On vacation

I am not. On vacation, that is. Or holiday if you prefer. I'm not on either. I'm in Oslo, not travelling, not not working (but not really working that much either).

The reasons for this are severalfold.

First of all, formally I don't have the "right" for vacation this year. A paid one, that is. Per our system you ear money for a paid leave each year, but it is earned from the previous year's salary. Since I started my current job in January I don't qualify this year. I could still have taken an unpaid vacation, of course, but how in the would I then cover my rent? So, instead I applied for not having to take out any vacation this year. The problem with this is, of course, that as a teacher I don't really have that much to do between semesters. I can (and should) obviously prepare for the next semester. I do. I read. And think. And look out the window. And have another coffee. And then read some more. But in reality, my motivation is nowhere to be found. The semester feels so faaaaaar away (though it isn't!).

Aside from not technically having earned a vacation this year I am not sure I would have gone anywhere even if I'd had the time off. Time isn't the only thing I'd have to earn, after all - travelling is expensive (especially since I become even  less inclined to watch my spending when on vacation). Even thought I have a decent salary now, I haven't gotten used to the idea of having money yet (it's a tough transition, I tell ya, from having lived for years as a poor student, and now money magically shows up in my account every month. Why wouldn't I spend it all at once??). Saving money? Wouldn't even know how. Okay, that's not entirely true. I do save money. But it's more for the endless black hole labelled "future" than the current fancy labelled "vacation".

Third, and this is somewhat connected to the previous point - I am a terrible planner. Terrible. To me, booking flight tickets feels like a life or death decision (and not because I'm scared of flying - no, it's the commitment that freaks me out). I don't like planning more than, say, a week ahead. Having tickets for something months ahead is the same as saying no to something else that might show up (it's a terrible habit, I know). At the same time, though, I'm not at all impulsive. The idea of going to the airport and just get a ticket to the first and best place you find is almost as scary to me as actually planning that trip ahead... And still I love to travel - you try to figure it out!

So, to sum up - I'm not on vacation because I don't have the time, I don't have the money and because I absolutely suck at planning these things. The first two might and will change with time - the third I'm not so sure about. I guess I just have to suck it up and accept that sometimes planning ahead is okay. In the meantime I've managed to enjoy some vacation-ish time right here in Oslo the previous week. With visiting several museums, going to the cinema, shopping (though not for souvenirs...) and eating more ice cream than what's good for me, I've pretty much covered the tourism part anyway.

On proletarianization

I'm finally making some use of myself. My parents - who are being extraordinarily generous by housing, feeding and catering to my every need in a way only parents can do without it getting awkward - will occasionally ask me to do small favours in return for the hospitality they are showing me. Naturally, I do these things. Clean the bathroom, make dinner, go grocery shopping; it's the least I can do considering how kind they've been and are to me. Yet, I never feel that it's adequate - the favours they do me easily add up to much more than I can ever hope to repay them. So when they asked me to do a large-ish favour - help paint the house and garage - I was (if not thrilled...) happy to oblige.

Since I've been writing job applications lately, I've focused on stuff I'm good at. Like writing reports, or being a loyal employee and colleague, or being able to work both in teams and independently. I've been focusing very little on stuff I'm not good at. Like painting houses.

I felt terribly, terribly out of place. Like the stereotypical city girl, with her high heels and pink nails, trying to do good, old-fashioned manual labour. (I did not have high heels. I did, however, have pink nails...) I couldn't figure out how to secure the ladder. I didn't know how much soap to use for the water (like any good painter should do, I cleaned the wall first, of course). I showered myself in cold water in an attempt of getting the water pressure on the hose up to proper levels (I eventually managed. Okay. My dad eventually managed).

And yet, it felt pretty good. I was outdoors, working, being useful. Then it struck me, how interesting the experience actually was, from a historian's point of view.

The garage was originally built by my grandfather - who has been dead for eighteen years - some fifty, sixty years ago. He was a conductor in the national railway company, but he grew up on a small farm deep in the Norwegian forests. As the son of a farmer, he doubtlessly had to learn all sorts of manual labour - including building houses. So when he had gathered the means, he built one for himself, his wife, and two sons. My grandmother still lives in that house. We live next doors, on a lot bought by my grandfather with his eldest son - my father - in mind.

The garage was built a few years after the house. After all, they had to have a car first. And not just any car. I still remember the smell of my grandparent's Volvo Amazon. The shine of its bright red hue. The lack of nonsensical things such as seat-belts in the back seat. The ash tray, which was always filled with candy since neither of my grandparents smoked.

