All Are Welcome to Come and Go

I've been busy lately - filling out a lot of paperwork for my residence permit and trying to get my website officially together in hopes of finding more clients. With these tasks I haven't had a lot of time to write, but wanted to post this that I wrote a few months back in the summer.

24 Aug 2011 - Small International shop on Jens Bjelkes

Image from Finn Kart.no http://kart.finn.no/?lng=10.77176&lat=59.91380&tab=search&zoom=17&mapType=finnvector&markers=10.77282,59.91150,r,Sigurds+gate&streetview=true&svx=263689.83805464&svy=6649316.2794884&sa=86.42663139228122&sp=-3.756212058627509&activetab=search&streetViewState=1

"Hei!" I greet one of my neighborhood's most friendly shop-keepers as I enter the door with the vegetables I selected from the bins outside the shop.

"Vær så gå," he replied with a smile as he began ringing up my purchases. I back up to peek around the corner, wondering if the shop carries toilet paper and instead find that a small sparrow has entered the shop and is walking quietly around the two aisles.

"Det er en små fugl-" I begin, but immediately realize my pronunciation of the Norwegian word for bird is hopeless, so I switch to a combination of Norwegian, English and flapping hand motions. "There is a small bird inside!"

As if on cue, the bird appears in the aisle directly in our line of sight. The shopkeeper nods with a small smile and slowly replies in English, "Yes, we are a free shop here - all are welcome to come and go, no problems."

I smile in reply and place my debit card in the machine to pay. The shopkeeper asks if I am from England, but I - somewhat self-consciously - reply no, that I am from the US. I learn that he is from Iraq and has been here in Norway for six years. When I say that I have been here for two years he is somewhat taken aback, asking "but you do not speak Norwegian?" På Norsk now, I pull myself together to say that I am learning and he nods, asking if I have work here.

I am struck by this conversation in how different our situations are. When I meet Norwegians and use the smallest amount of their language, they are surprised that I have learned so much in two years. But here, meeting one of Oslo's many residents who came as an asylum seeker from a war torn country, it is the opposite situation. These refugees are given courses in the language and the culture upon arrival, and their competency in the language is a prerequisite for them staying here.

Norwegian language competency is further necessary for finding most work and surviving financially here - a matter I have been struggling with myself. Having arrived as a student in an international masters program, not only was there no push from the university to become familiar with Norwegian, but we masters students were actually denied admission to the language courses. This upon the grounds of the classes being overbooked and our low prioritization derived from the rest of university classes being taught in English. Often enough, I have encountered this distinct feeling that Norway has little interest in encouraging international students to stay in the country beyond their studies. It makes my position difficult despite my desire to learn and become an accepted part of this place - to make a valid professional and personal life in this country where the man I have fallen in love with happens to come from. Remembering the cloud of dread associated with looking ahead to my next visit to the directorate of immigration, I realize again that for now, in the midst of a long running job search, I have only a tenuous claim to belonging here.

The Argyle Takeover

I might have mentioned that I'm not very good at following patterns. With time, I become more and more convinced that improvisation is my strength, but it doesn't stop me from trying. I knit some mittens.. They weren't the first mittens I knit (in fact I improvised several pairs of mittens for Christmas gifts last year), but they were the first knitting pattern I've attempted to follow. It was an argyle pattern which is very repetitive, so I thought it would be an easy one to start with...

Unfortunately, in the middle of the first (left) mitten, somewhere in the repeating diamonds and lines the argyle took over and developed a mind of its own. Or, perhaps it was my mind becoming subconsciously bored with the pattern and driving me into an error, which lead to some improvisation. Afterwards came a difficult decision on whether to try sticking the with pattern once again for the right hand, or try to somehow mimic my error. Out of sheer self torture, I chose to stick with to the pattern this time - so in the finished product can be seen what the mittens should have looked like (right side).

I'm very fortunate that Rolf is so supportive of my inconsistencies, since the mittens were for him and he says he doesn't mind at all that they don't actually match. :)

In other news, I got bored and started a business. Ok, well it's something I've been thinking about for a while, and it turns out it was a lot easier than convincing an existing Norwegian business to hire me. So, the grand launch is this week - Murphy Arkitektur Periferi.. Just waiting for the website domain to come up and then there will be that tricky little detail of actually getting clients. Wish me luck!

Berries

Wild raspberries growing roadside

 
It's been berry season here in Norway. I think I began raving about Norwegian strawberries back when I first moved to Trondheim in August of 2009, where I picked up a basket of them from a farm stand in the town center and thought it must have been a fluke that they tasted so good. Turns out that it wasn't a fluke - strawberries grown in Norway have a bit of a reputation. Apparently because of the cool climate, the growing season for strawberries is extra long and slow, which in turn give the strawberries an extra amount of bright red sweetness when they do become ripe.

