Let's Go Sing!
"Sing?"
"Yeah my friends have a karaoke room for the next 10 minutes!"
"Oh well... yeah... Let's go sing!"
And just like that my new friend Louise leads me to a private karaoke parlour stuffed to the gills with her friends who are stuffed to the gills with ethyl alcohol.
The real estate is limited but we finagle a spot on a couch at the back of the room. I do my best to join in on the songs, following along with the Norwegian words that flash up on the screen. I jump up and down, I fist pump, I horrifically mangle words I don't know at the top of my lungs in unison with a few dozen of my newest friends.
Welcome to Norway Day.
Velkommen til Syttende Mai.
Champagne Breakfast
The day started the way nearly every day starts in Norway on the 17th of May, with a champagne breakfast.
Right at 10 AM a steady stream of co-conspirators begin to arrive at Sondre's apartment: Joakim, Tobias, Bjørn, Thomas, Rolf, Sindre (not to be confused with Sondre) and of course Kristoffer and Kristoffer (not to be confused with Christoffer).
Each reveler brings a separate dish in the Norway Day breakfast potluck tradition. By the end of the procession of dishes the table is populated with a hillock of rolls, scrambled eggs, smoked salmon, salted cured meats, myriad cheeses, ham rolls, salmon rolls, mango salsa, avocado, bell peppers, cucumbers, brownies, and for some reason, chicken wings. I've eaten hundreds of wings in my day, but this is the first time I've eaten them for breakfast.
Once the table is set, our posse of the North Oslo Mafia participates in a champagne toast and a rousing rendition of "Ja, vi elsker", the Norwegian national anthem. Penned by the delightfully cognominated Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson, the song wasn't officially adopted as the National Anthem until 11-December 2019 after serving 100-some-odd years as the de facto anthem. Translated as "Yes, we love this country", ol Bjørnstjerne spent nearly 10 years spinning this intricate and complex patriotic metaphor. As a further testament to Bjørnstjerne's creativity he named his first born Bjørn Bjørnson.
I jest but Uncle Bjørnstjerne holds the honorable disctinction of being Norway's first Nobel Laureate so I reckon he's got the last laugh.
After the toast everyone fills their plate and finds whatever couch, chair, bench, ledge, armrest, or other ass-cheek sized horizontal surface 2-3 feet off the ground that's available to accommodate a dozen cultivators of mass operating at peak efficiency in a 1 bedroom downtown Oslo apartment.
Syttende Mai
Every year, in the shadow of the Ides of May, the entire nation of Norway shuts down for a massive celebration. It goes by many names, Syttende Mai (17th of May), Nasjonaldagen (National Day), Grunnlosdagen (Constitution Day), or when you're talking to a Yank, "Norway Day".
The celebration traces its roots to the signing of the Constitution of Norway on the 17th of May 1814 in the town of Eidsvoll 70 km to the Northeast of Oslo. The constitution declared Norway to be an independent kingdom after Sweden's defeat of Denmark during the Napoleonic Wars (the Danes were then the rulers of Norway). Being ruled by Denmark is one thing but any self respecting Norwegian would rather give up hot dogs than willfully accept Swedish overlords. So they went to war.
But to say they went to war would be like saying the Titanic went to sea. It happened, sure, but the paint was barely dry before it was all over. All-in-all the conflict lasted about 2 weeks and from what I can gather the Norwegians lost around 400 brave men. But their sacrifice was not made in vain as Sweden agreed to honor the Norwegian Constitution while allowing it to remain independent-ish through a "personal union" with Sweden. So while Norway's parliament elected Charles XII of Sweden as king of Norway in November of 1814, The Norwegians could hold their heads high.
The Norwegian Constitution is the second oldest working national constitution in the world after the US Constitution, which of course took effect on the 4th of March 1789. Everybody in the US knows knows our Constitution Day just like the Norwegians, right?
When King Karl Johan of Sweden ascended to the throne in 1818 he strictly forbade the celebrations until he realized the Norwegian spirit shall not be opressed and lifted the ban in 1829.
One of the hallmarks of Constitution Day is the absence of military parades or displays. This is a conscious decision to shun what many countries use as a jingoistic display of belligerent force and to instead dedicate the day to the people of Norway. Novel idea huh?
But the real winners on Constitution Day are the children. On this glorious day kids are permitted to eat as much ice cream, waffles, cakes, hot dogs, and any other junk food their developing brains deem appropriate. I can't say for sure how this tradition started but based on my observations on the day it's likely due to all the parents getting blasted on aquavit.
But the celebration of children on Constitution Day is not merely gustatorial; beginning in 1864 our old friend Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson suggested staging a parade for children to represent Norway's bright future. Ever since then parades have been staged all over the country with the largest, of course, occurring in Oslo.