By the time I was old enough to pay attention, the Amazon lived in a new garage that had replaced the old one, and our house was built on the aforementioned neighbouring lot. The original garage, which now was closer to our house than our grandparents', was turned into a shed. My father - handy in many ways, but not build-your-own-house-handy - did lots of work on our house. But so did a team of 15 carpenters, plus my two grandfathers.

With time the old garage is not as impressive as it once was. Still. It impresses me to think that my grandfather actually did build it. He had those kind of skills. Half a century later, his granddaughter, pink nails and all, struggled to wash and paint the walls he once put up. I doubtlessly have skills he did not - I'm sure he'd be rubbish at writing reports, for instance - but it's a two-way street. It's humbling, really, to think of everything people used to take for granted, that now have become huge tasks because we've let go of the knowledge previously transmitted from generation to generation.

In the end I suspect it's fortunate for me that the times have changed. If I ever build a house, I probably will not even touch a hammer. I won't take much part in the construction process post-planning at all, and I wouldn't have the skills to do so even if I wanted to. On the other hand, I might be able to pay for that house because I got a good education and (hopefully) a job.

At least I've learned a thing or two about painting houses today, should I ever have one of my own. All thanks to my grandfather.

This is Norway

The past few days I have seen the worst and the best of mankind.

It started with the worst. With terrorism, hate, fear.

But it quickly turned around, into a show of strength far superior to that of one individual's hatred. It was the will of an entire people - and with us an entire world - who chose love, solidarity, democracy to battle terrorism.

"We meet terror and violence with more democracy and will continue to fight against intolerance," our Prime Minister said. And the people replied. By organizing hundreds of events in support of the victims. By speaking out in public, or by use of social platforms like Twitter and Facebook. By standing together, in rain and sunshine throughout the weekend, in Oslo and around the country (and also abroad). The sea of roses in front of one of Oslo's churches grew from a few hundred to thousands and thousands in the course of a few days. And then the rose march yesterday - taking place simultaneously in Oslo and the rest of the country. We're a small country, of only 4,6 million people. About 1 million of us were out marching with roses or candles yesterday. Even though we're not many, though, even though we're small; we're also big. Together we are more than 1 million roses, more than 4,6 million people. We're a nation coming together in a time of grief. 


Another inspiring quote that has circulated these past few days is from one of the young politicians who was at the Utøya camp on Friday: "If one man can show so much hate, imagine how much love we could show, standing together."


This is exactly what we are now doing.

Matching our solidarity and love, however, must also be what our Prime Minister called for: democracy.

According to our laws, the maximum punishment the culprit from Friday's terror actions can get is 21 years (though there is the possibility of charging him with "crimes against humanity", which might make him eligible for a total of 30 years). In addition, these are not calendar years, but "prison years". Which means that in theory, he could be out of jail after 16 years.

16 years does not seem much considering the many lives lost. 16 years does not do justice to the loss of these young lives, the dreams and hopes. But then again - what would? Prison for life? Capital punishment? Public lynching?

Of course not. Nothing will ever do this justice. The best we can do is to make sure that the terrorist's intention will not prevail. He attacked our democracy. Our democracy will fight back.

So it is important to me to answer to what I've seen of international (and national) skepticism with regards to the "mild" sentence. Yes, it is mild. 16 years in a comfortable Norwegian prison is not much. But it is what we have at hand, determined as we are to not let him win by changing us.

In addition, even if his official punishment ends at 21 years, his time locked up will not. We have a system in Norway called "forvaring" (involuntary commitment), reserved for criminals who are considered a particular danger to society. There is no doubt that he will end up there, probably for the rest of his life.

It's still not justice. But neither would changing our society and somehow find it in us to execute him. It would not help. It would not bring back those who died. And if we did, then it really would be appropriate to consider this a "loss of innocence".

I trust my country and the people ruling it. I have faith in our ability to get past this without changing for the worse. As many have pointed out - this will change Norway. But it is us - not him - who decide how.

Finally, some impressions from the rose march, which wasn't a march after all, since 200 000 people showed up in Oslo. It was simply impossible to logistically organize it, so we stayed put in front of the city hall. Here there were speeches from Prime Minister Stoltenberg, Crown Prince Haakon, the leader of the Labour Party Youth Organization, and several others. There was music, togetherness, and roses. Roses everywhere. Every few minutes someone raised their rose to the sky, and this triggered a wave of roses all over the crowd. It was stunning to see what resembled a meadow of flowers growing from the hands of the people. And it was impossible to fight back the tears when the crowd spontaneously erupted into song.