In general, the strawberries here are smaller than I'm used to but the amount of flavor they have is far more than even the best ones I can remember having elsewhere. Thinking that a second hand sense of Norwegian pride might be jading my opinion here, I did pick up a basket of beautiful strawberries grown in Belgium the other day. They sat next to the Norwegian ones at the market (here signage always tells you where the produce comes from) and looked much larger and red with perfect shapes, while the small Norwegian berries looked a little sad by comparison (it is the end of the season afterall). I took the Belgian berries home and was severely disappointed to find that the flavor brought me back to the strawberries I knew before Norway - kind of bitter, pretty but in serious need of sugar to be palatable.

Strawberries aren't the only excitement around this time - Norway hosts a ton of other wild (and cultivated) berries through summer and early fall. I was particularly impressed on a small hike a few weeks ago to realize that Oslo's local forest floors are covered in blueberry bushes (the fruits there had just become ripe), and many streets here are actually lined with wild raspberries and a few wild strawberries if you look very hard. While dog- and house-sitting for some friends just near the northern edge of Oslo, Rolf and I went out a few days berry collecting - each time filling a small soda bottle with a mixture of blueberries and raspberries. To me, this is still an amazing experience - I think my capitalist upbringing still has me wondering if I have to pay someone for collecting the delicious berries!

All of this fruit has lead me to some baking experiments. First, at Rolf's suggestion I looked up a Norwegian cake that often uses berries or jam. In our Rullekake (or "roll cake") we spread a mixture of blueberries and raspberries from the forest, then topped it with whipped cream.

The Rullekake

Rullekake with forest picked blue- and raspberries

Blåbær Rullekake

  

After eating plenty of strawberries straight from the basket, I decided to try an American favorite - strawberry shortcake. Of course, they don't sell the premade angel food's cake I grew up eating with this, so a recipe search online gave me a proper "shortcake" which is something rather British that lies a bit between a southern buttermilk biscuit and a scone (recipe here). On day two of eating these shortcakes, we were running out of strawberries, so I grabbed a (very un-local) mango from the shop and mixed it with the berries.

Strawberry-Mango Shortcake

 

The Aftermath of Friday's Attacks

I've been reading a lot since Friday and thereby writing very little - trying to wrap my head around exactly what has happened in Oslo at the hands of someone who will probably soon be deemed a psychopath. Being in another country when tragedy strikes brings a little more attention to the local news sources and attempts to understand foreign vocabulary on unfamiliar topics. In learning Norwegian, I had never thought about how to translate words such as "execution," "custody," or "perpetrator" but in three days time they have become all too familiar. On the other hand, there is also a vocabulary of hope and national unity that runs as a thread through the gruesome news accounts, and in this I find some comfort.

The bombing site in Oslo is a five to ten minute bike ride from my apartment. A distance far enough away not to be directly effected, but too close to ignore what will be a major event in Norwegian history. Today I borrowed a city bike and rode to the site to better understand what had happened and what is currently ongoing in the Oslo. I chose not to ride my personal bike since I wasn't sure what to expect in way of finding a place to lock it up and walk around. Most of me imagined there would be soldiers in fatigues carrying large guns at every access point - a sight that ironically I've only experienced when passing through Penn Station in New York and by the American embassy in Nepal.

It turned out that instead of armed guards at every view point, there are flowers. People have turned the fences into memorials which draw crowds to sidewalks and closed streets. An amazing number of people are out in the city today visiting these memorials and trying to make sense of what has occurred in our city. It shocked me dually to see the extent of damage through the city's buildings (at least a quarter of what I'd consider the downtown area is affected) and the amount of compassion in the city's people. Residents and visitors from all backgrounds are united in the aftermath of this tragedy.

Before today's visit, everything that occurred on Friday has been a little remote to me and I've looked upon the events as a distant observer. This feeling the more emphasized by not being a Norwegian, but of closely observing the reactions of both the Norwegian people and the Norwegian government. I must say that it's greatly impressed me to be here at this period of such tragedy in being able to see the strength of democratic ideals and unchanging policies of openness and acceptance. I was greatly touched by this first hand account of the island assassinations urging against irrationality, hatred and calling for the death penalty.

Governmentally, the prime minister and the king both continue to repeat a sort of mantra urging not to allow fear to lead, but instead to continue strongly upholding the values Norway have always held. These quotes comfort me in their sincerity - while these attacks were extremely tragic, I believe (and hope) that Norway will keep their overall trust in humanity and refrain from becoming a landscape of fear marked by heavy blockades, military presence, metal detectors, x-ray machines, and above all, hatred.

