Who's Ready for Some Waiting Sausages? (cont.)
I'm enjoying a Rignes pilsner when 6 words strike my tympanic membrane that have since changed my perception of what it means to be alive...
"Who's ready for some waiting sausages?"
You know what? I've never been more ready for anything in my entire life.
A subtlety of the query that I did not immediately realize was that "who's ready for some waiting sausages?" is an entirely different question than "who's ready for a waiting sausage?" Because just as I finish my first pølse; med lompe another magically appears in my waiting paws. Hell I might move to Norway just to wait around.
I Bet You're Wondering How I Ended Up Here
This entire story starts over a dozen years ago.
Fall 2010.
A knock on the door.
My brother Alex answers... In his underwear.
"Hello, this is Sondre, he's your exchange student that will be staying with you this year."
"Huh?"
"This is Sondre, he's your exchange student that will be staying with you this year."
"We have an exchange student staying with us?"
...
"Are your parents home?"
"I don't know."
...
"Can you check?"
"Mooooommmmmmmmmmm!!!!"
I have no earthly idea how my family ended up with an exchange student. On paper we seem like a perfectly reasonable family. In practice we're closer to the Delta Tau Chi fraternity from Animal House.
The funny part about the entire situation is that Sondre was sent to America as a punishment. Punishment because he missed 75 days of school the previous year. Funny because the only way living with my family could be considered punishment is if you hate fun. And Sondre certainly did not hate fun.
He immediately ingratiated himself with my family and Timmy's friends.
He immediately ingratiated himself with the delivery drivers for Hideaway Pizza.
He immediately ingratiated himself with purveyors of Keystone Light.
My parents treated him with the same laissez-faire attitude that they showed to their own 4 dopes. Did we turn out alright? Maybe? Eventually?
Sondre quickly became part of the family. He introduces me to his friends as his "American brother." I do the same. We've kept in touch and he's come back to visit the States a few times since his study abroad year. This is my first time visiting his homeland but not my first plan to visit. A few years ago I saw a cheap flight deal to Norway & picked a random week in May... of 2020.
Yeah, that trip didn't happen. So this is my first materialized trip to Norway.
Sondre grew up in a small town called Sætre, situated 45 km southwest of downtown Oslo on the Hurumlandet Peninsula. The narrowest part of the fjord, the Drøbak Sound, separates the Inner from the Outer Oslofjorden a mere 5 km to the east.
The town's most famous resident is Morten Harket, the lead singer of the Norwegian band a-ha, which might not ring a bell, but this certainly will:
His parents' house is perched on a hill overlooking the fjord, a stone's throw from the Sætre city center. The home is a sleek two story modern construction with clean lines, a wraparound deck, rooftop terrace, and indoor/outdoor hot tub. It blends minimalist functionalism with a warm coziness that feels chic yet comfortable. And high tech toilets that I couldn't figure out how to use.
His parents Tom & Monica have welcomed this weary traveler from a faraway land with their characteristic kindness and generosity. Tom, known as "Big Tom" due to his 6'7" stature, is an executive for a real estate developer in the Oslo area. Sætrealleen, the mixed-use development in the city center of Sætre was built by Big Tom, as were a number of other buildings that Sondre points out to me throughout Oslo.
During the planning phase of Sætrealleen, some local residents caused a big stink opposing the project. Big Tom, in a masterstroke of public relations statecraft, commissioned truckloads of sand brought to town to create a public beach right next to the marina. The opposition to the development evaporated like the cares of a sunbather on a lovely Norwegian May morning.
Monica serves as the Deputy Mayor of Asker, a new municipality* formed in 2020 when the municipalities of Asker, Røyken & Hurum merged into a single, larger governing body. Before the consolidation she was the mayor of Hurum, which included Sætre. So you could say she's kind of a big deal.
*These "municipalities" seem to most closely resemble US counties, while Norwegian counties are more akin to US states.