This memory will be with me for life. I can only share with you the pictures.

That is how much love we can show each other, standing together. OsLove <3


maria mena "Mitt Lille Land" by maria mena

On timing

I believe I mentioned that I moved? I probably did in a parenthesis somewhere. If not, I moved. To a bigger, better place, you will surely think. Well, it’s not bigger… Everything in my new apartment has a timer on it. And by everything, I mean everything. The stove has a timer, so that if you as much as try to cook your rice or bake your pizza more than the requested time you plot in on the timer, the stove will just shut itself off. The electricity plugs in the kitchen have timers. The kitchen fan – timer. I’m fairly sure they would have installed a timer in the bathroom as well, but fortunately they took to their senses and installed a magazine shelf instead.


I get why there are so many timers, though. It is a student housing apartment, with many other identical apartments in the same building, and in the building next to it and in the building next to that. So if one scatterbrained student leave the oven on and burn something that triggers a fire alarm, it not only triggers his alarm, but the alarm in the apartment under him, the apartment above him, across the hall, basically, the entire building (and possibly the building next to it and the building next to that one). You get the picture. Fire alarms in general = bad. Fire alarms in a building with a multitude of tiny apartments where the inhabitants are students whose minds generally are preoccupied either with complex academic problems or questions such as where the next keg party will be = big problem for a LOT of people. Thus, the timers are supposed to restrict our assumed frequent setting off the fire alarm.

All that is good and well, but it is also slightly annoying when you are cooking and constantly have to pay attention to make sure your timers are timed. If you are planning any long-time projects (such as a roast; not that I have ever made one) you are in for a challenge.

I am not a very ambitious cook, but I do like to play around in the kitchen, and I do not appreciate it when external forces (such as timers) spoil my plans.

Yesterday I was looking through my kitchen cabinets, wondering what to make for dinner. Since the cabinets are tiny (like the rest of the apartment), I did not have a lot in them. I had oatmeal, some wholegrain flour, rice, a can of beans and an impressive collection of tea. (I am exaggerating slightly, though not on the selection of tea. I could open a [tiny, though, as the rest.. Yeah, you’ve already heard that] teashop. But the reminding items in my cupboard were of little importance, and so I shall refrain from mentioning them. Don’t be nosy!)

With the limited selection in front of me, and no desire to go to the grocer, I had very few options. Thus I decided to make oatbeancakes. What are those? I am so glad you asked.

Oatbeancakes are what someone who only has oatmeal, some wholegrain flour, rice, a can of beans and an impressive collection of tea at hand, but who is fortunate enough to discover an egg in the fridge, can make to stifle hunger. I also found pepper (though no salt – you’d think I’d been able to nick that from the student cantina along with the pepper, but as it turned out the beans were quite salty, so it was actually fortunate that I didn’t).

I set the rice and the tea aside, and then mixed the rest together (crushing the beans to my best ability). I soon had what resembled a dough that could be formed to small burger-like clumps. Not the most appetizing mental image, I’m afraid, but in reality it didn’t look too bad. Now it only needed frying. I’ve been told that the best tool for frying things would be a frying pan. This was the moment I remembered that I am not in the possession of a frying pan.

Actually, I am in the possession of a frying pan. But it does not live with me at the moment. You see, the frying pan I have is a very large one (in fact, it is almost twice as large as my apartment. Almost). Thus I had sent it back into storage, determined to buy a smaller frying pan at the first occasion. Unfortunately that occasion have not yet arrived.

I am not helpless when it comes to finding alternate solutions, however, so I decided that if you don’t have a frying pan, you’ll have to use a regular kettle/pot/pan/whatever you call it in English (my kitchen vocabulary isn’t the best. What in the world is the English word for hjulvisp, for instance?). I found one, I put it on the stove and I waited for it to heat up. Only it did not. Why? Because of the stupid timer! The timer I had not set! By the time I figured this out I was almost hungry enough to eat the oatbeanclumps (they only turn into oatbeancakes once fried, you see) raw. Luckily I was able to stifle my hunger by nibbling some dry tea leaves instead, and not long thereafter I could enjoy the rest of the meal. By then I was so hungry that I hardly realized that the oatbeancakes tasted exactly like they were made of oatmeal, wholegrain flour and crushed beans mixed together with an egg. So you see, timing is essential!

