Landing in Oslo – Practical Advice and Social Norms

If you didn’t read about my flight to Oslo, let me give you the main takeaway: don’t wear snowpants in Norway unless you’re skiing, and never wear a ski suit in Norway unless you’re running amok in the streets of Tromsø with me.  These nuggets of gold were distributed by my seat-mate, Howard, on my flight to Oslo. 

Howard’s one-liner about snowpants is probably the best piece of advice I have ever received, and is also something I continue to tell people, regardless of what we are talking about.  We could be talking about the weather and I’ll say, “just make sure you don’t wear your snowpants in Norway.”  I’m sure my friends want to strangle me by now. 

“I want to strangle you, and this is just your second blog entry on Norway.”

“Oh, come on I.d., we haven’t even scratched the surface yet.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.  What’s next on your list of irrelevant crap to blog about?”

“Hey, that’s not fair I.d., I find myself extremely relevant.”

“I bet it’s boys.  It’s boys isn’t it?”

“Well, it’s meant to be about drinking and eating, but, yes, I suppose boys are covered.  I mean, hopefully they’re men, because I could barely tell who was 16 and who was 35.  I’m not sure if I’m a child molester or attracted to nice looking 35-year-old men.  No idea.  When Norwegians are under 25, they look like they could be anywhere from 18 to 28, and when they’re 45 they look like they’re anywhere between 32 and 38.  Basically, everyone in Norway looks like they’re somewhere between the ages of 18 and 38.  Unless you’re a toddler.”

“Gee, Emily, you didn’t spend a massive amount of time thinking about this at all, did you?”

“Well, there were a lot of good-looking men waiting for and riding public transit in Oslo, and I spent a lot of time doing both those things.”

“Thanks for that riveting update, Emily, are you planning on getting back on topic?”

“I would if you would stop interrupting me, I.d.”

“Go on then, don’t let me hold you up.  You’re driving this train wreck.”

While Howard didn’t warn me that most Norwegians appear to be ageless, he did warn me about drinking during the weekdays.  I.e., that Norwegians don’t drink during the weekdays.  You might find some “old people” drinking at bars and restaurants during the week, but generally younger Norwegians don’t drink on the weekdays (excuse me, Howard, could you please point out to me exactly who is “old” over there?  Oh, if they’re drinking on a Wednesday they must be over 45?  Wait a minute Howard, I’m 36, are you saying I’m almost old!?). 

No, the Norwegian tendency is to skip drinks on the weekdays and instead to get absolutely s***faced on the weekends.  Howard did not mince words.  “They binge drink on the weekends.”  Oh, okay, Howard, that’s a pretty enormous generalization about approximately 5 million people but, yea, sure, why not. 

I’m a fan of moderation when it comes to drinking, so I was a little disappointed to find out that Howard’s drinking tips were correct.

“You’re a fan of moderation unless you’re on vacation in Norway.”

“Oh come on, I.d., that only happened one time on my last Saturday in Norway.  And I mean really Norway, why does drinking have to be limited to Fridays and Saturdays?  Can’t we add one or two days to the it’s-okay-to-drink list of days?  Wouldn’t there be less drinking on the weekends that way?”

“Nag.”

“It’s certainly not conducive to moderation.”

“Square.”

“I am not.  I didn’t say my last Saturday wasn’t fun.”

“Yea.  You had a little too much fun, Emily.”

“Why are you complaining?  Don’t you enjoy having ‘too much fun’?”

“Not when you have too much fun.  You’re obnoxiously happy.  I hate it.”

“Most of the time I’m a little more reserved about my booze.  You know, like the French.”

“I thought you weren’t into generalizing an entire country.”

“The Spanish though, they have a good time.  You can drink as much as you want every night of the week!  Solid buzz preferred, tempered by a constant stream of tapas.”

“Wow, I’m impressed, two countries in a row.  It’s almost I.d.-worthy.”

“Ugh.”

Right about now, you might be wondering, “why don’t Norwegians tell you this stuff before you come to Norway with three pairs of snowpants and a ski suit?”  The answer to that is definitely, probably, maybe because Norwegians are very reserved. 