I could not have asked for better hosts. Big Tom and Monica have shown me a level of hospitality that I've done nothing to deserve but am grateful for nonetheless. Norwegian gjestfrihet at its finest.
Gratuler Med Dagen
The day started earlier this afternoon at Oslo Gardermoen Airport. After enduring the disorganized mayhem of Norse Atlantic, I was quickly introduced to the nonchalant efficiency of Norwegian transit. \$20, 30 minutes, and 30 miles of impossibly smooth track were all that separated me from the Nationaltheateret station in downtown Oslo. A far cry from the \$60 and 45 minutes-to-an-hour-depending-on-traffic 9 mile Uber ride I took to JFK.
When I emerge from the subway station I'm greeted by a panoply of colorful sweat-wicking performance t-shirts. Hundreds of go-getters are gathered outside the National Theatre, prepping, stretching, basking in the glow of this reclusive heavenly body us Statesiders call "the sun." Apparently I've arrived right before the start of a fundraising run that's brought the whole town out. I find a spot in the shade near a statue of Norwegian actor Per Aabel looking like he's having a great time. Sondre sends me a text.
"Take a picture so I can see where you are"
"On my way"
Didn't think that would actually work.
5 minutes later my Norwegian brother shows up with a big bear hug. We head back down into the train station for the 4 train to Storo, Sondre's neighborhood 5 km to the northeast. At 3:40 PM Oslo time I drop my bags & sink into his couch in a heap of delirious exhaustion. It's been 8 hours & 10 minutes since I went wheels up in NYC and 12 hours since I dumped myself in an Uber outside Mikey's apartment. Feels like 12 days.
"Are you hungry?"
"Starving"
"Do you still eat meat?"
"Yeah?"
"OK, just checking. I mean you work for a solar energy company and look like a hippie."
"Ok that's fair"
Sondre whips me up a leftover burrito and a hot cup of joe. We split a beer and the combination of it all somehow enlivens my somnolent soul. I muster enough energy to toss a wad of clothes into my backpack for our slumber party in Sætre.
We venture down to the basement where he walks up to a car whose tail is plugged into the wall and clicks some button on his phone to make it beep. He starts circling the automobile taking photos.
"So these are just shared cars in the basement for anyone to reserve?"
"Yeah it's just an app on your phone and you can reserve a car for however long you want."
We hop in the car and take the scenic route down the western coast of the central arm of the Oslofjorden.
"We're going to stop at my grandfather's house first because it was his birthday yesterday & we should go with him a happy birthday"
"How do you say 'Happy Birthday' in Norwegian?"
"Gundelungendenuglenelengen"
"What?"
"Gutdelundenunderundenernundun"
"You sound like a vacuum cleaner in a bathtub"
"Gurlendugendrundenrmndenemun! How is that hard??"
"Let me look it up... Ohhh, when it's spelled out it makes sense 'gratuler med dagen'... Ok, I got it now, grad-you-lurr med doggen"
"If you say that to my grandfather he will have no idea what you are saying"
"How do you say it again?"
"Grat-you-lair-eh meht dah-genn"
"Grattyerlera med dawginn"
"Close enough"
The next 15 minutes are devoid of conversation because the entirety of my mental faculties are focused on three simple Norwegian words.
Grat-you-lair-eh
Meht
Dah-genn
After an hour of driving through some of the most idyllic countryside I've ever seen we arrive to farfar Bjørn's house, sitting on a hill overlooking the Oslofjord on the southern edge of Sætre.
A quick digression: in Norwegian, the word for father is far and mother is mor. Your paternal grandparents are farfar and farmor, i.e father's father & father's mother. Same for your maternal side: morfar & mormor, a brutally efficient way to avoid asinine questions like "Is grandpa Bjørn your dad's dad or your mom's dad?"
"This is the house that Big Tom grew up in."
"Really? This is such a cool spot"
"Yeah I love it up here."
Farfar Bjørn opens the door
"Hello! You must be Andrew!"
"Gratt-you-larry me doggun!"