This is Where The Parade Ended
"Wait.... what parade?"
"Did Sondre not take you to the parade?"
"This is the first I'm hearing of it"
"Sondre! You didn't take him to the parade!?"
"I took him to MY version of Constitution Day, if you wanted to show him the parade you shouldn't have gone to Spain!"
"Did you at least have some ice cream?"
"Nope"
"Sondre!"
We're currently standing in front of the Royal Palace on the 19th of May, looking down upon the final stretch of the parade route. Sondre's girlfriend Nora is (rightfully) incensed that he did not take me to the parade nor did he shovel mountains of ice cream in my face. 2 scoops? Make it 3, I'm not driving. But to be fair she did leave the country the week of the 17th, which should be a crime in my opinion.
The parade is one of the most beloved traditions of Constitution Day. All over the country, children assemble to march with their elementary school comrades. Each school carries their official school banner and is typically accompanied by the school's marching band. The Oslo parade attracts over 100,000 people to watch 100+ schools parade through town, waving Norwegian flags. The final stop of the parade is the Royal Palace, where the children pass by the Royal Family who display the Røjælwåvøkkær*, the official Royal Wave
*I just made that word up
The most remarkable thing that I notice while standing on the grounds of the Royal Palace is the complete lack of evidence that tens of thousands of Norwegians of various states of drunkenness occupied this exact same spot just two days ago. No litter, no vandalism, no evidence of hooliganry. The only indication of revelry I saw in the days following the 17th was a newspaper vending box wearing three empty beer bottles as a crown. That's it. The Norwegians know how to party but they also know how to leave it like they found it.
Suit Up
Perhaps the most striking difference between the Norwegian & US American Independence Day celebrations, besides the varying inclination to litter, is the sartorial stylings of the merrymakers.
In the US, a common 4th of July outfit is jean shorts and a cutoff American flag t-shirt. I would know from experience.
Norwegians take a different tact. Instead of "suns out guns out" they abide by the policy of "we don't see the sun for 4 months out of the year, let's wear suits."
Which I was wholly unawares of until two days before the party when Sondre casually asks me,
"Do you want me to steam your suit for the 17th of May?"
"My what?"
"Your suit for the 17th"
"I need a suit?"
"Yeah you need a suit!"
"Why didn't you tell me this before I crossed an ocean without a suit?"
"I thought you said you had a suit for the wedding"
"I said I have a tuxedo for the wedding and and based on the debauchery you've reported about the 17th there's no way I'd wear anything that I planned to wear to the wedding."
"That's ok we can get you a suit, there are plenty of places to shop around here"
So that's how my stuffed suitcase got overstuffed and my emaciated wallet got overemaciated.
Thankfully I found a store called Dressman where I was able to acquire a light blue suit and paisley button down for \$200. Much better than the \$2000 suits I found in the first place I strolled past in the mall.
When I picked out the paisley shirt the salesman tried to stifle a grimace,
"Are you sure you don't want a white shirt?"
"I have so many white shirts, I don't need another"
"Do you have a white shirt in Norway?"
"What's your return policy?"
"Not after the 17th"
"I'll take the paisley"
When I meet back up with Sondre at his office I show him and his coworkers my suit, which is widely approved, then the paisley shirt, which causes some uneasy half-smiles. Sondre pipes up,
"You didn't get a white shirt?"
"No I don't need any more white shirts!"
His coworkers look at each other & gather a modicum of gumption,
"Yeah we think you should get a white shirt"
"I'm not getting a white shirt"
"Are you sure?"
"If Sondre would have told me to bring a suit I would have a white shirt, now the more you tell me I need a white shirt the less I want to wear a white shirt"
"Ok, we still think you should get a white sh.."
And this is when my noise cancelling headphones go on.
Bunader
While a suit satisfies the minimum pieces of flair requirement, many partiers choose to celebrate their Norwegian heritage with a bunad, the traditional Norwegian folk costume. Each bunad is different, but they typically consist of elaborate embroidery, scarves, shawls, belts, stockings, caps, and handmade jewelry known as sølje. Most sølje are made of silver, a material that's steeped in Norwegian lore. Legend has it that the silver mines belonged to the mountain trolls & the wearer of silver would be protected against sickness, rotten weather, and bad luck.
According to tradition, a bunad should reflect the family or regional heritage of the wearer and sometimes, I'm just now learning, the marital status of the wearer. That would have been good information to know at the time. If anyone has a male bunad in a 42L with an "aggressively unmarried" adornment I can take that off your hands.
