Oslo Has A Smell
I'm a temporary resident of Oslo for nearly a week before I notice the smell.
A pervasive, gaseous odor permeating the city from Skøyen to Høybråten. Anywhere you go you can't escape it.
I finally recognize the smell while waiting for an electric streetcar in the heart of downtown. Underneath the light of a streetlamp I notice the boulevard is wholly devoid of rambling automobiles; the only passenger vehicles within my visual grasp sit idly, oat bags full of ancient grains distilled to an unimaginably potent liquor.
Oslo has a smell.
Standing on that street corner, reveling in the city's automotive scarcity, I fully appreciate Oslo's olfactory opulence.
Oslo's smell.
It's the smell of fresh air.
A dulcet urban perfume unblemished by the internal combustion engine's belching exhaust.
A breath of fresh air that sheds a noxious light on the state of pollution in the US. Standing on an American street corner you don't notice the pollution. But standing on a street corner in Oslo you notice the emissions by omission. With their system of electric trains, trams, buses, bike lanes and - based on a vibes only informal personal survey - 75ish percent of autos locomoted via electricity, the air in Oslo is downright salubrious.
Casually Modern
When I think of how I would describe Oslo, the first word that comes to mind is sleepy.
It's a word, but it's not the right word.
Oslo is certainly not sleepy - but my opinion is heavily influenced by my expectation. Having never been to Europe my expectation of a European capital is a glinty skyscraper jungle fit for the opening scenes of a spy thriller. Compared to that, Oslofolk might happily consider their hometown sleepy.
It's a verdant low-slung city tucked in a valley surrounded by marka forests. The city displays a refined modesty when it comes to the built environment, tastefully melding the clean lines of modern design with traditional architecture.
It feels shockingly intimate - from a quick glance at a map it seems at least 75% of the city would fit inside a 5 mile radius of the city center. This, combined with the city's public transit operating with Scandinavian efficiency, results in the feeling that anywhere in Oslo seems to be 20 minutes away..
It's a world class city that doesn't make a fuss about it.
It's a city where shit just works.
It's a city whose identity I think can be described as casually modern.
Vålerenga
Of all the multitudinous activities of which to engage in this wonderful city Sondre has arranged a day of sporting for Constitution Day Eve. The beloved hometown soccer squad Vålerenga is hosting the lads from Hamarkameratene (Hamar Comrades). Often abbreviated HamKam, the Comrades hail from Hamar, a town 80 miles to the north of Oslo on lake Mjøsa, Norway's largest lake and also home to Lillehammer.
Before the match we meet up at a pub near the stadium with Sondre's friend Daniel, a HamKam supporter who is, we'll say realistic about his team's chances. "We suck. This is a good match for your first Vålerenga game."
It's still early but HamKam has not fired out of the gates, amassing a dismal 2-4-0 record to date. However, Vålerenga ain't exactly sittin' in the catbird seat with their 2-3-1 tally.
After a few beers at the pub we set off for Intility Arena. It's about a half hour walk through some neighborhoods, not too far from the Vålerenga Kirke (Church), the inspiration for the team's anthem - at some point in the late 70s the church burned down, inspiring Trond Ingebretsen and his band Bjølsen Valsemølle to pen the song Vålerenga Kjerke honoring the house of worship. Supporters of Vålerenga football club have adopted the song as their defacto anthem, belting it out left, right, & center to support the club.
I plugged the lyrics into an online translator & it feels like the gist of the song notes that once the roof of timber burned down the church now has the sky itself as a roof. So that's pretty hardcore.
As we approach the stadium we see a line at least 50 yards long of fans waiting to be granted ingress to the stadium. Sondre whips out his phone and shouts what sounds like a few steps of making Swedish meatballs into the receiver and casually walks past the lengthy queue of antsy supporters. As we near the entrance to the stadium a gentleman in a smart blue suit greets us behind a wall of temporary metal barricades.
"Hi I'm Daniel, nice to meet you!"