*puzzled look of curious bemusement*
"Oh yes, gratuler med dagen, thank you! Come in! Come in! Welcome!"
We climb the stairs to their deck overlooking the fjord. I'm blown away by the scenery. Surrounded by thickly wooded hills, the deck overlooks Oslofjorden with a view all the way to downtown Oslo. To a hayseed from Oklahoma I'm in awe that a place like this even exists.
To a Norwegain this is just home.
What Do You Mean You Don't Know About Cape Hatteras??
"I'm sorry farfar Bjørn, I only moved there last summer."
"It's Cape Hatteras! You live in North Carolina and don't know about Cape Hatteras? It's where you enter the Albemarle Sound before The Great Dismal Swamp!"
"The what?"
"THE GREAT DISMAL SWAMP!"
"I have no idea what that is"
To call farfar Bjørn a seafarer would be an understatement. He cannot begin to fathom how I wouldn't know all the navigable waterways up and down the Eastern Seaboard. I mean he's sailed all of them & he lives an ocean away.
"We left from Norway and sailed down through the North Sea and the English Channel, through the Bay of Biscay and then around Spain to the Canary Islands. We then sailed across the Atlantic to the Caribbean, through the Panama Canal and down the western coast of South America to Patagonia. From there we planned to go to French Polynesia, but (one of the parts of the sailboat, let's just call it the mizzen-jib) broke during a storm and we were unable to sail into the Pacific.
So we sailed back up the coast, got the (mizzen-jib) fixed in Panama, went back through the Panama Canal, through the Caribbean, and up the Intercoastal Waterway through the US.
Are you sure you don't know the Great Dismal Swamp?"
"I've never heard of it before"
"But you live in North Carolina!"
"The US is a big place, farfar Bjørn!"
"Yes, I know! We sailed all the way from Florida to Maine!"
"And how long did this sailing trip around the world take you?"
"6 years"
"6 YEARS!!??"
The indignation of incomprehensibility that farfar Bjørn showed me is returned in kind when I hear this. 6 years calling a sailboat home. I think I might get sick of it after 6 days. But then again I grew up 500 miles from the nearest saltwater.
We chat with farfar Bjørn for about an hour before our appointment with waiting sausages and red meat down at Big Tom & Monica's house.
Middagstid
While waiting for supper on the deck in a state of cylindrical-processed-meat-product bliss, Big Tom works works the grill, as is tradition. Atop the grate sit bleu cheese stuffed mushrooms, corn on the cob, jalapeños, and potatoes. Last on is the star of the show, 4 beautiful cuts of marinated beef. A feast fit for a konge!
Once a perfect medium rare has been achieved Big Tom pulls the steaks and puts the finishing touches on a luscious béarnaise sauce. We open a bottle of Italian red and I attack the meal in a gluttonous spree of gastronomic glee, stretching my ventriculus to its limits. After cleaning our plates we decide it's in our best interest to open another bottle of wine. So we do.
At some point in the conversation Monica asks me if I'm tired.
"I... don't know? I think so?"
My body seems to have shot well past tired to a state of catatonic delirium. It's a peculiar organism this mortal coil we inhabit.
Time has a tendency to fly by when in the presence of good wine, good conversation, and most importantly, good company. Before I know it a quick glance at my watch reveals it's 11 PM. This is the first of what will be multiple mind-blowing realizations that it's way later than I expected. This is because, despite being 23:00, there is still a dusky haze in the sky. It feels like 8 PM, it looks like 8 PM, but it's not 8 PM.
I'm definitely tired now. Tired, stuffed, and buzzing on some delicious wine. I'd say it's high time to hit the hay.
Sætre By Day
The next morning Monica makes us breakfast on the terrace. Four types of breads, fried eggs, three different cheeses, cured meats, salmon, berry preserves, fresh strawberries, and orange juice round out the feast. I have to imagine heaven is like the past 12 hours.
