so hard at to defuse, sharing love and compassion to counteract the power play. I cried for the world being on fire, so desperately in need of a 2016 version of the song that was playing. And I cried over Michael Jackson.
Halfway through the song, the crying had turned into a chest clenching, throat catching, snot pouring blubberfest. At that point I should have pulled over and wait for my breakdown to pass. Instead I plowed on along the deserted mountain road, kindly asking the herd of moose lurking in the forest to please not cross the road! At that stage, I would not have known what hit me until me and my cute little yellow car had been turned into a giant tin of Norwegian liverpostei. I cried and cried and sang along at the top of my voice, wishing somehow that just singing about healing the world would actually do some good.
Of course another song came on after that and, as usually happens when something hits you that hard out of the blue, there is nothing like a Lady Gaga song to make you wonder why on earth you let such a tear-jerky-song get to you in the first place. However, this time that rhetorical question kept begging for an answer. In particular the part of me crying over Michael Jackson. And although I usually just write about all the trouble I get into just leading my day-to-day life, I feel compelled to share with you the outcome of my weeks of soul searching following this particular car ride.
The reason I cried over Michael Jackson, was because I felt I had not given him the credits he deserved for the artist he was. And yes, I know, he could not have cared less about my opinion of him. Yet in my own personal sphere, the acknowledgment of Michael Jackson being truly the King of Pop, was a biggie. It traced right back to my high school years and all the coming-of-age anxiety that came with that.
Although I had already encountered the power of the masses during my elementary school years (oh the bullying...), it wasn't until high school that something cracked and I became aware of how my own behaviour, style, thoughts, music I listened to, clothes I wore, books I read and boys I fancied shaped my image and thus how people perceived me. Or even what they could hold me accountable for. Looking back, I wish that crack had never happened. And not just because I would have allowed myself to appreciate Michael Jackson's music.
I realized that from that "crack" onwards, I had been worried about the cool police. The entity that I have never been able to put my finger on, but who spoke through my peers and sometimes even my friends. The one that made me feel stupid and shallow for liking something. And out of that came the fear of being associated with something. Because pretty soon I figured that the cool police did not only care for the direct implications of taste-in-whatever, but also about what that taste would mean for the group I belonged in. Try explaining your love for "Heal the world" to a 15-year-old who is desperately trying to be an alternative rock chick that lives for Pearl Jam and Sylvia Plath. It just doesn't fit. Because the realm of Heal the world would at best be the nerdy cousin who still had posters lining his wall of Michael Jackson. With Bubbles, for crying out loud!
The only person who was apparently immune to this kind of teenage-angst was my dear friend from high school who grew up to be the only erudite person my generation ever produced (and in this erudite is a compliment and only used for lack of a better word). I still love him dearly for fostering my spirit and mind in that godforsaken period that was my high school years.
One would hope that the cool police is a figment of a teenager's imagination. Or that I was/am just particularly vulnerable for "what other people think of me". That hardly anybody else cares to judge themselves by the mere standard of "what other people think".
But somehow, I doubt that.
For in the years after leaving high school, the cool police was still there. Even if it branched out into different departments. Such as the department of Slutty-and-Prude for example. Boy, there was just no winning there.
The force of the whatever-police hit me hard again once I became pregnant. Holy smokes! I think parenting has been by far the most deeply entrenched pissing contest I have ever been in. From the moment my daughter was born it seems I have been playing defence. Between the sleep-training-formula-feeding-police and the attachment-parenting-police there is just no middle ground to be a vulnerable mom looking for a way to deal with this amazingly scary new life you are given. Why do we do this to ourselves?! Why do some people feel the need to play the parenting-police and tell me that I should follow the rules (of whatever parenting craze this person belongs to) instead of looking at me and my child and just TALK with me. And for goodness sake share their stories of not-knowing-what-to-do with me...
It took me weeks to turn the above into a slightly coherent story. To make up my mind about why I cried so hard that afternoon. Thinking about "the police" has made me realize that "the police" is omnipresent and comes in many different shapes and sizes. My dear friend clearly ran in to the God police at church, a group of people who apparently thought they could speak for the lord and hurt my friend in the process. I know I have run into the Organic-Produce-police, the education-police and the body-image police more times than I can count. And I am just tired of weighing my own feelings against what I think other people will think of me. And I realize that as much as I would like to blame the police, I can only blame myself.
