Neighbourhood kids

Yesterday I chatted with our neighbours over the trash cans. The family next door consists of four loud kids and parents from different parts of the country. I love listening to the dialect mix in the youngest kids. The oldest daughter is 7 or 8, and while I was talking about cats and holidays with the mom, she asked her mom if she could go visit me and Min after lunch. Before the mom could reply I said we had other plans for the afternoon, blueberry picking that was.
A couple of months ago the 7 or 8 year old came ringing on our door, she was very polite and asked to come inside. I wanted to know if something was the matter, but she just wanted to chat and hang out. Shortly after she sat down, she pointed at a glass bowl and said "I see you have candy". I let her eat as much as she wanted, and the fact that the 7 year old didn't throw up, is a miracle. She sat on the bed in the guest room while I folded laundry, and she talked nonstop about her little siblings, her friends at school and her teacher who is so nice to her.

Min was outside making sandbags, probably thankful the kid didn't speak English. A week earlier another 7-year old used the one English word she knew (train) over and over again. Our neighbour's kid had just gotten a cell phone, and the alarm was set for when she had to go home for dinner. She ran all over the apartment to look for her boots when the phone rang. It took her a few seconds to sprint around the house and over to the neighbourhood house, and she yelled she wanted to come visit tomorrow and the day after and the day after as well. I smiled a little, knowing she would come to a closed door the following afternoon.

"Is that normal?" Min asked when the kid had disappeared. "Kids visiting grown ups without their parents or other kids to play with?" I shrugged, remembered I visited our tenants when I was a kid. I played a game on their computer, but it got boring pretty fast. I guess there are less restrictions on where kids can go in Norway, we don't have many kidnappings and the few sickos are decades between.

Berries

Today I went blueberry picking in the woods close to where we live. In Sweden picking mushrooms is a national hobby, but my friends from Belgium were laughing their asses off when they found the first chapter in their Introduction to Swedish text book was about teenagers picking muschroom. "Really?" they said. "Seriously!?! who picks mushroom except old aunts?" Studying in Sweden a semester actually had me invited to a few mushroom picking activities.
The berries in Norway are tarter, my American husband says. He is from a state where they farm big juicy blueberries, and they sell them frozen in huge gallon boxes. Last weekend my mom was a champ and picked 2 liters of blueberries for me. I have them frozen in little containers and plan to use them in smoothies and pancakes. She also brought me 12 baskets of small strawberries, so this winter's strawberry daiquirys are under control.

According to the weather forecast today should have been sunny all day. I didn't see anything but clouds. Bending over in the wood with a blueberry rake, I was happy there were no sunshine. True that we don't have horse flies, nor noseems in Norway. But some little bugs were still landing on my face and chest, leaving red little hickey spots on my skin. The blueberries are still in my backpack. I think I'll put them in the fridge and seperate the berries and the leaves tomorrow.

My husband's is watching a tv show,hidden behind his humongous computer screen, and our Swedish friend is already in bed. I'm slightly buzzed from elderberry (sambucus) and vodka. Berries and alcohol go really well together.

Waiting for a July 22nd aftermath

I've wanted to write a little blog entry every day, but the incidents in Norway Friday the 22. of July are too overwhelming. Terror attacs in the political centre of Oslo, and the shooting and killing of teenagers on a political summer camp shortly after. I have read numerous articles about Norway's response to terror (more democracy, more openness) and condolances from world leaders.

My friend who works in the blood bank, had to work overtime Monday due to all the people wanting to donate blood. The political parties have had a massive increase in members, probably due to the public appeal to stand together as a nation, to be strong together. The maniac is behind bars, and on facebook there are now support groups for his poor lawyer.

I went to the movies with my mom and farmor this afternoon. On the way back to the car we swung by the cathedral and took a look at all the flowers, candles and cards placed on the church stairs. I read some of the cards and got teary-eyed. There are so many names. So many teenagers from this town are missing or murdered.

There is no easy way of ending this blog entry. Norway is getting praise from the media abroad, but there is a wound that will not heal. Discussions go on and on about types of punishment for the terrorist and what Norwegian intelligence could have done to prevent the bombing and the killing spree.

crutches, pregnant women and prostitutes

After a few beers and a midnight kebab, Min Elskede and I were walking with another couple away from downtown. The other couple were talking about the large number of Norwegians on crutches, wondering why so many people were staggering about. According to the American part of that couple, there are pregnant women everywhere in Norway, where as in the U.S, he claims he sees none. I suggested that Norwegian preggos might hang out in public places, in the U.S., they might stay at home and have their social life outside of the cafes and shopping areas. This got interpreted as a pregnancy show-off. Min Elskede pointed out the benefits of maternal leave in Norway, slung his shoulders and chest back and strutted his belly forward: "This is my work-leave in my belly, my work-leave, everyone. Look at my work-leave growing in my belly!"

Walking up the stairs on the outskirt of the city center, I whispered to Min: "If you guys were coming here alone, I think you'd get company at the top of the stairs". He looked up and saw to Nigerian women, casually dressed, with an eye scanning the crowd, searching out potential clients. There were two accordion players playing Eastern European music at the entrance to a parking garage, and Min commented that he liked the music. We continued walking as he searched his pockets for small change. At the top of the hill, he told us to hang on, turned around and ran down to the accordion players to give them some money for their music. There was a prostitute halfway up the hill, and when Min came sprinting towards (and passed) her, she looked hopeful and a little bit scared. I wonder what is more terrifying, selling sex to a nasty drunk guy or to a young handsome one who apparently leaves his girl and comes sprinting back to the prostitute.

A couple of years ago Norway made it illegal to buy sex. The Norwegian hookers turned their business into online marketing, while the Nigerian women, usually here on a tourist visa, roam the streets. They owe their pimps lots of money for the transportation out of Nigeria and can be quite aggressive in their pursuit to make money. "There were so many prostitutes tonight, I counted 8 of them", said the Norwegian of the other couple flustered. Her American boyfriend pretended to be naive: "What, were they prostitutes? I just thought this is where black people like to hang out".