On ash*

We’re covered in ash. Isolated by it.


Norwegians had forgotten how it felt to be an outpost. Now we remember.

No more Tanzanian roses for Oslo. No more Norwegian salmon for Japan.

Are we at the risk of losing coffee, sugar, bananas, rice –things we have come to consider as crucial in our daily lives? Not to mention the decreased demand for oil that equals decreased prices and a giant income loss for oil-producing Norway.

We stood tall through the financial crisis. Will the ash be what pulls us down?

It is worth asking (ashing?) what a flight-free weekend in Europe meant in environmental terms. Perhaps we should take this opportunity to think of alternative means of transportation? Businesses and government agencies have been forced to host video conferences instead of flying in negotiators. If this is a possibility today, why can’t it also be something to consider when the ash disappears? Perhaps this was nature’s way of telling us to find new solutions? It will be interesting to see whether the pollution from the volcano was less than the pollution it prevented because of grounded planes.

In the end, though, the immediate feeling is inconvenience. There is nothing we can do. Turning off a volcano is harder than you’d think.

It is tempting to say with the Britons: “Damn you Iceland, we said cash, not ash!”



*The English word “ash” sounds suspiciously similar to the Norwegian “æsj”. Which can mean anything from “eugh” or “yuck” to “damn” or “shoot!”. At the moment I am not so concerned with the ash, but more with my own personal æsj. I have a cold which is keeping me from doing anything sensible. To top that, I am at home with two computers – one which cannot connect to the Internet, the other which refuses to connect with its own keyboard. I challenge you to figure out how I was able to post this…

On how to make me angry

If you, for whatever reason, one day have the urge to make me extremely angry, I will provide you with the tutorial right now. Because that is how nice I am.


There are very few things in this world that make me more irrationally angry that not being able to sleep at night. This is especially true if I can’t sleep because of an external factor. If I can’t sleep at night because I have too much on my mind, I get frustrated, but not angry. If I can’t sleep because I’ve drunk too much coffee, I feel stupid, but I don’t get angry. But if I can’t sleep at night because someone or something outside of my control is keeping me awake, then I get very, very, very angry. A friend recently introduced me to the following image: “On a scale of 1 to Chris Brown, how angry are you?” When kept awake like described above, I would be Chris Brown with PMS.

It seems clear then, if you want to make me angry, the tactic is given: keep me awake at night. Now, a few helpful details. See, if I am kept awake without having fallen asleep at all, I will be angry, but not Chris Brown angry (I’d be more Charlie Sheen). In order to cause a total melt-down, what you need to do is to allow me to fall asleep, wake me up again, and then make sure I stay awake. This is the key to make me really, really angry.

One way, which hypothetically might make me angry, is if you make sure I am sound asleep in my bed – which happens to be located in the living room/kitchen – before you abruptly rip me out of my peaceful state by, say, cooking. You can do this at, for instance, 4.30 in the morning. When I say cooking, I don’t just mean make a sandwich – if you really want to make me angry I suggest using stronger means. Turn the light on, which together with the noises from the pots and pans slammed onto the stove will wake me up. It is then recommended to continue cooking until absolutely sure that I am not only awake, but that I also will not be able to go back to sleep for an hour and a half. By when it’s almost time to get up anyway.

Be warned, however, when I get angry, I will retort. In the above strictly hypothetical scenario, my reaction might be the following: I might get up in a godlessly early hour, just to make sure I can do onto you as you did to me. I may make sure to slam all the doors I encounter. I could potentially be inclined to do my best to wake you up because I know 8 am is “early” to you the way 4.30 am is “late” to me.

Seeing as you in this scenario were trying to make me angry, you would of course not have done the dishes. My guess if this situation ever was to occur (which I again must emphasize is entirely theoretical) I would be torn between doing the dishes myself and thus “make a good example”, or not doing them and “get even”. Chances are I will settle for a compromise. I will only do the part of the dishes that most decisively are mine, and I will do so loudly, because I know there is very little as annoying as being awaken by noises from the kitchen.

And then I might write an angry blog about it.



Currently listening to: “Englestøv” by Folk & Røvere
Currently reading: Good to be God by Tibor Fischer

On wishes

Since my birthday is in November, my poor family members have the difficult task of figuring out what to buy me for my birthday and for Christmas within two months. Actually, it shouldn’t be all that difficult, since one of the traits I have inherited from my dad is the fact that I pretty much am happy with whatever someone gives me. My dad is amazing that way. I’m confident that I could give him a self-made macaroni picture (even now, when I am 24), and he would be genuinely happy about it.