So I have decided to stop. Coming to a new country has given me an excellent opportunity to shake off the police once and for all. I am no longer going to assume that anything I do will immediately result in a cascade of opinion forming in another person's head, thus placing me in a cubicle that I may not belong in. They will find out soon enough that I probably don't fit anyway ;-) But what is more, I have decided to switch of my own police as well. I will no longer let my ideas of what it means to wear/buy/like/read something cloud my impression of someone. From now on, I will try to appreciate people at face value. Because the other option has left me bitter and scared. And if there is any possibility of me starting to save at least part of my little world, it is by embracing people, rather than trying to make sense of them using "the police".
Now the only thing I have to be vigilant about is that I do not turn into the "give-no-heed-to-the-police"police myself...
Halfway through the song, the crying had turned into a chest clenching, throat catching, snot pouring blubberfest. At that point I should have pulled over and wait for my breakdown to pass. Instead I plowed on along the deserted mountain road, kindly asking the herd of moose lurking in the forest to please not cross the road! At that stage, I would not have known what hit me until me and my cute little yellow car had been turned into a giant tin of Norwegian liverpostei. I cried and cried and sang along at the top of my voice, wishing somehow that just singing about healing the world would actually do some good.
Of course another song came on after that and, as usually happens when something hits you that hard out of the blue, there is nothing like a Lady Gaga song to make you wonder why on earth you let such a tear-jerky-song get to you in the first place. However, this time that rhetorical question kept begging for an answer. In particular the part of me crying over Michael Jackson. And although I usually just write about all the trouble I get into just leading my day-to-day life, I feel compelled to share with you the outcome of my weeks of soul searching following this particular car ride.
The reason I cried over Michael Jackson, was because I felt I had not given him the credits he deserved for the artist he was. And yes, I know, he could not have cared less about my opinion of him. Yet in my own personal sphere, the acknowledgment of Michael Jackson being truly the King of Pop, was a biggie. It traced right back to my high school years and all the coming-of-age anxiety that came with that.
Although I had already encountered the power of the masses during my elementary school years (oh the bullying...), it wasn't until high school that something cracked and I became aware of how my own behaviour, style, thoughts, music I listened to, clothes I wore, books I read and boys I fancied shaped my image and thus how people perceived me. Or even what they could hold me accountable for. Looking back, I wish that crack had never happened. And not just because I would have allowed myself to appreciate Michael Jackson's music.
I realized that from that "crack" onwards, I had been worried about the cool police. The entity that I have never been able to put my finger on, but who spoke through my peers and sometimes even my friends. The one that made me feel stupid and shallow for liking something. And out of that came the fear of being associated with something. Because pretty soon I figured that the cool police did not only care for the direct implications of taste-in-whatever, but also about what that taste would mean for the group I belonged in. Try explaining your love for "Heal the world" to a 15-year-old who is desperately trying to be an alternative rock chick that lives for Pearl Jam and Sylvia Plath. It just doesn't fit. Because the realm of Heal the world would at best be the nerdy cousin who still had posters lining his wall of Michael Jackson. With Bubbles, for crying out loud!
The only person who was apparently immune to this kind of teenage-angst was my dear friend from high school who grew up to be the only erudite person my generation ever produced (and in this erudite is a compliment and only used for lack of a better word). I still love him dearly for fostering my spirit and mind in that godforsaken period that was my high school years.
One would hope that the cool police is a figment of a teenager's imagination. Or that I was/am just particularly vulnerable for "what other people think of me". That hardly anybody else cares to judge themselves by the mere standard of "what other people think".
But somehow, I doubt that.
For in the years after leaving high school, the cool police was still there. Even if it branched out into different departments. Such as the department of Slutty-and-Prude for example. Boy, there was just no winning there.
The force of the whatever-police hit me hard again once I became pregnant. Holy smokes! I think parenting has been by far the most deeply entrenched pissing contest I have ever been in. From the moment my daughter was born it seems I have been playing defence. Between the sleep-training-formula-feeding-police and the attachment-parenting-police there is just no middle ground to be a vulnerable mom looking for a way to deal with this amazingly scary new life you are given. Why do we do this to ourselves?! Why do some people feel the need to play the parenting-police and tell me that I should follow the rules (of whatever parenting craze this person belongs to) instead of looking at me and my child and just TALK with me. And for goodness sake share their stories of not-knowing-what-to-do with me...
It took me weeks to turn the above into a slightly coherent story. To make up my mind about why I cried so hard that afternoon. Thinking about "the police" has made me realize that "the police" is omnipresent and comes in many different shapes and sizes. My dear friend clearly ran in to the God police at church, a group of people who apparently thought they could speak for the lord and hurt my friend in the process. I know I have run into the Organic-Produce-police, the education-police and the body-image police more times than I can count. And I am just tired of weighing my own feelings against what I think other people will think of me. And I realize that as much as I would like to blame the police, I can only blame myself.