Lunch in Norway

On my last visit back to the US, a lot of people were curious about what Norwegians eat, so I decided to take this photo today as I sat down to lunch. Lunch may be a slightly misleading term when talking about Norwegian meals, since it's typically not a necessary or very substantial meal here - very often it's replaced by something called the 12 o'clock coffee. The coffee here becomes more necessary than the food to a lot of people (who then eat a big warm dinner after work, around 4).

So my lunch, or coffee, here consists of a few very Norwegian ingredients plus a small international twist that is all my own. The base is crisp bread - basically airy, dry crackers that are rarely eaten here without spreading some butter and then adding a topping (or 'pålegg' in Norwegian). Pålegg literally means to lay on/over, so there a wide variety of toppings from jam to cheese or meat can be added to crisp bread (or to regular bread - Norwegians enjoy a great selection of hearty wheat breads as a staple in the diet). Buffets and hotel breakfasts all over Norway usually contain a selection of fresh breads with impressive bars for the toppings, plus eggs, sausage, fresh fruit, yogurt, muesli and other cereals.

Today for pålegg I have some canned mackerel (that holds a taste and consistency somewhat similar to tuna) that has been preserved in a slightly oily tomato sauce. Perhaps not seeming so appetizing to the un-initiated, it is actually quite tasty and healthy - with high Omega 3 content and Vitamin D (which is ever important during the months without sun here). The cucumber is another typical ingredient found (and actually grown) here, but for a bit of extra interest I've added some homemade guacamole. Avocados sold here are also mostly grown in Peru or Chile and shipped in, so it's not the most sustainable decision but I do find myself eating them quite often here - both as pålegg and as a side to the (growing trend) of Tex-Mex dinners.

The afternoon meal is complete with a cup of strong, black coffee - another item I did not enjoy nearly as much before moving here.

All About My Mother

I suppose this blog will start with a small dedication to the women of my family - however far from them I've swayed in matters of place, taste, preference, or opinion, they're a good grounding point upon which I somehow define myself.

First, my ever-supportive sister Elaine (commonly known as Lainy, or 'Laniey' as I've consistently misspelled it my entire life).. It was her idea that I start a personal blog to better relate my wanderings and amusing stories. Upon the suggestion, I had to admit I do enjoy writing and that I've been poor at emailing these to potentially interested parties since I moved from the US to Norway. So here it is, we will see where it goes since I find myself perpetually unable to stick to patterns and intents without improvisation (a quality that defines my knitting, cooking, and life as somewhat unique).

So next, a tribute to my mom, Patricia Anne Murphy Wilson whose 58th birthday it would be today if she were still around. I hope this blog will be more anecdotal than sentimental, though my mother, of course, deserves a bit of both. She is missed, in her sometimes eccentric ways, and I'm often reminded of her in myself. Sometimes I wonder which aspects of my upbringing lead me to the path of travel, where I found interest in cities and lived in NYC for nearly five years, or how I came to settling down - at least for the time being - in Norway. There simply aren't many precedents for these tendencies in my family although I might note here my mother's decision to relocate us to North Carolina. I presume that she might have had some subtle, if unrealized, curiosities towards other places.

Asides from an architecture/design/landscape preoccupation, I realize that I've developed a series of hobbies and interests that begin to pin my life down even when location does less so. Cooking, gardening, writing, and knitting amongst others - themes which will no doubt command later blog entries. Ironically, I realize the first two of these were items that my mom continually tried to force upon my (very resistant) childhood and teenage years. In spite of her sincere interests and abilities in these two fields I was determined not to dabble in food and to proclaim an utter dislike of flowers up until I had left home and was in college. In hindsight, I could have learned a great deal if I had paid more attention growing up, but at the least I'm fortunate enought to have (even if unwillingly at the time) committed mom's recipes for meatloaf, lasagna, italian meatballs, quiche, and apple pie to heart. And, I can identify marigolds from petunias and chrysanthemums.

More interesting, now that I cook a great deal (and even enjoy it), I realize I have a lot of my mother's tendencies. She never quite followed a recipe, each time changing the spice mix to her mood and experimenting from a base. I think we also shared what I recognize in myself as impatience for details (ironic given my line of work). This came to mind recently in a kitchen incident jarring memory. My boyfriend Rolf was helping me in the kitchen and began chiding me as he took over the duty of chopping vegetables. I really never do have the patience to cut ingredients small enough! So, seeing the difference between his and my chopped work brought a childhood memory of (greatly disliking) large chunks of onion in mom's (otherwise tasty) pastas and soups.

Mom & I - This was taken over Christmas of 2003 in Old Salem, North Carolina.

So, for the memory of my mom, and for myself and others who can't stick to a prescribed route (and not excluding those who enjoy reading about tribulations related to such), here is a blog...