While the modern bunad is intended to invoke traditions of the past, it's actually a 20th century invention. The hero of the bunad movement was Hulda Garborg, a Norwegian writer, novelist, playwright, poet, folk dancer, theater instructor, and champion of Norwegian culture. In 1903 she published Norsk Klædebunad, a book that celebrated the heritage of the bunad and encouraged Norwegians to construct their bunader of traditional Norwegian materials instead of imported silk & velvet.
Garborg's prominent advocacy for the bunad led to a proliferation of husflidslag, (roughly translated as folk art & crafts clubs), that kept the bunad tradition alive. Today, around 80 percent of Norwegian women own a bunad, compared to only around 20 percent of men; a situation which leads to a google search of "bunad" returning an array of threateningly beautiful Norwegian women.
Skål
I enjoy a few glasses of champagne over breakfast before switching to beer.
In preparation for the festivities I scooped up a selection of øl yesterday from the local grocer before all the stores closed for the holiday. Among the offerings are the VestKyst IPA from Kinn Bryggeri, the Littlebro Session IPA & Czech-Style Pils from Ægir Bryggeri, the Fjord Session IPA from Tya Bryggeri, the Pale Ale & Brown Ale from Nøgne Øl plus a few Frydenlund Pales Ale just to be on the safe side.
As I crack into one of the IPAs, Tobias inquires,
"What kind of beer is that?"
"The IPA from Ægir, it's really good, you want to try it?"
"Oh no, I don't like eepas"
"See, Tobias, that's where we're different. I love eepas"
Nearly 100 years since the end of our puritanical dabble into Prohibition (December 5, 1933 is Repeal Day, folks) our Stateside breweries have begun to produce swill so divine our Continental brethren have begun to copy our style. Imitation is the purest form of flattery.
So while the decades following our prohibitionary experiment produced swill that Europeans called "sex in a canoe" (it's fucking close to water) we have come back with a vengeance, producing beer so big, so powerful, so full of flavor that our stuffy European antecedents don't know what do to with their tastebuds. The American spirit will not be suppressed!
We continue drinking our Øl, eepas, and champagne whilst milling about in Sondre's apartment and jockeying for a good spot on the balcony to soak in the fabulous weather.
While lounging around I dig into my Dressman bag to pull out a bow tie in the style of the Norwegian flag.
"What do you guys think of the bow tie?"
If Sondre had a record player this is when the needle would jump out of the groove as if by its own volition. A room full of Norwegians stare at me
You're already wearing a paisley shirt and you think it's a good idea to wear That?
Eventually Sondre pipes up in the most polite way he can muster, "I wouldn't"
I think for a second and it does feel a little over the top. I'm here to celebrate the holiday and this feels like I'm making a caricature of it.
"Ok I'll wear it as a pocket square"
"Yeah, that looks good," remarks Kristoffer. And generously adds, "maybe you can put it on when we're drunk at the bar"
Good idea Kristoffer.
Once everyone has stuffed their faces with the bounty of champagne breakfast assorted groups of friends begin spiriting away to the rooftop patio with satchels of beer. I help Sondre tidy the abode up before joining the rooftop crew. Once we summit the building we're greeted by a group of fellas circled 'round a rectangular flowerbed.
Our slightly sozzled compatriots are presently engaged in an athletic competition known by the revelers as "King of the Court". KotC pits the King vs a challenger who must score two points against the King to take his crown. His majesty must only score a single point to send his lowly peon subject to the gallows and bring on fresh blood. I'm at a distinct disadvantage seeing as we enshrined the abolishment of monarchy into our Constitution on the 4th of March 1789. I had to look up that date (again).
The "net" consists of the aforementioned flowerbed and the paddles resemble pickleball paddles (they probably are pickleball paddles) with a ball that's like a smaller, less dense lacrosse ball. It's blindingly simple, unexpectedly fun, and cycles through players quickly so everyone gets to play without a bunch of standing around.
Of all of Sondre's dozen-ish friends the only one with enough Norwegian pride to rock a bunad is Christoffer. But don't let the fancy duds and pleasant demeanor fool you, Christoffer loves to skate.
Christoffer's best trick on the skateboard is making it look like he's never ridden a skateboard in his life. He's absolutely fabulous at it. If there were a professional league for such things Christoffer would be the Michael Jordan of looking like you've never ridden a skateboard. It's almost like he's never ridden a skateboard. He's that good. At being not good. A true pro.
While on the roof, a couple of Sondre's friends from the adjacent building join us; friends whose names go in one ear, sail the high seas of beer and champagne sloshing around my head, and maroon themselves on my other earlobe. They come bearing gifts, most importantly a large pitcher of sangria. And if you're reading this you likely know that Uncle Andy looooooooooooves sangria wine!
Ok Let's Go to the Bar!