So I have decided to stop. Coming to a new country has given me an excellent opportunity to shake off the police once and for all. I am no longer going to assume that anything I do will immediately result in a cascade of opinion forming in another person's head, thus placing me in a cubicle that I may not belong in. They will find out soon enough that I probably don't fit anyway ;-) But what is more, I have decided to switch of my own police as well. I will no longer let my ideas of what it means to wear/buy/like/read something cloud my impression of someone. From now on, I will try to appreciate people at face value. Because the other option has left me bitter and scared. And if there is any possibility of me starting to save at least part of my little world, it is by embracing people, rather than trying to make sense of them using "the police".
Now the only thing I have to be vigilant about is that I do not turn into the "give-no-heed-to-the-police"police myself...
Wednesday, July 27, 2016
Welcome home
So, my last blog post ended with us seeing our new country from the deck of the ferry. However, we were still a long way from home!
Some people hardly make the same mistake twixe. I am not one of those people. Twixe is considered a pretty good score when it comes to making mistakes in my book! In this case, I already had made the mistake once that Norway = home. It's not. Our home is still about a day's drive from wherever you enter Norway. And since we arrived a couple of days before Midsummer's Night, a day's drive is a rather stretchy concept...
On the plus side, though, the girls had definitely stretched their legs on the ferry. And Julie, well, poor Julie just had to hang in there for a little longer! In any case, she should relish the fact that she was in the back of the claustrovan, rather than cooped up in quarantine at Norwegian customs. You know, with my form-filling-capabilities, being banned from entering Norway was a very plausible scenario for our fur baby!
The first obstacle on our route was Oslo. When Menno and I drove to Trondheim, we got to Oslo around 5pm and made it past Oslo at 7.30pm (that's right, 2.5 hours for 25km). This time around, we got to Oslo at least an hour before that! And, again, made it past Oslo at 7.30pm. I will have to look it up, but I think in Norse mythology Oslo is the God of Congested Traffic...
It is after tedious Oslo, however, that the truly "fun" part of the journey begins. Because between Oslo and Trondheim lies a 500km stretch of pristine 2-lane highway (yeah right...) that winds its way between the mountains and valleys. Glorious vista's await you. If you dare take your eyes off the road for 2 milliseconds that is. I never dared. Because to me, 2-lane highways, with trucks, are my worst nightmare.
I consider myself to be a cautious driver. My friends refer to me as a senior driver. In fact, some have suggested my driving style could use a little cayenne pepper. And, I know, I should drive faster. But I am too darn scared of ending up in a car crash. Plus, I need to be a cautious driver, since my girls are relentless at getting my attention while I am driving. Not a good situation (and I truly need to work on that!).
So, driving 2-lane traffic in a country that I have never been in before, with humongous trucks all around has me sending prayers to whatever deity cares to protect my family from imminent death. I try to stick to the speed limit, but usually I drive just a tad slower than that. Resulting in angry trucks driving up so closely behind me that I can almost hear the driver cursing this blasted tourist car that is blocking their way. The trucks coming from the opposite direction are obviously not hindered by my lack of speed, so they give a new meaning to the expression "trundling down the hill". My teeth rattle every time a truck passes us.
Luckily for me (and the girls) I am not the only driver and my dad is about as experienced a driver as one can possibly be. Still, it took a looooooong time on those winding roads. We took a different route when driving up with the girls than I did with Menno, so the promise of perhaps seeing a moose to the girls proved to be an empty one. Insert grumpy girls here. For the most part, though, the girls were great! They read their books, listened to their audiobooks, chatted incessantly (Eluin) and happily accepted all the goodies grandpa offered them (oh, the novelty of a bag of mars/snickers/bounty/twix mini's!).
But of course no trip with young kids, and Ms. E in particular, is without incidents. She waited until we were about 2 hours away from our final destination to work her magic. We had been driving for a very long time through Norway's endless forests when we all desperately needed to pee. Unfortunately, gas stations, or rest areas with a washroom, were few and far between. In this particular case too far between. I saw a sign for a gas station and took the exit off the highway. Alas...the gasstation proved to be for farm vehicles only and there was NO washroom. But, as the gas station was in the middle of the forest, we decided to embrace our inner forest girls and go au naturel!
Jura and Nori still need a little help when it comes to peeing in the woods and I was rather pre-occupied with my own pelvic floor muscles to pay sufficient attention to the danger that has just climbed out of the van. It was only after I got out of the woods myself that I saw Eluin in getting ready to make a big mistake. She was standing at the edge of the road with her pants around her ankles, her hands on her hips and a determined look on her face.
