And so we go to Norway. Oslo, more precisely, at the tail end of June, 2013.
Most of the way through one of the most instructive twelve months of my life so far. I had not taken a drink for 49 weeks, had recently run a dozen miles ‘round Lisbon in the raging heat, and was, looking back, only a tantalising six weeks from meeting the tolerant and beautiful SWK. I was about five and a half stone lighter than I had been the year before, and closing in on what was a final weight loss of 102lb.
I was fit as a fiddle. Well, for me I was. Life was very good, if a bit lonely (internet dating had proved a rocky road – it might set most of the world up with their partners these days, but it just gave me a continuous headache and a feeling of unworthiness – happily all that ended in August with the biggest slice of luck of my life so far). The only other lingering issue was that I was still a smoker. Had been for more than 20 years, despite being an asthmatic. Smelly and ‘spensive and it was, I am sure, labouring my efforts to become a better and better runner. It had to go. Everything else bad had, so why not, eh?
So, off I went, intending to eat well, and drink zero (having planned to do a full year off the sauce as part of my master-plan of self-improvement), at as reasonable a cost as I could manage (ho ho ho – the only more expensive city to Oslo I have visited so far is Zurich, where you are charged at the airport €0.10 for every breath you’ve taken since clearing customs). Add to that some quality tourism (there’s loads to do in Oslo – it’s completely ace), a little running and an assiduous study of the teachings of the very famous Allen Carr book “An Easy Way To Stop Smoking”.
At times it went well, and at other times badly. It was, amongst other things, also my first attempt at any sort of travel blog, which I have just recalled in writing this. That project rather fell by the wayside, until SWK’s promptings last Summer. Unfortunately the two extant notes I have left up on Facebook don’t capture my experience of marching ill-advisedly into what turned out to be the sister HOSTEL to the HOTEL I had actually booked, on the first afternoon I was there. Truly an embarrassing experience when half of the teenaged population of Europe looks agog at you, asking to a (young) man and woman “WTF? Who brought their DAD!!??”
Anyway, we’ll gloss over that. And, I think, the experience in the curry house where I managed to plough a glossy, black and memorably viscous (well, the replacement one was) double espresso deep into the nap of the expensive white linen table cloth, no doubt writing it off. Another golden moment that I spent some time kicking myself for afterwards. The main drama came on the first evening, and yes, I’m coming to that.
There weren’t, overall, too many incidents of poor tourist etiquette, I think. I rarely do these things wilfully; it’s mostly just by dint of unfortunate accidents or not concentrating properly on what I am trying to do. I found the population of the city to be pretty friendly and accommodating, as well as quite staggeringly tall. I’d have made a fortune as a pickpocket, as everyone’s bum was at roughly the height of my shoulders.
I had a wonderful time on the Sunday morning at the Vigeland Park, which houses hundreds of Gustav’s Vigeland’s statues (the geezer that designed the Nobel Peace Medal). I was terribly fond of this one:
The big highlight of the Park is the Monolith. One whacking great tall cylindrical stone with 121 figures cut into it, all climbing joyously over one another towards the heavens. Quite something, and referenced beautifully in the soaring Robyn Hitchcock and the Venus 3 song “Goodnight Oslo”, which I recommend to anyone, frankly. Here you are (3:30 in):
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8_dTsrhIDZo
What’s got into me? I have become all serious and travelogue-y. Yeah, so it’s great, definitely go there. Oh, and it’s free, which is always nice.
And what else, before we get to my latest escape from the ice grip of avaricious and unfeasibly tall sellers of the sex?
Oh yes, I gave up smoking! Been off the dread weed for 18 months and little bit, now, and feel sparkling for it, in all honesty. There’s a surprise. I’ll concede I did take to ‘vaping’ after about six months, but of course that’s entirely without all the smoky-burny-death stuff, so I am not going to cry about that too much. Plus you can pretend it’s a pipe, with all the concomitant comedy of that particular item of smoking paraphernalia.
The book was ace. I must read it again, at some stage, just to reinforce the messages, but I know I’ll never light up a cigarette again. It doesn’t preach, it just spells out a number of sensible messages, and repeats them. And your desire to smoke crumbles away, frankly. I’d sit and puff away through the odd chapter, here and there, over the first 48 hours. Coffee, outside the hotel bar, a few more pages, puff, puff, puff.
Then to the final chapter. Your Last Cigarette. I smoked six in a row, and felt like utter and total dogshit. Crumpled up my last Gauloises packet, hoofed it in the bin and that was me. Thank goodness for that.