During breakfast I'm introduced to two of Norway's proudest traditions, brunost and the ostehøvel. Brunost, literally translated as "brown cheese" is not technically a cheese but I don't want to hang out with people who define the strict regulations for classifying cheese. Leftover whey is boiled down from the cheesemaking process until it caramelizes into a creamy, savory delicacy of confusingly high levels of amazingness. And the ostehøvel is the triangular cheese knife with the slit near the handle you've probably seen on a wedding registry.
After brekky we head down to the water to check on the dock. Every year residents on the fjord disassemble their docks for the winter. Then after the spring thaw, the docks are reassembled. Traditional dockbuilding techniques are preserved - big ass mallets for driving wooden piles into the mud of the harbor, cross bracing hammered in place by hand, walkways lashed down each year anew.
We ask Big Tom if he needs any help with the dock. Fortunately he says he has it under control and we are released of any labor. I would have helped. But I have soft hands and I'm still a bit jetlagged.
Now that I think about it I would have just gotten in the way.
The disappointed glares from the grizzled faces of the neighboring dock builders as we scurry away pierce my heart like a krókspjót.
From the dock we make a quick stroll to the town square to pay farmor Evy a visit. She's preparing to host a Constitution Day* party with a charming Norway-themed table set and a delicious cake that I want to try but can't ruin the decoration.
*We'll really get into Constitution Day in the next post.
We chat with farmor for about an hour over a bowl of strawberries, mango, melon, and some flavored seltzers. We talk about Constitution Day traditions, what Big Tom was like as a kid, the gossip in Sætre. She shows me a photo of the nasty shiner she got after a tumble she took while walking home from Monica & Big Tom's one night after dark.
Before we know it it's time to skedaddle back to Oslo. This time we take the more direct route through the 4.5 mile Oslofjordtunnelen, i.e. Oslo Fjord Tunnel. It should come as no surprise to anyone who's read my previous posts that I would have preferred a bridge.
Which was a possibility. In the 1980s a pair of 3-pylon cable-stayed bridges were proposed to ford the fjord, utilizing the island of Håøya as an overland passage, serving the same duty as Yerba Buena island does for the San Francisco Bay Bridge. After years of political hemmin' & hawin' they ended up choosing the tunnel due to expected cost savings of NOK (Norwegian kroner) 170 million.
However, during construction the tunneling teams ran into unexpected geologic conditions, which cost NOK 30 million to mitigate. Then in 2004 geologic surveys found a section of unstable rock, which necessitated closing the tunnel for two months & cost another NOK 35 million. And in 2011 the addition of emergency evacuation rooms cost NOK 40 million. So that's NOK 105 million, without even adding in the events that I couldn't track down cost estimates for: floods in 2003 & 2008 and truck fires that shut down the tube in 2006 and 2011. In 2016 alone the tunnel experienced over 200 temporary closures.
I'm definitely biased but I think a bridge would have been a better choice.
Brage? No It's Brage
As Sondre's American tutelage was coming to an end in the spring of 2011, his family came to visit Tulsa. That's the first time I met Big Tom and Monica, and when I entered into an Abbott & Costello routine with his younger brother Brage.
"Ok let me know if I'm pronouncing this correctly, Brog-yuh?"
"No, it's Brehg-yeh"
"Breg-yuh"
"No, Brehg-yeh"
"Brug-yeh?"
"Brehg-yeh"
"Brog-yah?"
"Brehg-yeh"
This went on for a full two minutes with no resolution. 12 years later and I still don't think I've ever said it correctly.
We plan to meet up with Brage later this afternoon at Pokalen, the bar he manages in downtown Oslo. Until then Sondre has some chorin' to catch up on around the apartment so I go for a little stroll. I walk a kilometer or so down the peaceful bubbling water of the Akerselva then cut across to a row of cafes and pubs lining the streetcar line. I stop into (what I think is) a charming little independent coffee shop for a cortado and a scone. Sondre later points out that Kaffebrenneriet is a chain with locations all over Oslo. I'm really leaning into the dumb American tourist stereotype.