I look over at Daniel, then to Daniel, then back to Daniel. Reckon that's one less name I have to remember.
(New) Daniel escorts us past the fence & hands us a lanyard with a ticket. Daniel is Sondre's friend and works for Vålerenga in whatever official capacity requires him to wear a blue suit to games. Whatever his job I'm thrilled to lean into his hospitality because our tickets grant us access to the club level beneath the home stand, the only place in the stadium where you can drink a beer.
Unlike our Stateside stadia, festooned with beer ads and vendors walking the aisles lest you have to leave your seat for liquid refreshment, European soccer arenas have mostly banned alcohol at games in no small part to the advanced studies of hooliganry Europeans have amassed.
There's also a buffet where Sondre shows me the football special - two sausages sharing the same lompe.
Vålorenga come out firing, with a goal by Seedyahmed Jatta in the 18th minute to open the scoring. This is shortly followed by another by Daniel Håkans in the 24th. As halftime draws near we shuffle out to the club for some halftime brewskis. Right as we're about to open the door to the club we hear a roar erupt from the hometown faithful.
3-nil 'renga on a goal from Henrik Bjørdal. Well I'll be!
The second half sees no figurative fireworks, ending the way it began, 3-0 good guys. But it did see literal fireworks, when an opposing supporters threw an arsenal of incendiary devices on the pitch causing a few minute delay.
After the match all the Vålerenga faithful gather at an outdoor pavilion for round after round of øl and round after round of sloppy renditions of Vålerenga Kjerke. I join in with all my new best friends even though I don't know a single word to the song.
What I saw seems to be a bit of a high point for Vålerenga - they finished the season in 14th place of 16, placing them in a battle for relegation against the winner of the promotion playoff from the Norwegian First Division (which is actually the second-tier in Norwegian soccer. Soccer amirite?)
After a home & away with Kristiansund it was all tied up, sending the competition to penalties, which Vårenga lost in heartbreaking fashion 5 goals to 4. So next year the lads will be slugging it out in the First Division with hopes to be promoted back up with the big dogs.
A last little denoument for this story - as I was doing some light research about the club I was delighted to see that a club legend on the pitch as well as a former manager is cognominated Leif Eriksen.
Happy Leif Eriksen Day! Hinga Dinga Dargen!
Livin' on Tulsa Time
"You're going to Oslo? You know Andy Mac lives there right?"
"Wait.... what?? Like Andy Mac Andy Mac?"
"Yeah, THE Andy Mac lives in Oslo, been there a few years I think"
"Well I'll be damned"
And that's how I found myself seated next to this jabroney 4,500 miles from Father Hamill Field.
We met up for supper & a beer at Oslo Street Food food hall, our party staving off a ravenous hunger from the day's Nordic Cycle. We catch up over a couple teriyaki rice bowls and Åss lagers, my Stateside comrade filling me in on his journey to the land of the Norse.
I try to keep up with the barrister banter between Will & Andy Mac, lobbing a few precisely timed Point of Parliamentary Procedure!! shouts into the transcript to the annoyance of nobody I'm sure.
A few more øls & a handful of stories later finds us at Crow Bar, a craft beer saloon just a snowball's throw from the food hall. During our jaunt to the Crow we pass a fella ripping a stogie that could substitute as a cane for Danny DeVito.
The Crow also operates a small brewing concern in the back; and as a man who supports small business, I order myself a Crow's House Ale.
I enjoy a few rounds of suds with the fellas until one by one they grow weary of my company and scuttle away like rats on a sinking ship. I'm on holiday and don't have to work tomorrow so I make nonsensical small talk with the bartender over a Lindheim Øysteinnatten Pale Ale.
In the process of flappin my gums I remember that Andy Mac, subsequent to retreating to his sleeping quarters, mentioned that Lervig is his favorite brewery in Norway. Armed with this intel I order up a Lervig Supersonic DDH IPA, a flagon of ale so delicious I feel obligated to order another.
And maybe another