The thought crossed my mind that she was about to pee, but surely she knew she needed my help...or at least squat. I picked up my pace, told Eluin that she had to wait for me. To no avail, of course. As I was clambering out of the bushes, she assured me that she was fine. "I can do this mom!" And she started to pee. Standing upright. All over her pants and shoes. I yelled: "What on earth are you doing, you need to wait for me so I can pick you up!" She looked at me angrily and said: "I don't need you to pick me up, because I can pee just like him!" (at which she pointed at grandpa). Pee like grandpa. That's right. That's what she did. In fact, the phrase "pee like grandpa" has become an expression in our household to explain the kind of "I can do this" plans that can only end badly ;-)
With relatively empty bladders and dry pants for Eluin we made it HOME! Menno was waiting for us and although it was well after midnight, it was still light enough to unload the van. I still need to bake a cake for the entire neighbourhood to make up for the racket we made that night. We put up a bed in the playroom, grandpa had a bed in the basement that was left by the previous tenants and we were all asleep within minutes!
The next day, me and the girls had to go to the police station to get our "personal number". Menno had picked June 16th a couple of weeks before as a random date. And although it was through factors which were outside of our scope of influence that we ended up in Norway on June 15th, I still take pride in making it to that particular appointment! I mean, it is the first and foremost thing we had to do when entering Norway, it takes about 3 weeks before you can get an appointment, and we managed to that on our first day home. How's that for efficient planning?
The rest of the days that my dad was in town we unscrupulously used his added benefits (huge van, lifelong experience with assembling IKEA furniture, great cook and grandpa-pur-sang) to whip our home into liveable shape! And I have to say, we managed quite nicely! Our shipment from Canada arrived on June 16th as well. And so the great unpacking could begin, and the girls were finally reunited with all their pretty stuff that they had missed for so many months.
All good things must come to an end, though, and before I knew it, I had to go and pick up my brother from the airport. I am forever grateful to my dad for driving us up to Norway, but I am equally grateful for my brother flying all the way out to Trondheim, just to have a cup of coffee at our newly assembled kitchen table, before driving back to Holland as my dad's co-pilot.
And now we're here. Without family and no friends. We have met some acquaintances with serious potential in the friendship department, though, so that's good news. Nevertheless, I have felt lost now and again. And I have lost my kids now and again. Our living space has almost tripled in comparison to Canada, so I am not always completely sure where my kids reside. Especially when they have sneaked off with an iPad ;-)
Norway is our home and I will work my way through these awkward first months, just like I did in Canada. Trying very hard not to compare these first months with my first months in Canada, though...'cause that would still just hurt too much.
Some people hardly make the same mistake twixe. I am not one of those people. Twixe is considered a pretty good score when it comes to making mistakes in my book! In this case, I already had made the mistake once that Norway = home. It's not. Our home is still about a day's drive from wherever you enter Norway. And since we arrived a couple of days before Midsummer's Night, a day's drive is a rather stretchy concept...
On the plus side, though, the girls had definitely stretched their legs on the ferry. And Julie, well, poor Julie just had to hang in there for a little longer! In any case, she should relish the fact that she was in the back of the claustrovan, rather than cooped up in quarantine at Norwegian customs. You know, with my form-filling-capabilities, being banned from entering Norway was a very plausible scenario for our fur baby!
The first obstacle on our route was Oslo. When Menno and I drove to Trondheim, we got to Oslo around 5pm and made it past Oslo at 7.30pm (that's right, 2.5 hours for 25km). This time around, we got to Oslo at least an hour before that! And, again, made it past Oslo at 7.30pm. I will have to look it up, but I think in Norse mythology Oslo is the God of Congested Traffic...
It is after tedious Oslo, however, that the truly "fun" part of the journey begins. Because between Oslo and Trondheim lies a 500km stretch of pristine 2-lane highway (yeah right...) that winds its way between the mountains and valleys. Glorious vista's await you. If you dare take your eyes off the road for 2 milliseconds that is. I never dared. Because to me, 2-lane highways, with trucks, are my worst nightmare.
I consider myself to be a cautious driver. My friends refer to me as a senior driver. In fact, some have suggested my driving style could use a little cayenne pepper. And, I know, I should drive faster. But I am too darn scared of ending up in a car crash. Plus, I need to be a cautious driver, since my girls are relentless at getting my attention while I am driving. Not a good situation (and I truly need to work on that!).