After the cafe I duck into an Irish pub called Lincoln, mostly because that's the same name as one of my best good buddy Easley's favorite watering holes in Boston. When ordering a beer from the rail the barkeep asks me if I want the pilsner to which I reply "si". Because I guess my dumb brain just goes <insert foreign language here> and Spanish is the only one I (kinda) know. It wouldn't be as embarrassing if I didn't do it a dozen more times in the next week.
Once Sondre has completed his domestic duties we take a tram down to the Oslo city center right on the water. The most dramatic structures down here are the new public library, the opera house, and the Edvard Munch museum.
The library and opera house are generally architecturally revered among Oslofolk, while the Munch museum is widely decried as the ugliest building in town. I think it looks like a casino. Which is not the highest praise.
As we're ambling to the pub I notice the word "barcode" on a lot of restaurant signage.
"What's 'barcode' mean in Norwegian?"
"What?"
"Barcode, it's on all these restaurants, what does that word mean?"
"It means barcode, like... barcode... the thing you scan at the grocery store"
"Oh... I'm an idiot, I thought it was a Norwegian word for cocktails or something"
"No, this is called the barcode district, because these tall skinny buildings look like a barcode from the water."
We arrive to Pokalen just before Sondre's beloved Arsenal kicks off against Brighton. Arsenal are hated rivals of Tottenham Hotspur, the Premier League team I've supported my entire life (the past 4 years). But I'm in no position to talk trash because the last few years have seen dysfunction and shit football from the Spurs. It's frankly embarrassing.
But nothing compared to the epic collapse Arsenal has managed to close out their season, culminating with today's unspirited 3-0 drubbing that all but secures the title for Man City. Sondre is not happy. I join him on the sourpuss express when I discover that someone has walked off with my jacket that I set on a table.
We hang around after the game with a round of Harvey Wallbangers and more than a few rounds of Frydenlund Pilsner. The Wallbanger is a simple drink: vodka, Galliano, orange juice - a glorified screwdriver. But it's nearly impossible to order in the States for the simple fact that hardly any bars stock Galliano, a sweet herbal Italian liquer with flavors of vanilla-anise and citrus.
We pair our beers & 'bangers with another Norwegian delicacy: bacon snacks. These puffed wheat/potato starch squares brandish cartoonish bacon stripes and artificial "bacon" flavoring. They are, of course, served into a paper bucket from a contraption that resembles a movie theater popcorn machine. It brings me joy to report they are produced by a company called "Mr Slush". It brings me pain to report how many nonsensical bar snacks I consumed.
Ok, Just One Bridge Really Quick
As we finish up at Pokalen we stroll out into the 9 PM Oslo sunshine. Separating the Barcode district from the city center is a 13-lane train station transected by a beautiful pedestrian bridge called the Akrobaten.
The transverse asymmetry of the bridge is its most striking feature. The footpath is suspended from above, but the support pillars only rise from one side. An arrangement that should topple over. But it doesn't because the pillars rise at an angle from below the longitudinal center of gravity and the tubular steel truss that holds the suspenders is rotated off-center to balance the load. It's subtle but really clever engineering.
A Tripadvisor review for the Akrobaten from December 2019 is simply titled "Just a Bridge". The unimpressed ambler from Lichfield, UK remarked,
It's really just a bridge like any other bridge, which cosses over the railway with some views of the great buildings as you cross it.
Oh is it? Is it just like any other bridge? Like any other bridge that won 1st Prize for extraordinary steel & composite bridges at the European Award for Steel Bridges in 2012?
Just like any other bridge. Smh.
Ok, Sondre & Brage are starting to get annoyed.
Since Sondre & I are planning to work tomorrow we decide we've had our fill of revelry and hop on the bus back to his apartment. I've powered through my jet lag & I'm livin' on Oslo time. Just two days of grindin' then we're onto Constitution Day.
Giddy up -->