However, and this is according to Howard, all Norwegians secretly want to have a conversation with you.  Trite as it may sound, I think Howard is on to something there.  I met a young Norwegian woman (she must have been somewhere between 18 and 38, as all Norwegians are) in Svolvær who literally said the EXACT same thing to me.  She even used the word “secretly.”  This, of course, means that “if you’re an American, you can be the life of the party.”  Truer words were never spoken, Howard. 

As a Norwegian, Howard shouldn’t have been this forthcoming, but, he said, “I’ve been in South Carolina for six weeks so I’m used to opening my mouth and forcing words to come out.  I’m sure once I’m back in Norway for a while that will stop.”  O. M. G. Howard.  I guess I’m glad our flight was precipitated by you being in America for so long, or it would have been a much shorter conversation.

This gaping stretch of conversation lasted almost the entire flight from Newark to Oslo, except for an hour and a half when Howard and I both tried to sleep.  Unfortunately, neither of us caught any shut-eye, so we were totally exhausted by the time we landed bright and early at 8 am, Oslo time.  Howard was not into the whole, “I have an entire day ahead of me” thing.  I had been psyching myself up for weeks just for this moment, so I was tapping into those energy reserves of excitement hard core.  After we sailed through Customs, Howard still had a little bit of energy left, so he starts telling me to download the public transit app for Oslo, called “Ruter,” and to make sure I’ve added my credit card (read my travel tips about Ruter here). 

“Did you add your credit card yet?  Add it now.  Yes, now.”  Alright, Howard I’m doing it. 

Adding the credit card was very important, and for whatever reason I had to do it very quickly while I was juggling said credit card, my purse, my backpack and my cell phone, all while walking to baggage claim.  I’m busily downloading and tapping and pulling out my credit card to load it onto the app as we walk, all while Howard is talking, and directing, and pointing, and walking.  He did really well for a reserved Norwegian.  I guess it was the hold-over Howard from America.

After Howard made sure I had downloaded Ruter and connected my credit card, he and I did a drive by at duty-free.  Howard was insistent we buy alcohol because of the high tax rate on alcohol in Norway.  He started looking through the bottles of wine.  “It’s customary to show up with two bottles of wine.  That’s what you should do.  That’s what I should do.”  Howard got as far as one bottle of wine before he put it back on the shelf, groaning about not wanting to deal with it, so societal norms be damned.  I had to buy aquavit though to share it with my new friends at the hostel, and then I would be the most popular person there.  This also turned out to be completely accurate.  Another win for Howard.

After Howard and I managed to get out of duty free (I almost forgot to pay at the register), Howard and I waited for our checked bags together.  It felt like hours, but eventually our luggage appeared.  After we picked up our bags, Howard and I started moving quickly towards the signs for public transit.  Howard explains that the Airport Express Train is not worth the money, and we’re going to take one of the local trains to Oslo instead.  He’s going the same way, so we’ll travel together until we reach Oslo Central Station.  Great, because I have no idea what’s going on and Howard is really motoring.  Howard starts talking about zones and ticket prices and finally just reaches for my phone and punches in the appropriate ticket type before handing it back to me. 

“You put in your credit card, right?” 

“Yes, yes I got it on there.” 

“Okay good, buy the ticket now.  You have to buy it before you get on the train.  It’s timed but it doesn’t really matter which train you take as long as you purchase a ticket.” 

“Okay.”  I’m on information overload and I’m just saying yes to whatever Howard says.  What I later realized was that Howard meant when you purchase a ticket for one of the trains (not the T-bane, that’s different), you are picking a specific train that leaves at a certain time.  Whether the departure time actually matters I’m not sure, I never got stopped by anyone to verify that I had indeed purchased a ticket. 

But enough about the practicalities of purchasing a timed ticket.  No, that is completely irrelevant to the upcoming “directional” shenanigans that are about to befall me after I reach Oslo Central Station.  Decide for yourself what route you would choose on next week’s episode of Emily’s Norway Blog, “Excitement vs. Jetlag: Oslo Edition.”