So, driving 2-lane traffic in a country that I have never been in before, with humongous trucks all around has me sending prayers to whatever deity cares to protect my family from imminent death. I try to stick to the speed limit, but usually I drive just a tad slower than that. Resulting in angry trucks driving up so closely behind me that I can almost hear the driver cursing this blasted tourist car that is blocking their way. The trucks coming from the opposite direction are obviously not hindered by my lack of speed, so they give a new meaning to the expression "trundling down the hill". My teeth rattle every time a truck passes us.
Luckily for me (and the girls) I am not the only driver and my dad is about as experienced a driver as one can possibly be. Still, it took a looooooong time on those winding roads. We took a different route when driving up with the girls than I did with Menno, so the promise of perhaps seeing a moose to the girls proved to be an empty one. Insert grumpy girls here. For the most part, though, the girls were great! They read their books, listened to their audiobooks, chatted incessantly (Eluin) and happily accepted all the goodies grandpa offered them (oh, the novelty of a bag of mars/snickers/bounty/twix mini's!).
But of course no trip with young kids, and Ms. E in particular, is without incidents. She waited until we were about 2 hours away from our final destination to work her magic. We had been driving for a very long time through Norway's endless forests when we all desperately needed to pee. Unfortunately, gas stations, or rest areas with a washroom, were few and far between. In this particular case too far between. I saw a sign for a gas station and took the exit off the highway. Alas...the gasstation proved to be for farm vehicles only and there was NO washroom. But, as the gas station was in the middle of the forest, we decided to embrace our inner forest girls and go au naturel!
Jura and Nori still need a little help when it comes to peeing in the woods and I was rather pre-occupied with my own pelvic floor muscles to pay sufficient attention to the danger that has just climbed out of the van. It was only after I got out of the woods myself that I saw Eluin in getting ready to make a big mistake. She was standing at the edge of the road with her pants around her ankles, her hands on her hips and a determined look on her face.
The thought crossed my mind that she was about to pee, but surely she knew she needed my help...or at least squat. I picked up my pace, told Eluin that she had to wait for me. To no avail, of course. As I was clambering out of the bushes, she assured me that she was fine. "I can do this mom!" And she started to pee. Standing upright. All over her pants and shoes. I yelled: "What on earth are you doing, you need to wait for me so I can pick you up!" She looked at me angrily and said: "I don't need you to pick me up, because I can pee just like him!" (at which she pointed at grandpa). Pee like grandpa. That's right. That's what she did. In fact, the phrase "pee like grandpa" has become an expression in our household to explain the kind of "I can do this" plans that can only end badly ;-)
With relatively empty bladders and dry pants for Eluin we made it HOME! Menno was waiting for us and although it was well after midnight, it was still light enough to unload the van. I still need to bake a cake for the entire neighbourhood to make up for the racket we made that night. We put up a bed in the playroom, grandpa had a bed in the basement that was left by the previous tenants and we were all asleep within minutes!
The next day, me and the girls had to go to the police station to get our "personal number". Menno had picked June 16th a couple of weeks before as a random date. And although it was through factors which were outside of our scope of influence that we ended up in Norway on June 15th, I still take pride in making it to that particular appointment! I mean, it is the first and foremost thing we had to do when entering Norway, it takes about 3 weeks before you can get an appointment, and we managed to that on our first day home. How's that for efficient planning?
The rest of the days that my dad was in town we unscrupulously used his added benefits (huge van, lifelong experience with assembling IKEA furniture, great cook and grandpa-pur-sang) to whip our home into liveable shape! And I have to say, we managed quite nicely! Our shipment from Canada arrived on June 16th as well. And so the great unpacking could begin, and the girls were finally reunited with all their pretty stuff that they had missed for so many months.
All good things must come to an end, though, and before I knew it, I had to go and pick up my brother from the airport. I am forever grateful to my dad for driving us up to Norway, but I am equally grateful for my brother flying all the way out to Trondheim, just to have a cup of coffee at our newly assembled kitchen table, before driving back to Holland as my dad's co-pilot.
And now we're here. Without family and no friends. We have met some acquaintances with serious potential in the friendship department, though, so that's good news. Nevertheless, I have felt lost now and again. And I have lost my kids now and again. Our living space has almost tripled in comparison to Canada, so I am not always completely sure where my kids reside. Especially when they have sneaked off with an iPad ;-)
Norway is our home and I will work my way through these awkward first months, just like I did in Canada. Trying very hard not to compare these first months with my first months in Canada, though...'cause that would still just hurt too much.
Monday, July 4, 2016
On our way to Norway
Spoiler alert: We made it safely to Norway and have been living here quite happily for almost 3 weeks now :-)
After moving from our apartment in Vancouver, to our friend's basement suite, Menno moved out to Norway in March. The girls and me moved to Holland in mid-March. Poor Julie had to stay behind for a couple of weeks until I came back to Vancouver for 5 days of absolute kid-free bliss and picked her up.