I’d been at a bit of a loss on my first evening as to where to go for my first Norwegian nosebag. I had scouted around quite a bit during my first recce of the city, and everything seemed terribly well-heeled and not for the likes of little-old-me, or a bit generically McDonalds-ish. I was starting to imagine there to be no happy medium, when I alighted upon a more ‘country fayre’ looking place, that advertised some more offbeat but locally-styled food with mercifully fewer zeroes on the end than had been the case so far. Whizzed back to the hotel, popped a smarter shirt and a jacket on (because, yes, I live in the 1950’s), tootled back and crossed the threshold.
What happened ran thusly (we can open with a quote from one of those notes I left up):
“Seated by a nice chap who promptly removed the other table setting WITHOUT asking if I had company, then lit me a nice romantic candle. Bastard. Removed 1% from prospective tip.
So, I, er, had reindeer and then whale for dinner. Sorry, yes, I know this is not particularly cuddly or all that but a) I still love eating weird stuff and b) when in Rome etc. and c) it’ll be me that gets Mercury poisoning, not my more sensitive readership. Anyway, assuming I am spared, I can tell you it was LUSH. Oh my it was. Whale tastes like a cow that’s lived, and lived well, underwater. Salty, beefy, and yummy.
Non-romantic Comedy Waiter returned and I sent him off to fire up the coffee pot, whilst an unlikely scene played out to the left of my nice candle. A Japanese film crew had come in for dinner. Lenses, tripods, techies, an actress, etc. The lot. They all got stuck into their ‘Taste of Norway’ seafood starters, but then broke off halfway through to rearrange the table, take a few stills, do some filming without then with the actress (eating) and generally seemed to be delighting one another an awful lot. I still have no earthly notion as to what was going on. I harbour a secret hope that there’s going to be a straight-to-DVD art house ‘hit’ out there featuring my left hand bemusedly clutching an espresso cup. Oh for such immortality.
Paid up (ouch) and left.”
Right, back to the retelling. I took more photos, then set out for the waterfront, past the Royal Palace on my way to take some dusk-lit pictures of a tall wooden sailing ship. All very wholesome and jolly digestive larks. And, as is my wont, I promptly blundered into a gaggle of four prostitutes. I had taken the wrong route to the sea, it seemed.
A double pincer movement was threatened this time. No real sense of an initial stand-off, more of an instantaneous “get him, or get his wallet – preferably just the latter” manoeuvre. However, once again, I wasn’t about to submit to any of the ‘charms’ on offer, despite being offered “hay goot time, yes?” as the encirclement continued.. these things happen so fast, particularly if you’re not quite used to being such an apparently tempting morsel of a whale-stuffed man.
Actually, for all the amusement of this re-telling of a mishap that ultimately turned out okay, I have to say it got a bit touch and go (fnaar, no, I can’t do anything seriously) for a moment. It doesn’t take much to be outnumbered and intimidated, as it turns out. Whilst I found nothing much to say, in that moment, beyond the usual “nothankyounothankyou”, I do recall thinking this might just be one of life’s hand over wallet and get away moments. One never knows what folk have in their handbags to defend themselves, or use on others. I had heard of men staying just off Las Ramblas in Barcelona taking quite effective kickings and being relieved of their valuables in not dissimilar circumstances.
But, as the wheel of life turned back to the more comic, it seemed footwear was on my side, on this occasion. My impromptu harem was all wearing heels roughly of the height of our dog. As much as that made them as intimidating as anything, it also rendered them a little unsteady on their collective plates. Add to that the cobblestoned street, in a rather well to do district of town, and I had the early sniff of an advantage.
Unashamedly, and for what we now read to be the second such occasion of my life, I broke into a virtue-saving run. Only this time it was a RUN. I was decked out in some manner of flat loafer (probably, all I can honestly remember is those bright red sirens’ spikes reverberating off flint), which carried me lightly across the ancient streets. I burst into a good lead pretty early on in the piece. I daresay had it been some manner of track-based 1,500m affair I would have had high hopes of lapping even the swiftest of them. Soon as I was a number of corners and streets away, and had no sense of any real pursuit, although I picked the route for my evening promenades rather more carefully after that night.
The effort of the escape meant my dinner hung rather heavy on me for a while, but I was soon returned to good order, and even found some light to do a little restful photography before traipsing home and turning in. Proof positive, I suppose, that exercise is good for you.
Next time, we turn to the matter of my New Years’ Resolution No. 3 (of 3) for 2015: To Try And Be Less Grumpy. So far, nine days in, this has been an enormous success, and I have only felt compelled to buy SWK one bunch of flowers to make up for any apparent darker shades of mood.
This will be a shorter piece. A little tour of my past instances of singular or joint irritability, whilst doing the thing I love. Travelling. See you soon.
suggzy 