Still, for some reason it appears that my family doesn’t share my conviction that it’s easy to buy me presents. Therefore, each year I obligingly write down a few points on a wish list, and they have ideas both for my birthday and for Christmas.

What I typically write down are items – books, CDs, household utensils (I’m growing up, blah) – or experiences (tickets to concerts or the theatre, for instance). I try to make realistic lists – I don’t list ridiculously expensive things, but at the same time there is a certain standard to be met (my parents and my sisters are all very generous). I try to make lists that can actually help them, though this means I am not necessarily putting on there the things I really want.

The other day, however, I noticed on Facebook some of my friends making wish lists. With the risk of copyright infringement, let me summarize:

Someone (I believe it’s a housewife from Cardiff, 23) wanted “a laptop that works, a house that stays clean, a body to die for, and a Winchester, Dean”. Then the follow-ups mentioned dollar$$$, jobs, Robert Pattinson, book-contracts, housekeepers, a blue-eyed and kilted Scotsman and so on. Now, though I have a propensity to choose silly friends (wonder why...), there were some more serious wishes on the lists as well, for instance asking Santa to “let me be as I am”. (I am very glad that you are, Natasha.)

Instead of joining the discussion, however, I decided to incorporate my own list in this post (which was a roughly-about-wishes-but-left-hanging-with-an-uncertain-fate kind of post).

I hereby present my alternative wish list:



What I really want for my birthday:

• An apartment of my own here in Oslo. A nice one, in a nice neighbourhood. One where I can decorate according to my desires, where I can make a home.

• The time and energy to both finish my master’s thesis (with success), and to simultaneously write a novel (preferably also with success).

• A gym membership that gets me in shape without me spending any time on it, or any energy…

• An income that does not require me to pretend I am happy about hearing the story of someone’s life just because they are buying a pen from me.

• And last, but not least, a lesson more in the spirit of Natasha: the ability to appreciate what I’ve already got.

On playing house

I can remember from when I was a kid that I used to play house – while I wasn’t the type to host tea parties for my teddy bears and dolls, I would “cook” in my playhouse, make a little house in my bed with blankets and pillows, or create huge mansions for my Barbie dolls. Even when I played with Lego, it was always about the house. Decorating and making it comfy for those little plastic figures. I think it’s a matter of nesting, and I think (but correct me if I am wrong) it’s mainly a girl activity.


When I first moved out of my parents’ house at eighteen, this interest was revived. Even if the student housing I moved into was of the dodgier kind – including a neighbor with whom I shared a bathroom, a kitchen and supposedly cleaning duties (but I don’t think he knew the meaning of the word “clean”) – I tried to make my room as comfortable and cozy as possible. One year later (after having sworn never again to move in with any man unless he had passed Cleaning 101), I moved into an apartment with two friends from my hometown. In reality, this was to be my first home away from home. The four years I spent in that apartment (with a short break when I was in Japan), will probably go down in history as “the happiest of my life” – the time I look back to with longing when I am a hundred and five and senile. We had some ups and downs, of course, but at least this living arrangement allowed me to nest as much as I liked.

When our landlord needed his apartment back last spring, I decided to make a pit stop back with my parents for a few months, in order to save some money before I went to the US. Since April this year I have lived in temporary homes (even if one of them was my childhood home), and my nesting abstinences are rapidly floating to the surface. Thus, when I was moving back to Oslo where, how and to what mattered.

As mentioned, my student housing experience wasn’t the best. I was not at all happy about the idea of moving in with some random stranger. Thus, the only student apartments I applied for were the ones where you have your own bedroom, bathroom and kitchen. No sharing with strangers for me. However, these apartments are popular (others have had similar experiences as me, doubtless), and first year students have priority. I applied in September, but I have not gotten any replies yet…

Finally, the solution ended up being one I had not considered a couple of months ago. A friend of mine happened to have a big apartment all by herself for a while (actually, for no one, since she’s currently abroad) and thus I was able to move in. It’s a strange experience to move into an apartment where you have visited, but never with the intention of moving in, and especially when you are doing so without the people actually living there present. I’m looking forward to my friend coming back (even though this means I’ll have to move out of the bedroom and into the living room), seeing as I feel like something of a trespasser even if I know that is not the case. In the meantime I’ll do my best to play house in her house, and make myself as comfortable as possible.