One would imagine that between moving from Vancouver to Holland and moving from Holland to Norway, the girls and I would experience a little lull in the moving hustle and bustle. The opposite was true. Because I refused to turn our home in Haarlem into our homebase for our time in Holland, we decided to stay at relatives and house sit where possible. The benefit of this was that I did not have to refurbish our home in Haarlem to accommodate 4 people and a dog, nor that I had to work my behind off to keep the home in semi-respectable state for possible viewings of the property. The downside to this plan was that we never slept in one place for more than five nights in a row. Which also meant that I had to squeeze every drop of nomadic spirit out of my wannabe-Gypsy-genes to keep things fun (for the girls) and slightly organized (for me).
It probably does not come as a surprise that after a couple of months of this trooping around, things started to fray a little around the edges. However, at the end of May, things started to look up! The sale of our home was approaching it's final stages and Menno had managed to find a great family home in Spongdal, a small town in the countryside that surrounds Trondheim. It was my dad (who will be the guest star in this particular junovancouver episode) who hatched a plan to make our start in Norway a little more easy.
He suggested that we could borrow his car for the first months in Norway, so we had a means of getting around town. He also suggested that Menno and me would drive said car to Norway and that I would stay there for a couple of days to get to know our future place of residence. Thankfully our family, yet again, offered to provide the necessary child care to make this trip a possibility.
So, off we went. In a cute, little, yellow Kia Picanto. We left the Netherlands at 5pm and quickly sped through Northern Germany on our way to Denmark. We planned to cross the bridge connecting Denmark to Sweden and drive up to Norway (and then up to Trondheim). Added bonus of our trip was, that our little car doubled as a relationship pressure cooker. When you have a relationship where one talks too much and one talks too little, and you keep those two apart for an extended period of time, things can grow askew. Good thing that it took us close to 24 hours of solid driving to get to our destination! By the time we reached the outskirts of Trondheim city, we had managed to reach a new equilibrium.
Trondheim took me by a storm, a beautiful old (and cold!!!) city on the coast. After seeing our future home (and meeting the amazing people who were the tenants!), I could totally imagine us having a great time there! It was during those days in Trondheim that we received the news that the people who had placed the highest bid on our home had had a positive outcome of their talk with their financial advisor*. Thus, in a matter of days, we had a timeframe for our move to Norway. We would start driving up to Norway only 2.5 weeks after I left Trondheim!
So, back in Holland, it was time to get serious about packing! My dad had offered to drive us, and our belongings, to Norway. He pretty much went as far as to buy a new 7-seater-cargo-van for this adventure! The prospect of having a lot of cargo space had made me quite greedy... Not only were we planning to bring some furniture from our home in Haarlem (dining room table, chairs, queensize bed + mattress), we also had to accommodate all 10 suitcases that we brought in from Canada. Not to mention the books, tableware, blankets and bikes for all three girls that I had acquired during our time in Holland...yikes.
After packing, repacking, leaving some things behind and packing again, we managed to get our little moving van ready for departure. We had booked a ferry from Hirtshals, Denmark, to Langesund, Norway. Because we were not sure how the first leg of our journey would go, my dad came up with the idea to use the mattress we were bringing and turn our moving van into a makeshift campervan.
Do you see that mattress? On top of it, barely visible, we stacked Jura and Nori's bikes and a stepladder to allow me to climb on top of it. After the rather uneventful drive to Hirtshals, Denmark, we decided to forego the pricey option of sleeping in a hotel and try out the claustrovan!
So, after dinner we drove around town to find a good place to park. On our way to the ferry harbour, we encountered a rather eerie scene. A large grassy field, on which several RV's were parked in a circle. Behind virtually every RV's window, one could see the flickering of TV's playing inside. We arrived rather late and we are, of course, a travelling circus without a tent. Which means we are loud. Always. First off, we had to unload the stepladder, then unload the bikes and lock them beside the van. I had to unearth the pillows and duvet from the rubble in the back of the van. Nori took one look at the space available on the mattress and decided to sleep in the front seat. So, I had to take out all the car seats in order for my dad to have a place to sleep in the backseat, too. Oh, and to add to all the clamour, Julie was incessantly barking, too stressed out after being locked up in a crate for hours at a time.
However...