As our blood alcohol content swiftly rises so too does our interest in athletics wane. Some time in the mid-afternoon the carousing committee decides to transfer the festivities to the bar. As anyone who has tried to herd a dozen half drunk men, this takes at least two beers worth of time. Eventually we hop on the trolley right outside Sondre's apartment and head to Syng, a bar overlooking the mighty Akerselva with private karaoke rooms.
From the street level we descend a set of outdoor stairs that wraps around the left side of the building overlooking a patio engorged with patrons flying high on booze and Norwegian pride. Just to the other side of a wide footpath the Akerselva rages with the runoff of an above average snowpack. The sun is shining high in the cloudless sky; a beautiful day to celebrate Norwegian independence.
I duck into the bar and emerge with a round of suds for as many fellas as my hands can hold. We find an open picnic table overlooking the river and continue the merrymaking. Soon after we stake our claim a young woman who seemingly decided that the 17 in the 17th of May was her drink tally for the day plops down across from me.
"What's that"
"Oh it's a bow tie"
"Can I see?"
And before I could say anything she reaches across the table & swipes it from my pocket.
I watch her fumble around with the strap & clasp before she capitulates and asks for my assistance. I adjust the strap to fit around a non-collared neck and help her put it on.
As she thanks me a small white pouch begins to slide down from underneath her top lip. She guides a grubby forefinger to shove it back up beside her superior labial frenulum where it belongs. This pouch, known as a "snus", is as ubiquitous in Norway as hot dogs and genial dispositions. Snus are smokeless tobacco pouches originating in Sweden, where they have a special carve-out from their outright ban in the European Union.
Earlier today before we left the apartment I asked to bum a snus from Rolf after I saw him load a pouch into his upper lip.
"Oh no, this is the max strength, you don't want one of these"
"Hmm, well let me give it a try"
"No I don't think you want one, it's even too strong for Sondre"
"C'mon just let me try one"
"I don't think that's a good idea.... Sondre, can you tell him he shouldn't take one of these snus"
"Oh yeah, Andrew, you don't want one of those. Here have one of these"
"No, I want one of the extra strength ones, just let me try it"
"You're not gonna like it"
"Just give it to me"
So he did. And within about 2 minutes my face felt like it was going to fly off my skull.
It was marvelous.
I had to quickly remove the pouch lest the floor of the spinning room decide to make my acquaintance.
The most common refrain I hear regarding snus is "it's like tobacco but it's not bad for you!" I'm sure my good friend Pete, the Dippin' Dentist ™ would support this spurious claim.
⬤ ⬤ ⬤
While at the bar Joakim gifts me his lapel pin with the 3 modern Norwegian kings. This feels like an undue honor and I temporarily suspend my tomfoolery for the most earnest expression of gratitude a man can give after a dozen beers. The pin represents the last 118 years of the Norwegian crown - since 1905 only three posteriors have called the Norwegian throne home: King Haakon VII (1905-1957), King Olav V (1957-1991) and King Harald V (1991=present). Haakon & Olav goverend well into their 80s and Harald is still going strong at 86 years young.
Originally a Danish prince, King Haakon was popularly elected to the throne as the first independent Norwegian monarch since 1387. During his 51 year reign he ruled with a light touch, a practice that has been carried on by his successors and gained the favor of the Norwegian people.
King Olav was known as "The People's King", preferring to drive his own car, ride on public transit, and generally gad about with no bodyguards. In a 2005 poll Olav was voted Norwegian of the Century.
Finally, King Harald is best known both for his sailing exploits - he represented Norway at the 1964, 1968, & 1972 Olympics and is the presiding President of Honour of World Sailing - and the controversy surrounding his bride. When Harald declred his intentions to marry Sonja Haraldsen it was downright scanadalous - Sonja was a lowly commoner! When Harald told his old man that if he couldn't marry Sonja he wouldn't marry anyone Olav finally relented and blessed the union. We love Queen Sonja.
But I digress....
As I'm wandering around the patio overlooking the Akerselva I meet a young lady named Martine with a Cassanovian communiqué so stupid that it just might work,
"Hey I'm American, what's your name?"
About a minute into my international symposium with Martine, Louise sidles up to me,
"Hey, you're shouting at the wrong bush"
"Uhhh, what?"
"What's the saying? You're shouting at the tree?"
"Oh, barking up the wrong tree?"
"Yes! That's it! You're barking up the wrong tree." Louise points to a stunning Norwegian beauty in an elaborate form-fitting bunad across the patio, "that's Martine's girlfriend right over there"
Yeah I can't blame Martine there, a significant upgrade from the mountain troll standing before her.
Typically in a conversation the other party replies to the first but I just sit and stare at Martine's girlfriend, mouth agape.
Louise finally breaks the silence,
"Hey, let's go sing!"
So we sang.