There was no sign of life from any of the RV's. No one pulled back their curtains, no one even peeked out their window! Throughout the night, we made more racket than I had hoped we would. Eluin had a rash on her back that had gotten infected, so she tossed and turned like the dough hook on a kitchenaid. Nori and my dad got cold halfway through the night, so my dad decided to use the van's independent vehicle heater... In order to start that, though, he had to get out of the van (zzzzhhhjingggg-klunk of the sliding door), open the driver's door, start the heater, shut the driver's door (schklunk!) and close the sliding door again (zzzzhhhhjingggg-schluck-zzzzhhhhjinggggg-zhhhhhhhhjing-schluck-zzzzzzzhhhhhjingggggg-zzzzzzzzhhhhhhhjinggggg-KLUNCK). Yup. That sliding door never closed properly the first 2 times around. Oh, and the heater shut off after 20 minutes again. So yes, we were loud. Yet, the next morning, NO ONE told us off. No one even showed their face!
When we left the RV-campsite, I realized something... Back in Canada, I thought RV's were the most glamorous, and safest, way to enjoy camping. On many a camping trip, I lay in my tent, softly whimpering while keeping a close ear on the sounds outside my tent. In my mind, it would only be a matter of minutes before a bloodthirsty bear or cougar would jump onto our tent and devour us all. I remember cursing our hubris for not dishing out the dough needed to rent an RV, a fortress of steel and convenience. In Europe, however, bears are scarce. One can camp in a tent and worry about little more than mosquitoes and whether the neighbours can hear your farts. One does not need a fortress of steel and convenience to survive. In Europe, RV's are kinda lame. And, judging by our experience at the RV campsite, I would say there is a high probability that RV's are the preferred mode of transportation for the undead...
Anyhow, I ramble. The night in the claustrovan passed without much ado and soon we were on our way to the ferry terminal. In line for the ferry, Nori gave a snore-by-snort account of the difference in snoring techniques of Menno and my dad ;-) Soon we boarded the ferry and we spent 4.5 hours stretching our legs, eating Danish pastries and "storming" (a verb Jura and I invented for chasing of seasickness by standing on the windiest, rainiest spot on deck :-) ).
And there it was... Our new country, the place we get to call home! Rainy, cold, foggy, but nonetheless, THERE! We made it!
To Norway, that is. The story of the rest of the trip and our first impression of Norway will have to wait 'till some other time!
* Unfortunately, the buyers were unable after all to get a mortgage, so our house is back on the market. To be continued, for sure!
After moving from our apartment in Vancouver, to our friend's basement suite, Menno moved out to Norway in March. The girls and me moved to Holland in mid-March. Poor Julie had to stay behind for a couple of weeks until I came back to Vancouver for 5 days of absolute kid-free bliss and picked her up.
One would imagine that between moving from Vancouver to Holland and moving from Holland to Norway, the girls and I would experience a little lull in the moving hustle and bustle. The opposite was true. Because I refused to turn our home in Haarlem into our homebase for our time in Holland, we decided to stay at relatives and house sit where possible. The benefit of this was that I did not have to refurbish our home in Haarlem to accommodate 4 people and a dog, nor that I had to work my behind off to keep the home in semi-respectable state for possible viewings of the property. The downside to this plan was that we never slept in one place for more than five nights in a row. Which also meant that I had to squeeze every drop of nomadic spirit out of my wannabe-Gypsy-genes to keep things fun (for the girls) and slightly organized (for me).
It probably does not come as a surprise that after a couple of months of this trooping around, things started to fray a little around the edges. However, at the end of May, things started to look up! The sale of our home was approaching it's final stages and Menno had managed to find a great family home in Spongdal, a small town in the countryside that surrounds Trondheim. It was my dad (who will be the guest star in this particular junovancouver episode) who hatched a plan to make our start in Norway a little more easy.
He suggested that we could borrow his car for the first months in Norway, so we had a means of getting around town. He also suggested that Menno and me would drive said car to Norway and that I would stay there for a couple of days to get to know our future place of residence. Thankfully our family, yet again, offered to provide the necessary child care to make this trip a possibility.
So, off we went. In a cute, little, yellow Kia Picanto. We left the Netherlands at 5pm and quickly sped through Northern Germany on our way to Denmark. We planned to cross the bridge connecting Denmark to Sweden and drive up to Norway (and then up to Trondheim). Added bonus of our trip was, that our little car doubled as a relationship pressure cooker. When you have a relationship where one talks too much and one talks too little, and you keep those two apart for an extended period of time, things can grow askew. Good thing that it took us close to 24 hours of solid driving to get to our destination! By the time we reached the outskirts of Trondheim city, we had managed to reach a new equilibrium.
Trondheim took me by a storm, a beautiful old (and cold!!!) city on the coast. After seeing our future home (and meeting the amazing people who were the tenants!), I could totally imagine us having a great time there! It was during those days in Trondheim that we received the news that the people who had placed the highest bid on our home had had a positive outcome of their talk with their financial advisor*. Thus, in a matter of days, we had a timeframe for our move to Norway. We would start driving up to Norway only 2.5 weeks after I left Trondheim!
So, back in Holland, it was time to get serious about packing! My dad had offered to drive us, and our belongings, to Norway. He pretty much went as far as to buy a new 7-seater-cargo-van for this adventure! The prospect of having a lot of cargo space had made me quite greedy... Not only were we planning to bring some furniture from our home in Haarlem (dining room table, chairs, queensize bed + mattress), we also had to accommodate all 10 suitcases that we brought in from Canada. Not to mention the books, tableware, blankets and bikes for all three girls that I had acquired during our time in Holland...yikes.
After packing, repacking, leaving some things behind and packing again, we managed to get our little moving van ready for departure. We had booked a ferry from Hirtshals, Denmark, to Langesund, Norway. Because we were not sure how the first leg of our journey would go, my dad came up with the idea to use the mattress we were bringing and turn our moving van into a makeshift campervan.
Do you see that mattress? On top of it, barely visible, we stacked Jura and Nori's bikes and a stepladder to allow me to climb on top of it. After the rather uneventful drive to Hirtshals, Denmark, we decided to forego the pricey option of sleeping in a hotel and try out the claustrovan!
So, after dinner we drove around town to find a good place to park. On our way to the ferry harbour, we encountered a rather eerie scene. A large grassy field, on which several RV's were parked in a circle. Behind virtually every RV's window, one could see the flickering of TV's playing inside. We arrived rather late and we are, of course, a travelling circus without a tent. Which means we are loud. Always. First off, we had to unload the stepladder, then unload the bikes and lock them beside the van. I had to unearth the pillows and duvet from the rubble in the back of the van. Nori took one look at the space available on the mattress and decided to sleep in the front seat. So, I had to take out all the car seats in order for my dad to have a place to sleep in the backseat, too. Oh, and to add to all the clamour, Julie was incessantly barking, too stressed out after being locked up in a crate for hours at a time.
However...
There was no sign of life from any of the RV's. No one pulled back their curtains, no one even peeked out their window! Throughout the night, we made more racket than I had hoped we would. Eluin had a rash on her back that had gotten infected, so she tossed and turned like the dough hook on a kitchenaid. Nori and my dad got cold halfway through the night, so my dad decided to use the van's independent vehicle heater... In order to start that, though, he had to get out of the van (zzzzhhhjingggg-klunk of the sliding door), open the driver's door, start the heater, shut the driver's door (schklunk!) and close the sliding door again (zzzzhhhhjingggg-schluck-zzzzhhhhjinggggg-zhhhhhhhhjing-schluck-zzzzzzzhhhhhjingggggg-zzzzzzzzhhhhhhhjinggggg-KLUNCK). Yup. That sliding door never closed properly the first 2 times around. Oh, and the heater shut off after 20 minutes again. So yes, we were loud. Yet, the next morning, NO ONE told us off. No one even showed their face!
When we left the RV-campsite, I realized something... Back in Canada, I thought RV's were the most glamorous, and safest, way to enjoy camping. On many a camping trip, I lay in my tent, softly whimpering while keeping a close ear on the sounds outside my tent. In my mind, it would only be a matter of minutes before a bloodthirsty bear or cougar would jump onto our tent and devour us all. I remember cursing our hubris for not dishing out the dough needed to rent an RV, a fortress of steel and convenience. In Europe, however, bears are scarce. One can camp in a tent and worry about little more than mosquitoes and whether the neighbours can hear your farts. One does not need a fortress of steel and convenience to survive. In Europe, RV's are kinda lame. And, judging by our experience at the RV campsite, I would say there is a high probability that RV's are the preferred mode of transportation for the undead...
Anyhow, I ramble. The night in the claustrovan passed without much ado and soon we were on our way to the ferry terminal. In line for the ferry, Nori gave a snore-by-snort account of the difference in snoring techniques of Menno and my dad ;-) Soon we boarded the ferry and we spent 4.5 hours stretching our legs, eating Danish pastries and "storming" (a verb Jura and I invented for chasing of seasickness by standing on the windiest, rainiest spot on deck :-) ).
And there it was... Our new country, the place we get to call home! Rainy, cold, foggy, but nonetheless, THERE! We made it!
To Norway, that is. The story of the rest of the trip and our first impression of Norway will have to wait 'till some other time!
* Unfortunately, the buyers were unable after all to get a mortgage, so our house is back on the market. To be continued, for sure!
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